Here is how you get more hours in your day. You wake up and roll over and look at your digital alarm clock. It says, 1:23. YIKES! Hop out of bed and get movin'!

You brush your teeth and go downstairs and, you know, check your email. Then you decide to visit the powder room and on the way there you glance at your husband's clock in his little office, it's hard to miss, right in the line of vision. It says the wrong time, something like 11:45. Sheesh, that clock always needs winding up. Then you putter around and decide to eat something and notice the clock on the microwave reads 12:15. Wow, what is wrong with this day, it's all mixed up.

Then the big AHA! moment. Yeah, I got up at 11:23. There you have it, two whole extra hours in your day, no sweat. One of these days I will have to learn to read the WHOLE digital clock. This has happened to me before . . . read on.

Years ago I was cleaning a house, it was my first cleaning job ever and I was very nervous -- because I didn't know if I could work fast enough to get all the chores done that were assigned. So, I cleaned as fast as I knew how. After some time had gone by, I checked a clock. I think I was down on the floor dusting baseboards (ugh) looking up at the time, yes, it was again a digital clock. YIKES!!! HELP!!! It was 1:30 and I had only cleaned the upstairs and still had the downstairs to do and only 1.5 hours left to do it. Not a good feeling. Well, by the time I got downstairs, I saw another clock, in the kitchen again, and discovered it was only 11:3o. WHEW!

What this tells us is that I am rotten with time. You'd think when I woke up this morning I could have told approximately what time it was by the sun, at least something should have seemed off. And wow, I just have no concept of time, period, in the housework story. Maybe 2.5 hours of work seemed like 4.5 hours, yes, that might be it.

I am also rotten with a sense of direction. My skill set does not include north, south, east or west, nor a sense of time. So this is why I have no time management abilities, I'm in every direction at once and have no idea what time (or maybe even day) it is.

Last night Bed, Bath and Beyond took my $4.28 back. The young guy and girl at the service desk looked a little kerfoodled (word?) that I would come back with a mistake in their favor. Well, I am all for free enterprise and I like to see people succeed, don't you?

Okay, I'm keeping to my midnight curfew if it kills me, which, since I have no inkling of time, it just might.

It IS 11:29 right a now.

KEM

As of late, I have been wondering, What is the rest of the world doing while I am watering my nose? I turkey baste and water can my nose, three rinses each nostril. First, though, you have to mix up the solution, then, when you're finished, you have to wash the equipment. After you rinse a nostril, you have to blow, this all adds up, friends.

Last week at the doc's he came in to see me and sat at the computer to read the notes from the previous visit. He said, You're the one who used the baster to water the Christmas tree. Whoa, I couldn't believe he wrote that in my medical records. Reminds me of the time I was waking up from surgery and I said to the Nurse, I REALLY have to go. The witch snarled, JUST WAIT A MINUTE. AN HOUR LATER . . . nothing. You know the desperateness of the situation. It's a long story, but they sent me home before I could go and I ended up at the ER twice in the night, sitting around for hours in sheer agony. That was definitely up there with the Top Three Worst Nights of My Life. Cringe City even remembering it.

After this ordeal, I was asked to fill out a survey of my hospital experience. Some time later I got a phone call following up on the survey. The man read over the phone, So, you wrote, The recovery room nurse was a witch on a broom. I said, Yes, that's right. Well, it was right, but hearing it repeated to me on the phone was a bit unnerving.

You know, a thought just struck me. Everything we say, it's out there in the universe somewhere. We create with our tongues, well, yes, we give birth to our thoughts with our tongues, and our thoughts are conceived in the heart and travel quickly to the mind, where, in my case, they incubate and hatch instantaneously. We create an order or words, complete sentences, that previously weren't uttered, at least not just like we could say them. And then, suddenly, there they are, out there, and you can't take them back. I think I will treat my speech canvas a little more artfully from now on. I don't want to contaminate the universe at large or some poor person up close and personal with the fruits of a careless, flapping tongue. Living a worthy life is A LOT of concentrated effort, I hope I'm up to it.

Everyone have a nice weekend, now. Myself, I'm a week day person, I like M, T, W, Th, F. Always have, always will -- except maybe that year I worked in the admissions office.

