Cleaning Off the Fridge

Have you refreshed your refrigerator lately? Me neither.

I don’t mean tossing outdated stuff, like that barbecue sauce with an expiration date of 1991, or the jar of strawberry jam with only one lonely dried-up fragment of fruit clinging to the bottom. Or cautiously lifting the lids of small plastic containers in case the new life forms that have colonized the leftovers inside might be hostile.

No, I’m talking about updating the outside of the fridge. Standing in the kitchen this morning waiting for the coffee to brew, my unfocused gaze rested idly on the pictures covering the top half of our refrigerator. Even in my precaffeinated state, I realized something. Those pictures are embarrassingly out of date.

Here’s part of what is frozen in time on the front of our fridge: A young father and his toddler son, open mouths aiming for the same bite of ice cream. A newborn snuggled into his mother’s arms. A six-month-old, dressed up in an oversized cowboy hat for an old-time photo, with a grin that makes him the happiest little desperado you’ve ever seen. A smiling family group, with two cute middle-school boys, two little girls with missing front teeth, and a toddler.

The ice cream-eating dad now has to compete for his chocolate-peanut butter swirl with three kids instead of one. The newborn has become a big brother who knows all his colors, can count to 20 with only a slight vagueness in the teens, and is much too busy for snuggling. The miniature desperado is now an amazing athlete who plays baseball with the focus of a future pro and does things on a skateboard that make my knees cringe just to watch. The family group has increased by two, one of whom is already in kindergarten. The little girls are now lovely young women with all their front teeth, and the two oldest boys loom over the rest of us and have astonishing deep voices.

It isn’t just the photos that are out of date, either. There’s a yellowed newspaper clipping that has decorated this fridge for close to two decades. One of the magnets is from a workplace I left in 1989. Another is from a plumber who has long since retired and ridden his Harley off into the sunset. There are two battered ones—not worth keeping for neither sentimental nor ornamental value—that I believe to be older than any of my children. A red and yellow magnet—definitely a keeper—was made by a sixth-grader who is now the mother of the two deep-voiced boys.

Yep; it’s definitely time for an update. Maybe, when I finish refreshing the outside of the fridge, I’ll even get around to checking the expiration dates on all those bottles of salad dressing and barbecue sauce.

Or maybe not. After all, those are safely hidden inside the door. It’s the outdated outside of the fridge that’s so embarrassing.

Categories: Family, Odds and Ends | 1 Comment

Second-Hand Good Judgment

Good judgment comes from experience, and experience comes from bad judgment. Anyone over the age of, say, two and a half knows this saying to be true. Some of us with a few decades more maturity might even be willing to admit it

But it’s also true that, once in a while, good judgment grows out of someone else’s bad judgment. Humans, being wise and adaptable creatures, can sometimes learn valuable lessons from watching what happens to those around us.

Here are a few second-hand pieces of good judgment I have learned:

1. Before I walk on the treadmill, I always tie my shoes in double knots. I learned this from the experience of a friend whose shoelace came untied, caught in the roller of the treadmill, and pulled her to her knees for several very painful minutes until she could loosen her shoe enough to escape. But that’s not all—while I walk on the treadmill, I always use the safety cord. The magnet on one end must be attached to the treadmill in order for it to operate. The idea is to clip the other end to your clothes, so in case you slip or trip or are the victim of your own loose shoelace, the treadmill will stop instantly when your falling body pulls the magnet loose. Any time I’m tempted to not bother with the clip, I remember what my friend’s legs looked like. You generally only see scabs that impressive on the knees of novice nine-year-old roller skaters.

2. If I need to hang a picture, change a light bulb, or reach something on a high shelf, I take time to go to downstairs and get the stepstool. Or at least I go to the dining room and get a sturdy wooden chair. Because I learned the following from one of the members of my family: even if you’re in a hurry, and you’re just going to do one quick little thing, and the only chair in the room happens to be one on wheels, it’s really, really not a good idea to stand on that chair. True, you might save a minute or two by not taking time to go get something less mobile to stand on. But that isn’t much of a benefit when you balance it against spending several hours in the emergency room waiting for the doctor to set your broken wrist.

