To all Men: again. This is a very boring post about the correct way in which to load the dishwasher. You will want to move on to more interesting topics like jets, power tools, and World War II heroes. So go ahead. Move along to those other more interesting topics.
10 STEPS TO PROPERLY LOAD THE DISHWASHER
Step 1: Make sure that you open the dishwasher.
Step 2: Before loading the dishes, check with the Queen of the House to see if that rare edition Arby’s goblet is allowed to be washed in the dishwasher.
Step 3: Load the dishes in the correct way–the way the Queen of the House desires.
Step 4: Don’t forget the dishes that weren’t cleared from the table.
Step 5: That oatmeal encrusted pan has to be hand-washed.
Step 6: Add the correct amount of detergent into the correct location.
Step 7: Close the dishwasher.
Step 8: Before you push any of the buttons, consult the manual. You know that manual that came with the dishwasher when you first purchased it. The manual can probably be found buried deep in that basement filing cabinet under “Warranties and Manuels”. Read it in French to make sure that you won’t miss anything. Go ahead. Move along. Go find that French manual in the basement.
Step 9: Move along.
Step 10: If you are a man, and you are still here, GO AWAY, please.
Okay Ladies, now that we have gotten rid of all the males, this post is really about “Capicki-Pockies” and “Succumbers to Gravity.” Now if you were to go to the doctor and tell him that you pulled your “Capicki-Pocky”, he would say that there is no such thing, but I can assure you that there is such a thing because mine hurts.
I made the mistake of having my Hunni run with me a few days back. This was annoying for several reason. Reason #1: Hunni spent the first two laps giving me the false impression that he was struggling with the pace. Reason #2: Hunni then decided to remove this facade and began to push me for two laps. Reason #3: Hunni decided that he was going to make sure that I ran off that coffee milkshake he made for me, and pushed me even harder. Reason #4: Hunni yelled encouraging words while making me run hard. Reason #5: Hunni began to run ahead. That kicked in the competitive edge in me, and I stretched out my stride. And somewhere in that stretching-of-the-strike, I felt my Capicki-Pocky ligament twang. I couldn’t walk for two days. And I couldn’t nurse, ice, or massage my Capicki-Pocky either. I was a Class A Waddling Grump. And I made sure my Hunni knew that it was all his fault for being encouraging.
Once upon a time, I didn’t have any trouble with my Capicki-pocky ligament, but when I was pregnant with Baby #3 we decided to have the carpets cleaned. There was an extra $25 fee if the Cleaners had to move the furniture. My Hunni instructed me to leave the furniture moving to the Cleaners. I thought that by moving the furniture myself I could save us $25 AND make sure that the Cleaners didn’t miss those behind-the-couch and under-the-bed spots. All went well. The carpets were sanitized even in the furthest reaches. The Capicki-Pocky ligament twanged when I decided to bend over and while bending over, lift the corner of the couch to remove the square of blue styrofoam that the Cleaners had put under the legs of the couch so that the wood wouldn’t stain the clean carpet. Did you follow that? Pregnant, bend over, lift the couch with one hand, pull out object below the couch’s leg. And that one act of disobedience has cost me high heels. Anything above about 2 1/2 inches is out. I used to be able to endure any size heel as long as I took enough Tylenol before hand. In fact, my shoes were classified as “1 Tylenol”, “2 Tylenol” and “6 Tylenol” shoes. But Tylenol can’t re-attach ligaments, so I am forever stuck with 2 1/2 inches and a short stride when running.
Thankfully, my mom sent me a care package that week that held these fluffy things. My waddling feet were engulfed in luxuriousness.
The other part of running that has changed since having babies is the number of “Gravity Defy-ers” I have to wear in order to keep track of my “Succumbers-To-Gravity”. Three!!! I need to wear THREE “Gravity Defy-ers” just to run around the block. I was worried that with the forth baby I would have to add a forth one, but three seems to be the magic number. Now I gaze longingly at those little “demis” I see displayed along the center aisles of department stores. Then I plunge into the depths of the displays–way back in–back to the “not displayable along the main corridors.” And these “Gravity Defy-ers” are boring. They come in boring colors. No cute prints. BORING! But!!! and here is the important part. They do the job. The heavy job of defying gravity.
And since I have already said too much, I will stop.
Better not leave a comment today. You might regret it,
P.S. There might be a moral in here somewhere. Maybe something like, “If you want to be able to stay vain, obey your Hunni.” Maybe that wasn’t the moral. Make up your own.
P.P.S If you are a male, and you read this, it is entirely your own fault. You were duly warned.
On the, “We always want what don’t/can’t have,” front, I’d give anything to have something to put in just one of those gravity defy-ers! I thought pregnancy and/or nursing would guarantee my need for one, but alas, no such luck. For me, the shirts and dresses that fit me around the hips and tummy will always be way to big on top. I’m jealous! Now I’VE said too much! Haha!
Ahh. . . those gravity-defy-ers! My approach is to just not run. And I’m totally with you in the short stride circle. Pregnancy changes EVERYTHING!!!! FOREVER!!!!!
Apparently not much interest in loading dishwashers…:-) But oh, the gravity defiers!! hahaha
How come the pop went down from 8 to 6???
In the population sign, I crossed out a “5” and made it “6”, however, it ended up looking like an “8”. 🙂