My carriage has just turned into a pumpkin, I was supposed to be in bed at midnight and it's 12:31 AM.

KEM

The emotions ran the gamut today. My afternoon (which is most people's morning) began with a 12 o'clock noon appointment with Val-Eth-Toad. I arrived at the wishy washy time of 12:27. Val always opens the door with a big beautiful glad-to-see-ya smile that makes you feel like you are wanted (not on a poster). I announced, Here I am, at twelve-ish.

We were starving and of course the night before couldn't think of one single place where we could eat lunch. So now Val says, How 'bout Panera Bread? I said, My thought exactly (and it was, I had thought of Panera on the way over). We get there and the whole world is there, including a goofy man who went to the free biscuit platter and loaded up so many bite-sized scones in a napkin that it was simply unbelievably outrageous, a total abuse of the system. He looked very sheepish when I gave him the stare down. Wonder what would have happened if I'd said, May I please have ten of your cookies?

Well, there were no tables to be had and I was wandering around and around until someone finally vacated one. I was STANDING THERE WITH MY TRAY (Val was still waiting for hers), ready to set it down on this table, I mean, I was TOUCHING the table I was standing so close to it, and this old man reaches over in front of me and plunks his mug down on the table. It was unreal. I gave him a scoffing stink eye that would have made CDW proud and walked off. Looking back, wonder what would have happened if I'd said, Excuse me, obviously this is MY table so please displace thyself and they mug immediately or I shall call the manager. I shudder to think.

After this very poor start, Val and I slurped up a delicious lunch and had girl talk and good Bible talk. Val loves to study the Bible and share what's she's learned. It's invigorating.

Then we walked across the parking lot with a handful each of free scones. Somehow, on our way out and we decided we deserved one more baby sonce, when Val used the tongs they scooped up three scones for her and then two for me. She divided one in half, so we had 2.5 baby scones each. All of a sudden I wished I could have taken back my stare for the man who apparently couldn't help himself, maybe he was homeless, after all. I said, Val, these taste like your cupcakes.

We went in Home Goods and admired everything in sight . . . well, almost everything. We found this weird ceramic canister that looked like a huge scary blue and white crab with all these legs shooting out. The object of this little game is to find the ug-ee-est item in the store. Val found a big glass water dispenser, Made in Italy. We said, That would look nice on the counter instead of plastic water jugs. But I said, Naw. But Val said, Lucy, put it in a cart and it's yours until you walk out the store. So, she ran and got a cart. Meanwhile, I stood on a step stool and lifted the jug from on high. Val came charging around the corner and I said, ETH!, hurry it up!

We liked everything and even said the same descriptive word for something at the same exact time. Val picked up a grill brush. When we got in the check-out line, I said, I am not going to get the water dispenser. And I set it on a counter. Then Val said, I am not going to get the grill brush. And she set it next to the water dispenser. Then we walked out of the store.

I had to go home and walk my doggie. Then on the way to choir I stopped at Bed, Bath and Beyond to return Calphalon lids. Val and I were going to do this, but we ran out of time. We were also going to go look for Pioneer Woman's (perfecter of pancakes) Cookbook at Borders, get free VS unmentionable, check out the free gift (if you spend $21.50) at Clinique and see the cute Kat who helps me, if she was there. Then we were going to go back to Val's and do Bible study on the Tabernacle and watch some I Love Lucy shows she recorded. I had wondered if this were a mite too ambitious. Still, you do what you can and love every second of it.

Where was I, oh yes. So, I changed the lids out for an instant read meat thermometer (I'm totally over guesswork), a silicone spatula and a LUX digital timer. I grew up with the kitchen staple LUX dial timer. They've made the digital one to favor the original. I have a little portable timer on a string. It was a gift from a young boy piano student I had once, the idea being we would set the timer at the beginning of the lesson for 45 minutes precisely, which we did. When the alarm sounded, the boy jumped off the piano bench in mid-measure or mid-sentence or mid-whatever. I'm always charmed by a gift that is for the sole benefit of the giver. His mother thought her boy's gift was hysterical, and it really was. But the battery died and it's one of those funky little batteries to replace. So, I have a LUX now, with a sensible AAA battery. LUX is going to get me on track, I'm going to use this little baby all day long. Besides, FlyLady says a timer is a girl's best friend. So, I got all of that for free, plus change. Change? I so carefully made an EXACT even exchange, minus one penny.