3. If I have my cell phone in the back pocket of my jeans, and I need to answer a call of nature, I first park the phone somewhere safe like the bathroom counter. I formed this habit after another member of my family had her phone slip out of her pocket and land with an embarrassing splash in the toilet. I also learned from her experience that one possible way to dry out a phone is to seal it into a bag of uncooked rice for a day. It may or may not work but is worth a try. If nothing else, the pain of being out of communication with the wider world for 24 hours serves as a reminder to be more careful in the future.

Careful, the way I am, with my phone-protecting behavior. Okay, there was that one time. Yes, I left the phone on the counter in someone else’s house. Yes, I was traveling at the time and had to drive some 50 miles out of my way the next day to retrieve it. But at least it was dry when I got there.

Really, the whole incident was so trivial I don’t even know why I mentioned it. But if you gain any good judgment from my humbling—er, humble experience, you’re more than welcome.

Categories: Living Consciously, Odds and Ends | 1 Comment

I can do it myself, but I don’t have to like it.

I am not exactly a technophobe. I used to assemble computers. I was installing and configuring software when Windows 10—heck, Windows XP—was only a gleam in Bill Gates’s eye. I had a cell phone before it was obligatory. I have a smart phone now, as well as a car smart enough to answer calls on my smart phone. (I’ve never caught them at it, but I have occasionally wondered if my car and my phone have private conversations when I’m not around.)

But I still hate learning new technology. Maybe it’s my reluctance to read directions. Maybe it’s the fact that there are so many more interesting things to occupy my brain. Or maybe—don’t tell anyone, but I think this is the real reason—I’m just lazy.

And one piece of new technology I especially dislike is the self-checkout terminals at the grocery store.

There is a pattern here, I guess. I am old enough—just barely—to remember when gas stations switched to self-service pumps. I didn’t like them at first, either. I even remember, as a newlywed college student, how intimidating it was the first time I drove our battered little 1962 Nash Rambler station wagon up to the gas pump and filled it myself. It wasn’t the mechanical challenge of dealing with the nozzle or starting the pump. It was the spatial challenge: getting close enough to the pump for the nozzle to reach but staying far enough away that I didn’t hit anything.

That was a valid fear, too, given what I did to our 1969 Plymouth Satellite a decade or so later. By then filling the gas tank had long since become routine. But one day, leaving the station, I turned too short and managed to jam the side of the car against a concrete post. Presumably it was there to protect the gas pumps from drivers like me with good intentions but bad depth perception; I guess it worked. The crunched back door on the passenger’s side was an embarrassing reminder of my ineptitude until I sold the car several years later.

That little mishap aside, over the years I’ve filled gas tanks in various cars, pumped diesel fuel into pickups so big I had to balance on the running board in order to wash the middle of the windshield, and learned to appreciate the convenience of swipe-your-card-and-go fuel pumps.

Oh, and that warning about not leaving the pump while your tank is filling? There’s a reason for that. One below-zero day, waiting in the car instead of outside in the bitter wind, I didn’t notice that the frigid nozzle had failed to shut off until it had poured a couple of gallons of 87-octane down the size of my car and onto the icy concrete. Good thing I hadn’t left the car running. I guess there’s a reason they warn you about that, too.

By comparison, I suppose the potential drawbacks of scanning my own eggs and weighing my own produce at the grocery store are relatively minor. I know I’ll become nonchalant about it eventually. I might even stop muttering inappropriate words under my breath while I try to figure out whether I have “Avocados, Large” or “Avocados, Medium,” or whether to find snow peas under “S” or “P.”

Though I do think I might like the self checkout terminal better if it didn’t talk to me. The voice is pleasant enough, but by the third time she tells me, “please place your items in the bagging area,” after I’ve already done it, I just want her to leave me alone. I’ve even been tempted to run over her with my cart in order to shut her up.

She doesn’t know how lucky she is that there isn’t room in the checkout lane for a 1969 Plymouth.

Categories: Odds and Ends | Tags: | 3 Comments

The Spirit of the Christmas Letter

Even though I don’t receive many of them (maybe more would come in if I sent out the occasional Christmas card?), I like Christmas letters. In the hands of someone creative like my niece, the annual update is a delight. But since I’m addicted to stories, I find Christmas letters at least mildly interesting even if the sender is someone I hardly know, like the daughter-in-law of my mother’s cousin once removed.

I’ve never sent out a Christmas letter myself, which for a writer is something of an embarrassment. Maybe this is the year to try it. See what you think:


It’s been another above-average year at our house. We got our usual promotions and bonuses at work, enjoyed entertaining our many friends, and gave back generously to the community in our usual ways. We’re both still wearing the same size clothes as we wore in our 20’s, we never disagree or raise our voices, and our children are all outstanding in their fields.

