Lint-tastic!

So I just washed a blanket.

Just your average blue, nondescript blanket, nothing special.

Now, this is not a blanket we use much because of it's tendancy to speckle everything that even looks at it with blue lint.

I didn't give much thought to washing it.

But, to my horror, here's what sprung out at me when I opened the dryer....



And no, that's not the blanket. That's just the lint!

Since you may or may not be able to tell from the pictures, let me give you some specs on this lint pile:

Height: 3 inches
Width: 6 inches
Length: 12 inches

That's volumerically 216 cubic inches of lint.

It's out to get me, this blanket.

Elementary School, My Dear Watson.

Today's topic: Obsessions.

And maybe fictional character crushes.

Now, all of this is a little embarassing to admit, and I'm feeling a little vulnerable as I confess this realization about myself, but it's all for the sake of writing and expression, right?

So I've finally come to the conclusion that I tend to obsess. I find something I like, and I completely engulf myself in it almost to the point where I could very easily let it take over my life. Take my middle school years, for example. Saw Star Wars for the first time and spent three years waiting in movie theater lines, wearing unflattering men's t-shirts, buying action figures, and convincing people to call me "Yoda." I have boxes and boxes of Star Wars memorabilia, costumes I made, incriminating Fan Fiction, you name it.

Lucky for all of you, I got over that one.

Then there was my on and off again Phantom of the Opera obsession. I can still sing every line to that entire musical.

And the list goes on: Inspector Gadget (yes, even the Matthew Broderick version), Series of Unfortunate Events, Monk, Michael Phelps, Wikipedia, Jane Austen, Harry Potter, etc.

Fortunately, most of these have been shortlived, but, nonetheless, somewhat intense. The worst are those coupled with fictional character crushes: Luke Skywalker, Inspector Gadget himself, The Phantom, the list goes on.

The most recent obsession: Sherlock Holmes. Saw the new movie, picked up the book that had been sitting on my shelf unread for 4 years, and now that's all I do. If I'm not reading one of the 56 short stories or 4 novels, I'm watching Jeremy Brett's masterful interpretation of it (keep in mind, this is only going on while E is sleeping...I'm not being neglectful).

My husband, B, has even gone so far as to tease me about my supposed crush on Mr. Holmes. I guess he's decided that a pipe-smoking, cocaine-shooting, detective is my type.

Now, there's a topic. Fictional character crushes. As odd as they are, I think we've all had them. I still remember coming out of Anastasia and all my friends swooning over an animated Demitri.

And who hasn't fallen in love with Mr. Knightly or Mr. Darcy?

Then there was my mom's crush (sorry to expose you, Mom) that we still tease her about to this day. Though hers was a historical figure...infinitely more dangerous. :) She fell for Colonel Chamberlin after watching Gettysburg. For the longest time, she never heard the end of it. We quoted his lines. We took her to Gettysburg and told the guide to tell us everything about the Colonel. I even think that floating around her house somewhere is a Chamberlin quotebook and a giant Chamberlin poster that showed up amongst her Mother's Day gifts that year.

My dad was the worst. Since Jeff Daniels played Chamberlin, every movie Jeff Daniels ever made started showing up at our house. I think it was probably Dumb & Dumber and Space Chimps that ruined her impression of Chamberlin...er...Daniels. I wouldn't be surprised if everything with Jeremy Brett -- excuse me, Red Lips, as B calls him--or Robert Downey Jr. starts showing up in our DVD player.

The whole thing is a little juvenile, isn't it? So fifth-grade.

At least I go into things completely whole-hearted, right? Shouldn't this discovery of how I obsess make me see my true nature as someone devoted to and passionate about life and things she loves? I have to see things through to the end. Once I finish reading and watching everything, I'll very likely completely and suddenly move on.

I don't know. If I start buying Sherlock Holmes action figures, please get me some help before I try to convince you to call me "Dr. Watson."

Now, off to 221B Baker Street....

Stalling

The company has left, the trip to the zoo is over, and now it's time to write again.

Today's topic: Handicapped restrooms. Now, I don't usually talk about bathroom stuff, but this story is too funny and makes too much of a point to be overlooked.

So the other day, we were at Target buying more Magic Erasers*, and I had to use the restroom before we left. We paid for everything and made our way into the lovely Target restroom.