Well, then I realized I owe Bed, Bath $4 and something, the girl didn't do the exchange correctly, you know, didn't discount the 20% on one of the lids. Always sumpin'. Back I'll go.

At choir, remember I bombed a section of last Sunday's anthem?, well, I announced to the choir, GOOD SAVE. They were jolly about it. I've just decided, This is life. Life is imperfect and far be it from me not to make a worth contribution of imperfection from time to time (like practically every second).

Then I came home and checked out Facebook. Everytime I say, Done with FB!, something pops up that makes me understand, Maybe I'm not so done with FB. Tonight I got to see pictures of an old friend from elementary/middle school. We are not FB friends (yet), but we have a mutual FB friend, so it all unfolded. She was the oldest of five adorable sisters. I remember going to a slumber party at their beautiful old giant and gracious home in a perfectly fabulous old neighborhood in Clearwater (we are talking house and yard and surroundings coziest ever). The parents were so good-natured, I was in utter awe of the entire situation. It was the PERFECT spooky house for a slumber party, we told ghost stories and scared the wits out of ourselves. Anyway, she posted pictures of when they were all young and it just flooded me with fond memories. So long ago, yet so vivid in my mind. The sisters all appear to be best friends today, too. So much fun to see the lovelies they grew up to be. Just delightful. Good going, FB.

Time to wrap this up, this is a major ramble tonight :) But I was reading through some old newspapers tonight and I saw a picture that made me weep, to the point of a bloody nose. A 17 year old boy, 18 in four days, was being adopted by a woman who had 4 children. Her niece she also cared for had been murdered and finding this young man was God giving her inspiration to go on, she said. He had been in foster care most of his life and had one wish, that he would have parents in time to cheer him when he graduated from high school. If that doesn't rip your heart out, eh? I'm telling you what, there is no one I admire more in this world than someone who adopts a neglected or unwanted child. This young man had been in the Heart Gallery for years, probably feeling disappointed time and again that no one looked at his picture and wanted him. Finally, the right lady came along and it was meant to be. She actually first saw her new son when she was going out to eat one night and there he was, being filmed in another effort to place him. The picture in the paper showed mother and son hugging and smiling from ear to ear in the courtroom when the adoption was finalized. What on earth can we do to help these precious people who so desperately need to be touched by our love? Time to get out of the little comfort zone and give this some genuine thought.

Lovely Day KEM

I just performed the herculean task of flipping and turning the Queen size VERY HEAVY and UNMANAGEABLE mattress all by my lonesome little self. This was not fun, the mattress was winning the whole way, it weighs 8 million tons, wielding it artfully is out of the question. The mattress actually sways and waves, like it's doing the hula dance. Things get out of control very quickly, like the dumb mattress grabbs the lamp chord and over goes the lamp -- you know, all kinds of fun stuff like that, including my good shirt and pants getting picked on the rough wall.

In fact, I have no idea how I turned it solo. Furthermore, this was stupid . . . really not smart. Further, furthermore, I think traditional box springy mattresses and their foundations need to hit the road or swim to the bottom of the ocean or something. Send them to outer space. Honestly, there has GOT to be a better way. Then of course, the box spring cover was more soiled than a light vacuum could fix. Then you have to dust all the bed frame edges and slats and pick up stray hairs. I kept repeating the mantra I learned on The Ways of Her Household blog: DONE IS BETTER THAN PERFECT, DONE IS BETTER THAN PERFECT. I got to thinking, Maybe Not Done is Better than Imperfect Done. Flipping the mattress tests my sanity and spirituality about as much as painting a tiny closet. The less I do of those two rare forms of torture, the better off I am.

Of course, I flipped the mattress to save my back because the mattress was really starting to do the dip in two appropriate places, which wasn't helping back matters. However, wrenching the old back to get said mattress off and back on the bed frame about killed what was left of my back. So . . . drum roll . . . the point, please?? By the way, I hope you notice the word plays that are going on here, not premeditated, of course, but there they are.