One of the grandchildren just received an acceptance letter from Harvard—not bad for someone who is still in preschool!! His parents are excited, of course, but they think if he does well in kindergarten next year he’ll probably get offered a scholarship at Stanford, so they aren’t making any commitments quite yet.

In June I bought a quirky little painting at a garage sale for five bucks. Turns out it was an original Picasso!!! The appraiser on Antiques Roadshow valued it at three million dollars! We sold it at Sotheby’s this fall—our accountant is still figuring out the tax consequences of that little capital gain!!

Sparky won Best of Show at the Westminster dog show this year!! Not bad for a rescue pup from the animal shelter! We weren’t going to do the show circuit, but the trainer simply begged us to let Sparky compete—she said he was the closest thing to a perfect Southern Basset she had ever seen. Now he’s in great demand as a sire, which makes it a little awkward when we explain that having him neutered was one of the requirements when we adopted him. Oh, well, at least he enjoys drinking out of the silver cup with his name on it!

And finally, my blog was among the finalists for the prestigious “Five-W” (Wit and Wisdom on the World Wide Web) award this year! I was deeply touched, even though I didn’t win. The judges said even though my stories about Sparky were entertaining, I would have done better with more cute kitten videos. Maybe it’s time for another visit to the animal shelter. Just don’t let Sparky know!!


Wait. You don’t believe any of that? Not even the Picasso? Drat; I knew I should have said Grandma Moses instead.

Maybe this will work better:

It’s been a year pretty much like any other, with family, friends, work, play, and the usual share of ups, downs, and sidewayses. Until this fall, when a health concern in the family brought home to us that the idea of “live life to the fullest, because you never know what might happen” is a truism because it’s, well, true.

The person involved is doing well—nothing is life-threatening or even life-style threatening or in need of treatment right now. But in the process of unraveling this medical issue, for me one fact has moved from the theoretical to the actual. We are all going to die, and so are the people we love most in the world. Someday. Possibly sooner, hopefully later. We don’t necessarily get to choose when.

And in the meantime, we are very much alive. The world—in spite of the fears and wounds and resentments and even evil that we humans harbor and sometimes inflict on one another—is filled with opportunities for kindness, love, and joy. It really is important to count our blessings, appreciate our loved ones, and savor one moment at a time.

It’s almost impossible to talk about something this important without sounding like a parody of a self-help guru. Like so many other things, living in the now is hard to put into words and is best learned by practice and example. The example that inspired me this Christmas morning came from one of the small grandchildren. Ignoring his “real” gifts for the moment, he was intently focused on popping, one at a time, the little inflated sacs in a piece of bubble wrap.

Gifts, and the opportunity to savor them, come in a multitude of ways. Merry Christmas.

Categories: Living Consciously | 1 Comment

The Perils of the Lady in Red

Having houseguests can be a bit stressful. Even when they are quiet, unobtrusive sorts who don’t make a fuss, scatter their stuff all over the house, or criticize your cooking or housekeeping. Still, there’s always the issue of trying to be a gracious hostess without hovering. There’s a delicate balance to allowing guests to follow their own schedules and preferences while trying not to unreasonably disrupt your own.

Then there’s the issue of staying out of each other’s way in the kitchen. Courteously allowing guests to share counter space instead of swiping at them with the dishcloth. Not stepping on them while you’re cooking. Not scalding them with the teakettle. Letting them share the sink without washing them down the drain.

Oh. Sorry. I forgot to mention that the particular guests I’m talking about are ladybugs. Otherwise known as ladybird beetles. Coccinellidae, if one wants to be formal. The name comes from the Latin word for “scarlet,” which certainly fits these little red beetles with their dainty black spots. Apparently the “lady” originated in Britain and was associated with Mary the mother of Jesus, who was often shown in early paintings with a red cloak. I didn’t find any sources that speculated on whether Mother Mary would have been honored or annoyed by having insects named after her.

At least these are beneficial insects, for the most part, being primarily aphid-eaters. They seem friendly, too, though that may be due merely to the cheerful little spots.

Anyway, this time of year we are subject to random visits by ladybugs, mostly in our kitchen. I don’t know where they come from. Mostly they crawl around on the back of the counter near the window, with occasional forays up to the top of the screen.