At the time, my wonderful 2-year-old was buckled securely into the cart--a necessary measure if you know my 2-year-old. Or if you know any 2-year-old. So we make it into the restroom, and of course, I head for the roomy handicapped stall since there's no way I'm going to take E out of the cart and let her run free in the bathroom.

To my dismay, it was occupied. Now, I understand that handicapped people obviously have first priority here. Moms with strollers or child-laden carts are a distant, but necessary second. But through my powers of deductive reasoning, I determined this occupant wasn't in a wheel chair, nor did she have a walker or crutches or anything else. Doesn't necessarily mean that she didn't need a handicapped restroom, but Target has another stall with all the features of a handicapped stall that just isn't as big.

But I needed THAT one. So I waited. And waited. And waited. I thought about getting E out of the cart and taking her in with me unfettered when an image popped into my head of her squeezing her way under the door of the stall and running out into the store while I'm...you get the idea. So I waited. And waited some more.

Finally, when I was at my exploding point (both emotionally and physically), I pulled E out of the cart, left it there to block 3 other empty stalls, and squeezed into the other handicapped stall so at least I had a little more room.

As I'm sitting there, E starts putting her hands on everything. It's "E, don't touch that" and "E, that's gross." And then, amidst my cries of "E, no, no, no!" she does something terrible. She undoes the latch on the door.

Now, if you remember correctly, I had chosen the smaller, albeit roomier handicapped stall. And if you know anything about handicapped stalls, you'll remember the doors swing outward. Fairly quickly.

So here I am, E starting to take off out the door, sitting there incapacitated, with a door wide open to the restroom and its inhabitants. Somehow I managed to get it closed before E escaped. And by this time, the woman who had taken her time in the stall next to us was done and gone, no idea the trouble that she had caused.

Now, like I said, if you need to use the handicapped restroom, by all means, it's yours. But if you don't have a physical need, and you don't push around a child-yielding device with four wheels (or three, I guess), then please, please please, think of us poor moms juggling diaper bags, strollers, and yes, children who just need a little bathroom break and please, find your way to another stall.

The same goes for dressing rooms.



*Disclaimer: I did not actually buy Magic Erasers on this visit. This statement was just a little comedic aside and is what one might call "creative liberty." But my overactive conscience is at work. I'm a horrible liar.

It's About Time

So I decided that since I've been blogging in my head, it's probably about time to start writing everything down.

Today's topic: The Magic Eraser.

My wonderful little sister decided last week to come visit us after she finishes up her finals today. Hooray! This is an excellent development. We're all very excited.

So I set out today to clean the bathroom. Now, you have to understand, my fabulous little sister is very...clean. She's the ultimate housekeeper, craft-goddess, and head cook and will make someone a wonderful wife someday. But that sort of puts the pressure on me. My house has to be clean. Cleaner than when my mom comes to visit, but not quite as clean as when my mother-in-law comes to visit. When she comes I have to create the illusion that I'm perfectly capable of taking care of her son and granddaughter.

But let's be honest here. I'm not a cleaner. In general, my house is picked up and wiped down, but I'm really not a scrub-for-hours-and-use-your-elbow-grease kind of girl. I'm more of a pull-out-the-Clorox-wipes-and-call-it-good kind of girl.

Today I decided to tackle the shower door. Our house was a foreclosure, and I don't think the people who owned it before us even so much as tried to Windex that door. It's bad. I've tried all sorts of things on it, and nothing really works.

So today, I go to pull out some Clorox wipes, and I spot several boxes of Magic Erasers. Now I don't want this to turn into a commercial, so I'll forgoe saying which brand they were, but let's just say, the ones with the blue scrubbers on the back were sort of a dud, the store brand were okay, and the name brand were awesome! Anyway, since I am a "child of the media," I remembered seeing an image of someone scrubbing a shower door in the commercial and thought, hey, this could be an easy way out of using Tilex or Soft Scrub. SO I gave it a shot.

Magic Erasers, where have you been all my life? Besides in my cleaning supplies cabinet waiting to be used, I mean. It was awesome. How do they do it? I'm sure this is one of those miracle products that 20 years from now they're going to come out and tell us we'll all die because we used them. It's too good to be true.

I started tackling the shower tile. Little did I know, we have tan grout. Not white, tan. Our grout is tan. Three erasers and an hour of uncharacteristic scrubbing brought that out. It's actually kind of ugly. I think I liked soap-scum white better.

So, to my wonderful little sister, I hope when you shower, you'll look at that tan grout, think of my hard work, and smile. Know it was all for you.