So, in my next life, I am going to have a platform bed with no foundation box spring. There, that eliminates one nuisance. It will feel like sleeping on the ground, but the mattress being that much closer to the floor means less hoisting come mattress flipping time. That's my theory, anyhow, and I don't see anything wrong with it. Actually, I hear the new mattresses don't need flipping. That's enough to make me go out and buy one right now, even though our current mattress is only 4 years old, if that. Life is short, and like I've said before, it's getting shorter. Anything to save mental aggravation and herniated discs.

So, where is my dump truck?? I was going to write something lofty tonight, like, Gather all your pain and hurt and let the dump truck cart it off. Just load her on up and tomorrow is a new day. This might seem simplistic, but, on the other hand, don't you think the modern girl makes things more complicated than they need to be? Just ask KEM, Queen of Complication. Didn't I already blog about how Uncle Pete used my innocent question, Do you have a salad spinner?, to launch into a tirade about how I make such a big deal of things? Everythings.

Well, I need to dump my frustration with the mechanics of life onto the dump truck. I'm going to go stretch out my frazzled spine, take a hot shower and lower my worn little self onto the less worn side of the mattress, plus clean sheets. Had to get those out of the deal. Clean sheets are the best, right up there with egg salad sandwiches.

Mike wants you to know that the greased up cookie sheets were VERY CLOSE to the frying bacon. And that's why they got greasy but the piano did not. That's his lousy little theory, and I'm stickin' to mine.

Guess what? When I was doing laundry tonight my blame-it-on-Mike-lost-sock turned up. Ain't that just dandy. My contrite apogies to Mike. This doesn't mean, however, that he gets to mess with the laundry now. I prefer to make a mess of it all by myself.

Such a good dumb wife to let Mike sleep on his recliner instead of summoning his presence to partake in Mattress Mayhem,
KEM

Nellie was the best thing about Little House on the Prairie, The Musical. And it was fun to see Melissa Gilbert live. But, as I suspected, it was . . . eh . . . okay. I mean, really, how do you turn Little House into a musical? I am still asking that question, and, you know, I just saw it. The best part of the whole evening, really, was eating a turkey and Swiss sandwich in the lounge beforehand, since we arrived 1.5 hours before show time. And it was nice to see children in the audience. I believe in good, clean, fun, pure entertainment, and this musical met that criteria.

It is desperately late, so here is a quickie. Once I had a friend who was unsure of her husband's direction for their lives. I offered, Just get in his wake and follow. She loved that image, she told me, because ideas in the form of visuals really resonate with her. And this boat and wake thing worked for her because as Christians, we both believe husbands are the head of the home, and she has a nice Christian husband. She saw following in his wake as exactly what a Christian wife would do, it all fell into place for her.

Since then, I've realized images speak to me, too. So, when I recently read a Carolyn Hax column, I jumped up and down over a visual she described, which really wasn't anything new, but hit me as new. A 35 year old woman was angry/frustrated/bitter over the modern dating scene. Carolyn told her to take all those unprofitable emotions and shovel them onto a dump truck. Can't you just see the dump truck driving off with all that garbage? JOY! I've struggled with forgiveness, but somehow, heaving it onto a truck that drives off into the blue yonder, never to return, makes it seem achievable. If we forget to shovel ALL the hate onto the truck, well, I supposed we can send for another truck as necessary. Good riddance!

And really, isn't this what God does for us? He casts our sins into the uttermost parts of the sea and as far away as the east is from the west. He remembers them no more. Glorious thought, let's think about it.

Good-Bye Garbage,
KEM

Did you know you have to teach people how to treat you? I was under the juvenile assumption that people should know how to treat each other. In the "good old days" basic courtesy was a given. Not as universal now. But really, beyond impeccable manners, and there is a beyond, a lot of educating needs to take place. And I can understand that because we are all different and have assorted needs and expectations that even the people closest to us are not going to automatically comprehendo (always loving to show off my Spanish). And I would be the first to admit that I am not always aware of other people's feelings either.