I never deliberately squash them. Protecting them from accidents, however, is sometimes difficult. Fortunately, ladybugs seem to be tough little critters. They recover quite well from being flipped upside down, are not easily discouraged by inadvertent finger-poking, and do not drown easily even in hot water.

There was the one I tried to wipe up with the dishcloth, thinking it was an apple seed or a cracker crumb until I saw its legs. By then it was tangled in the fabric, so I spread the dishcloth out on the counter so it could extricate itself (which it eventually did) and got another cloth to finish wiping off the counters.

Every now and then one is hiding in the sink when I start to fill it with hot soapy water, and when it floats to the top with its legs flailing I fish it out with a spoon and dump it out on the counter. After a bit of gasping and wing-flapping it pulls itself together and crawls away, sadder and—I hope—a bit wiser.

Once in a while, of course, a ladybug does get squished or drowned. But it’s always accidental—I swear. Yesterday, though, I thought the ladybug perils had reached a new level. I was vigorously stirring batter for a batch of oatmeal bread, and there was a round red-brown spot. Uh-oh. I fished it out with my cooking fork and took a closer look.

Luckily, it was only an undissolved lump of brown sugar. I think.

Oatmeal bread, anyone?

Categories: Wild Things | Tags: | 4 Comments

Holiday Overachieving and Great Ideas

This time of year, it’s easy to feel like an underachiever. It’s not just all the ads and articles and advice about creating “perfect” Christmas gifts or Christmas wrap or Christmas cookies or Christmas dinners or Christmas decorating. It’s the people—admit it, we all know a few of them—who actually do all that stuff.

This year, as it happens, I’m doing more hands-on Christmas preparations myself than usual. Oh, we still haven’t done any decorating or put up a tree. No cookies have been or will be baked in our kitchen. Almost no shopping has been done, either.

But I am making gifts for several family members. As I often do, around the first of December I had a Great Idea for creating something handmade. Usually I consider factors like the days left till Christmas, the steps required to turn the idea into reality, and the probability that the Great Idea will result in a Not-So-Great Product, and I decide not to even try.

But this year I decided to actually carry out the Great Idea. Right now I’m in the middle of making a batch of Christmas gifts. I’m not doing it because I think I should. I’m not doing it because I think the recipients will be blown away by my creativity and overwhelmed with gratitude and keep these things forever. (Well, okay, I would like just a little bit of that. Not too much, though—it might make me think I need to do something similar next year)

I’m doing it because it’s fun. Mostly. There was that one little problem with figuring out how to make this part work, and that other little problem with getting another part to come out right. But I’m pleasantly surprised: Not only am I enjoying the process, but the reality of the almost-finished product is astonishingly close to the Great Idea as I imagined it.

And along the way, I had another Great Idea. This one deals with all the people I see as holiday overachievers. The ones who show up at a “please don’t bring anything” gathering with a little handmade gift for everyone or a batch of beautiful Christmas cookies. Or who wrap presents so beautifully that the wrapping itself is a work of art. Or who decorate every room in the house and has three color-coordinated trees in the front window.

Why should my response to any of that be a kneejerk flash of guilt, a feeling that I am a less-than-adequate human being who doesn’t quite measure up? Why should I care if someone else does a lot of elaborate holiday preparation that I don’t even care about or want to do? It has nothing to do with me, after all.

So here’s my Great Idea: Instead of feeling like an underachiever in those circumstances, I’m going to say something like, “Oh, you must have had fun creating this.”

If they did have fun, then more power to them. And the appreciation of people like me doesn’t much matter. It’s just a little bonus for them, the icing on the cookie, as it were.

If they didn’t have fun, that’s too bad, but it really doesn’t have anything to do with me, either. After all, no one forces any of us to do anything around the holidays. If stressed-out overachievers don’t like what they’re doing, they can come up with their own Great Idea and just say no.

And they shouldn’t feel guilty. Even if the rest of us miss out on some Christmas cookies.

Categories: Living Consciously | Tags: | 2 Comments

Better Living Through Technology

Science and technology have given us innovations like self-driving cars, the ability to peer into deep space, and 3D printers that can create everything from toys to body parts.

This is all very well and good. But why can’t some of those brilliant scientists and engineers devote a fragment of their attention to little day-to-day things? Here are a few inventions I would like to see that would make life just a tiny bit safer or more enjoyable.

