1. Discovered the reason behind my weeks-dead washing machine: detritus in the pump–two socks, a lego man, a plastic gecko, various bits of crayon, fragments of a ballpoint pen, what appears to be a cog of some sort, an AA battery, a hair band, a bobby pin, a plastic disc stamped to look like a piece of money, eight candy wrappers, and a sickly sludge comprised mainly of hair and lint–think dust bunny, dipped in the goo that builds up in your p-trap. The best part? I paid some other schmuck to take the thing apart and dig this stuff out. Totally worth the price of the service agreement. I should know; I usually do these things myself.
(Question: shouldn't there be some kind of a filter that prevents this? Do people really, honestly, empty out their pockets and shake out each item of clothing before laundering to ensure nobody has cleaned up by simply sweeping everything on the floor into a laundry basket?)
2. Cleaned out the bottom of my dishwasher: two melted baby bottles, and a measuring spoon. No kidding. Again, hired shmuck.
3. Found within myself the spine to refuse said schmuck's offer to sell me a special, magical soap I can use to . . . wash my washer. If I was really worried about that hazy layer of lint stuck to the inside of the washing machine's window, I'd just, you know, wipe it off with my finger. Like you just did, to show me how dirty it was. Probably.
(Now, if you had a magical potion to dissolve the stuff that's going to get into the pump…you might sell me on that.)
3. Cooked my Thanksgiving turkey. What? It's not Canadian Thanksgiving or American Thanksgiving? Hey, the bird finally thawed. Today.
4. Tried to defend the moral basis for my gutting of said turkey to six preschool children.
(Kimber, what is that?
Are those its guts?
Are you hurting that turkey?
The turkey is dead.
Did you hurt it when you killed it?
It was dead when I got it.
Thanksgiving is all over.
5. Established, beyond all doubt, that I'm weird.
6. Oh, did I mention that I made it out of bed? That has to count for something. Today. And I'll probably even stay out of bed until after the potatoes and gravy are made and the peas cleaned up from whatever distant reaches of the universe they rolled to during dinner, and the teenagers are picked up and the games are played and we've had a proper Monday Evening, gingerbread men and all. Maybe. Gingerbread might be pushing it. Maybe we'll just play spoons and eat Oreos. Wait. No Oreos. Maybe we'll just chew gum. That counts, doesn't it?