So, I am the world's worst communicator about this kind of stuff. By the by, I really had something far more interesting to blog about tonight, like how whenever I drop a pencil it rolls under the upright piano . . . just out of reach of my long fingers. Oh yes, every time. I have the droppsies all the time. Happened tonight. OOOOORRRR, how the minute you clean your kitchen grout, remember that?, I cleaned 1/3 of my kitchen grout last week?, then the next day you make chicken tetrazzini and the buttery cracker crumbs jump right off your spoon and make a basket . . . meaning they land squarely in your clean grout line. How is this? Those crumbs know full well they have any number of 13 inch square ceramic tiles to crash on. They can even tease and fall on the edge of the tile, merely flirting with the grout. So, why is it that they, without fail, hit the sliver of grout? Sassy. You just look and go, Is this some kind of a joke? And the corners of my mouth droop.

It never pays to only partially clean a floor or half the kitchen cupboards. You wanna know why? Like you don't know why. Because you never get around to finishing. Or when you do, the clean part is all messed up again and you have to do it all over. Well, when I get back to the grout I will have to go reclean the greasy buttery crumb spots. This is the price we pay for good cookin'!

Speaking of which, Mike was in serious trouble the other day. When he said he would eat Pioneer Woman's pancakes if I made bacon, too, I made bacon. But before I made bacon he had opened up the piano to plunk out some music he was practicing. That ended abruptly when I got down to EGGS in the pancake recipe. I had just emergency hard boiled all my eggs because they were fixing to expire. So he went to the store for me. Meanwhile, I close up the piano and start frying the bacon. See, we have this modern good-for-nothing open floor plan and the piano is about four feet from the kitchen. I'm telling you, it's right there, wide open spaces. And it's right there because there is nowhere else to put it, just this little odd nook that calls, Piano, come thither. Now, I've read Don Aslett and all the other friendly housecleaning authorities and they say, Kitchen grease floats in the air (instead of going up the exhaust vent), then it expertly lands on your furniture, and if you don't clean up after it regularly then you have a dull greasy smeary sticky film covering every square inch of your house, upholstery and everything. Cheery thought.

Then Mike comes home, he done good with the eggs, and I'm sitting at the computer burning the bacon. He sits down to practice the piano again, but I'm too engrossed in reading The Ways of Her Household, or something, to register this. In a couple of minutes I get up to tend to the bacon and then it hits me, Mike has opened up the piano and all the microscopic floating bacon grease bubbles are taking direct aim for the spaces in-between the piano keys. And you know they don't miss, even though the cracks are slim. Very slim. And no match for floating grease bubbles.

This is a cardinal rule in the house, IF YOU ARE COOKING, CLOSE THE PIANO (meaning, close the cover over the keys and push in the music rack). Since I am the only one who cooks, I guess I am the only one who follows this rule. I'll tell you, I pitched a little hissy fit, but the migraine was coming on, so everything seemed exaggerated (still have the migraine, three fun days later). Mike says, Your piano is fine (invalidating my true feelings). I said, Didn't you see that I had closed up the piano while you were running for eggs?? He said, Yes, but I wanted to see if you would notice. WELL!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOTTTTTTT FUUUUUUNNNNY!!! He kept arguing that no damage was done (just admit you're wrong). I said, I taught piano for 7 years to pay for this thing and I don't need its insides coated with bacon grease!!! He said, Not really, I paid for it (now we are crossing a line of no return).

He said he was sorry, but I knew he didn't mean it. I said, Your ignoring me on something that means so much to me would be like my throwing out your STEELER Terrible Towel or maybe I'd just throw out your whole box of Steeler stuff!!! WELL! That, my friends, got his attention. Then he really was sorry, maybe more out of genuine fear than genuine sorrow he was so naughty.

Now, this story is getting long. But remember a few weeks ago when I said it looked haunted under my stove, when I took the bottom drawer out to look for a pencil or something (no, the pencil would be under the piano, but it was something)? Well, it's still haunted. The drawer is in place, but all the cookie sheets and junk that belong in the drawer have been vacationing on the counter for, lo, these many weeks. This is because I was going to pull out the stove and wash back there and vanquish the cobwebs . . . right away. Hardee, ha, ha. Well, after frying the bacon, I noticed that the silvery cookie sheets looked really strange, like the dishwasher had failed. There were spots all over, kinda like what rain looks like. I touched it. It smeared. Hmmm. I really thought at first it was the dishwasher. But then I noticed the other things were greasy, too. SOOOO, vindication! It was all floating bacon grease bubbles that had parachuted down. And you know what, I only noticed because these cookie sheets are shiny stainless steel and showcase grease rained down real good (okay, really well). What about all my piano music piled (stacked would falsely give the illusion of orderliness) on the counter, also? What about every square inch in the house? There's my light beige sofa, over there a few more feet, soaking up the grease. What about in-between my piano keys? And sometimes when I mop the floor in the living room I'm thinking, It can't POSSIBLY be this dirty. But, oh yes, it can be and is. And it's all bacon grease, because you know how I love my Sunday bacon. Exept this all happened on Saturday.