A container for leftovers with a pop-up sensor to warn you when the contents have been in the fridge long enough to contain microbes that are unsafe for human consumption. The more sophisticated version might even be able to search scientific archives online and alert you that whatever is growing on that leftover lasagna might be a previously undiscovered life form.

A cup for hot chocolate with a device—maybe a little mesh insert somewhat like a tea strainer?—to keep marshmallows at the bottom of the cup. Then you could save that extra sweetness for last instead of slurping it first and leaving the rest of the cupful to taste disappointing by comparison. You’d avoid the telltale marshmallow mustache, too.

A miniature water heater for that sprayer at the dentist’s office that the hygienist uses to rinse out your mouth. Surely a couple of engineers with sensitive teeth could figure out a way to get rid of that awful jet of cold water. And while they’re at it, they could do something to warm up the air from that evil dryer nozzle.

Eyeliner and mascara applicators with extra-short handles for nearsighted people who have to get within a couple inches of the mirror to put their makeup on. As a bonus, these could be sold with little face masks to keep your breath from fogging the mirror and also avoid those pesky nose prints on the glass.

Hats for sun protection or warmth that stay on in the wind but don’t squash your hair until you resemble Donald Trump in an overcrowded elevator. Maybe something like a construction hard hat, which has an inner ring you can adjust to fit while the actual hat sits away from your head? Oh, wait—I’ve seen myself in a hard hat. Maybe this concept needs a little more work.

A fitness/diet tracker programmed not just to nag you about steps and calories but to tell you warmly, at random intervals, “You need a reward. Go sit down and have a brownie.”

Inventions like these would truly use science and technology for the betterment of humankind. Nobel committee, please take note.

Categories: Food and Drink, Living Consciously, Odds and Ends | 1 Comment

Detours Along The Road To Enlightenment

Writing recently about the meditative value of dishwashing made me think about my own rather haphazard attempts to sit and meditate. I never did practice it consistently enough to form a habit, but it did increase my self-awareness. I became clearly aware of all the reasons (“excuses” is such a judgmental word) why I wasn’t very good at it.

First of all, there’s the sitting. Oh, I can sit, all right. I’m a great sitter. Give me a good book—or even a mediocre book—or some Sunday crossword puzzles, a notebook and a pen, or a computer with internet access, and I can sit for hours. Sitting quietly with nothing to occupy my mind? Not so much.

Then there’s the music. I’m sure you’ve all had the experience of getting a song stuck in your head and not being able to get rid of it. Well, I’ve come to realize I always have some sort of music going on in the background. Normally, I can tune it out because I’m busy thinking, or talking to myself, or listening to the voices in my head. But let me settle into a chair to meditate, and up comes the volume. It’s not easy to find enlightenment when its soundtrack is a full brass band playing “The Beer Barrel Polka” or “When the Saints Go Marching In.”

Also, for those of us who share our lives with other people who are at various stages of enlightenment or lack thereof, there’s the problem of interruptions. I have plenty of private time now, but back when I was seriously trying to meditate, my kids were still small. I would meditate early in the morning before they got up. This might have worked better if my daughter, even at age four, had not been a morning person.

I remember one morning especially when she got up early. I heard her come into the living room, where I was sitting in the rocking chair with my eyes closed. She didn’t rush over to jump into my lap, or turn on the TV, or even say good morning. Instead, she tiptoed across the room, climbed into the other chair, and settled down to wait quietly until I was finished. The problem was, she was working so hard at being perfectly still and quiet that I could practically feel her vibrating.

The sweetness of her respectful silence is one of my favorite memories of her as a little girl. It was also the high point of all my experiences with meditation.

Since then, I’ve decided that moving meditation works better than sitting meditation for me. Walking, for example. It keeps my body occupied but requires no real attention from my mind, other than looking both ways before I cross a street. It would be embarrassing, after all, to be run over by a bus or a beer truck along the road to enlightenment.

And of course, there’s always dishwashing. One particular benefit of this type of meditation is that it solves the problem of interruptions. If I’m standing at the sink, up to my elbows in soapsuds, I can count on being left in peaceful solitude until the last kettle is sparkling clean.

