We had quite the weekend! First of all, those of you who attended my Party lite party..THANK YOU! You enabled me to acquire $487.00 in Free candle stuff. I officially have more candles than most small countries!
Second...Peaches had her high school cheer tryouts on Friday night. SHE MADE THE VARSITY SQUAD. Granted, there is a sneaking suspicion that Varsity is the ONLY squad at her future high school, but it doesn't matter. She made it! As did her very good friend Toni Basil. (Those who know who I'm talking about will get the connection.)
But that's not what brings me here today. No, today I'm here to talk about something that used to give me pleasure that I've now pretty much lost to old age. If you are easily embarrassed, you may not want to read further. Then again, if you are easily embarrassed, why on EARTH are you even reading this at all?
Since the dawn of time there have been dirty dishes. Since the dawn of time, parents have given the task of washing said dirty dishes to their children. Said children have hated the task of washing and drying said dishes. Indeed, I believe Cain murdered Abel during an argument over who should wash and who should dry.
I know, in my own childhood, I was always the one who had to wash, since I was the oldest, and Brother had to dry. Dishes at our house often took as long as an hour to do because we spent that quality time silently fighting with each other. Our epic battles had to be silent because my mother taught piano lessons in the next room, and any sound from the kitchen was a distraction worthy of a spanking or...later, loss of radio privileges.
So whilst being silent, Brother and I would usually try to scald each other with hot water. I by rinsing silverware in water hot enough to burn, he by using the sprayer and firing at will when I was elbow deep in soapy water, scrubbing the burnt remains of my mother's potatoes. Every night...silent...and deadly.
But when it came to holidays, the women folk would generally take over the duty of washing dishes. I remember my grandmother starting to wash dishes before we were even done eating. The kids...and this is the part I know you all remember...were required to help dry dishes for ten minutes.
This was a plan that worked well...except there was always one kid, usually my brother, who would find a way to get out of helping. And, as we all know, there was only one way to get out of helping with the dishes.
Using the bathroom.
Oh we've all used that excuse. "I can't clear the table/wash the dishes until I've used the bathroom." And that bathroom run would last exactly as long as it took for the dishes to be done.
I'll admit, I've used the excuse myself. Every kid has. For me, the bathroom was the only place I could go where I knew no one would bother me. I became a huge fan of reading while on the toilet.
Reading in the bathroom is something that's mocked on TV shows like Married with Children where some man will tuck a newspaper under his arm, indicating he intends to spend a very long time in the bathroom reading. I, however, maintain that reading in the bathroom is the only thing that keeps us a planet of literates.
|"The only thing this bathroom is missing is a copy of Reader's Digest!"|
Anyway...getting to the point of today's discussion...I've loved reading in the bathroom for years. I would read until my feet fell asleep. (That's how I knew it was time to leave the bathroom. If I really must explain why my feet fell asleep in the bathroom, then you've never read while sitting on the toilet.)
So yesterday I was deep in an article in, yes, the Reader's Digest. I'd only been sitting for a couple minutes when my feet started to fall asleep.
This shouldn't have been a big deal except that it wasn't that long ago when I could read the whole magazine from cover to cover, undisturbed, and without any lost of circulation. Yesterday I barely got three pages read before my toes tingled. Either I'm reading more slowly, (and why not...I seem to be doing everything more slowly lately) or my body no longer has the stamina for the strains of reading while sitting on a toilet seat. Either way you look at it, this is a big loss in the battle against aging, at least for me.
Now I'll have to do my turn at drying dishes at Christmas. Bonus, now I have to find another place to read where I know I'll be left undisturbed.
Good luck with that.