So I had to show Mike the proof of what I was saying to him. And he had to agree. Now, the funny part of this is that I was so pooped tonight I just didn't know what to blog about, so I threw that out about teaching people how to treat you, because that's what first floated out of my brain. Sometimes I think bacon grease floats out of my brain. And this is how it happens, I just started in about wanting to blog about greasy things, just to take up space, and I really did want to, just not tonight. BUT, it all fit together because it turns out that I communicated with Mike and taught him how he had not better mess with my piano and how he better show respect for my feelings on the subject of grease. And truly, I didn't design it like this, that my grease story would support my theory of education in personal relationships. Things like that just have a way of working out, like buttery cracker crumbs smacking the grout.

Life SO all comes out in the wash. Mike is going to have to start his own blog to rebut my stories. But it won't do any good, because I am telling it like it is. And, just so you know, except for this incident, he is a very satisfactory husband. And, just so you know, he thinks I'm a loon.

I do have more stories on grease, but I better go lay down my achy little head on the pillow. Because tomorrow night I am going to see Little House on the Prairie, The Musical. Is that a hoot, or what? Someone invited me. And Melissa Gilbert, who of course played Laura on the TV show, is starring as Ma. For some reason, this is striking me as hysterical. I simply can't imagine, a musical for Little House on the Prairie.

Thank you for listening to my grease stories. It felt good to get that off my chest.

Murphy's Law, truer than taxes,
KEM

Hi Everyone, Happy Almost March 1st! Every year I want to really pay attention to March, April, May. Usually around the end of April I go, Oh, man!, I'm supposed to be paying attention.

Head is still very strange. The Coke kept me up all night. Right before I FINALLY fell asleep I opened my eyes and saw . . . the dreaded blue spots. This time they were smaller blue dots on a white strip of paper, like those little round candies that come on white paper, and they're spaced a little bit from each other. Am I making this up? What are those little candies called? Anyway, my white strip of blue dots was clear across the room, so they were bigger than the candy ones.

Today when I played for the choir, about 2/3rd the way into the song, I totally didn't play three measure of piano interlude as written. Have no idea what I played, it was freaky. The director worked very hard to keep a beat and waved his arms wildly to bring the choir in at the right time. So, we at least got it together at that point. I didn't feel real good about this. At least the rest of the playing was okay. Gads, someone wanna tell me why I'm doing this?? I don't think perimenopausal women should have any obligations that require leaving the house. I just want to crawl in a hole, wake me up in a few years.

Aren't you happy for Canada, our sweet friends? If the USA couldn't win hockey, at least it's fun to see Canada put themselves on the map in such spectacular fashion, along with the most gold medals. Didn't I just blog that they had never even won a gold medal in their other two Olympic hostings? How did they pull this off? And where on earth is Russia? Nowhere to be seen except Pleshenko making a big baby out of himself, along with Putin. Good gravy. I loved Lysecek's comment that maybe Russia wouldn't let him compete in the next Olympics. Well, Russia will be wanting some medals when they host next time, wonder what the plan is. And I'm happy USA now has the record for total medals haul, especially when we've never stood on top of the medal count before. That is cool. And I'm especially happy the Olympics is OVER. I'm TOTALLY Olympic-ed out. Sweet Tulsa didn't even watch any of the Olympics. What a good girl.

The blue side bar on the computer, the one you click to move up and down? That is the color of my blue dots.

Olympic commentary suspended until Summer Games 2012. I'll bet Jesus comes back before then. One last thing, Apollo Ohno is so jolly, even without a new gold. Nice.

Officially half over,
KEM