Categories: Living Consciously | Tags: | Leave a comment

Eeeuuw! Do Not Call

Maybe people who sleep with their cell phones clutched in their hands like electronic security blankets are used to it. For the rest of us, though, there’s a particular kind of dread that comes with being jolted out of a deep sleep by a ringing telephone in the middle of the night.

The sound wakes up the primitive part of the brain with a surge of adrenaline that has it screaming “Red alert! Run! Fight! Do something!” As you stagger out of bed, your heart thumping, the thinking part of the brain blearily catalogs possible calamities. Car accidents? Fires? Falls? Emergency rooms?

We received one of those calls last night. Well, at 1:43 a.m. today, to be precise. Yesterday was a stressful day, beginning at 5:00 a.m., with quite enough drama in and of itself, thank you. So as I staggered more or less upright, fumbled to find my glasses, and tiptoe-trotted across the chilly floor to find the phone in the dark, the closest thing to a coherent thought I had was, “Now what? We don’t need this.”

I said something that may have been “Hello?” No response. I said it again. Then a polite, even tentative male voice said, “Um . . . I was wondering if you would be willing to listen to me while . . .” And then my sleep-fogged mind cleared enough to realize this was a genuine, honest-to-goodness obscene phone call.

Too startled to even get mad, I just barked, “No,” and hung up.

It wasn’t till I was back in bed, trying to relax enough to go back to sleep while I hoped he wouldn’t call back, that I thought of some of the things I could have said. Words like “creep” and “idiot” and “slimy” figured in many of them.

Most likely, it’s just as well I left it at “no.” An outraged response was probably exactly what he was hoping for.

Finally, I did go back to sleep. It helped to focus on being grateful that at least the phone call didn’t involve any calamities. There were no injuries, blood, tears, or trips to the emergency room.

Had I met Mr. Wake-People-Up-Obscenely in person, however, there might have been.

Categories: Odds and Ends | 2 Comments

Mindfulness and Dirty Dishes

Once again, research has affirmed a something I figured out a long time ago. The latest? Washing dishes by hand is a form of meditation.

I’ve known this for years. I’ve always secretly rather liked washing dishes. Well, except for hot summer days when sweat drips off my forehead into the water and I’m tempted to do some research of my own into the anti-bacterial potential of dish soap in ice water. Mostly, though, dishwashing is one of those repetitive tasks that keeps your hands busy while it leaves your mind free to wander off wherever it wishes to go. I get almost as many great creative ideas at the kitchen sink as I do in the shower. Maybe it’s the water.

The research (does specify that, for the best anxiety-reducing benefits, dishes should be washed mindfully. “People in the study focused on the smell of the soap, the feel and shape of the dishes to help them enter a mindful state.”

I don’t spend much time smelling my soap, and feeling the dishes is mostly a matter of making sure I hang onto the slippery little critters so I don’t drop my favorite cup and smash it to smithereens in the bottom of the sink. You could probably describe my method as more mindless than mindful.

Still, there are some things about washing dishes that do put me into a state of mindfulness.

I mind when people don’t rinse their cereal bowls, and I have to attack stubborn fragments of bran flakes with an abrasive pot scrubber or scrape off bits of oatmeal with my fingernails. I’m pretty sure the adhesives used to install flooring were developed this way.

I mind when people, trying to be helpful, dump sharp knives into the sink to lurk dangerously among the harmless silverware. I just hate getting blood in my dishwater. (And why, by the way, do we still call it “silverware,” when 99.73% of the time the utensils we use are stainless steel, and most of us wouldn’t know how to use silver polish even if we had the slightest clue where to find it in the store?)

I mind when people stack plates without scraping them, so bits of uneaten food get squished in between and stick to the bottom of the upper plate. I resent having remnants of scrambled eggs or scraps of green beans float off into the dishwater and swim through my fingers like yucky little sponges or eely miniature sea monsters.

I mind when someone (naming no names, but I know who I am) lets the dishes pile up until there are too many to fit into the drainer and the dishwasher. Yes, I do use the dishwasher—it’s the perfect place to put clean dishes to drip dry. But there is a limit to how much creative stacking even an expert can do in order to avoid having to dry so much as a single plate.

Because, illogical as it may seem, while I’m fine with washing dishes, I detest drying them. I know; it makes no sense to me, either. Dish drying ought to be every bit as soothing and meditative as dish washing.

But if anyone comes up with research showing this to be the case, I don’t want to know about it.

Categories: Living Consciously | Tags: , | 4 Comments

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