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Ramblings by Rose Mary

Please refer to the Ramblings by Rose Mary main page for columns published in other issues.
Rose Mary can be contacted via e-mail at rwclarke@mibor.net.

 

 

 

 Vacation Rush Leads to Kitchen Disaster

 

Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear! I’m in a terrible rush, trying to get ready for our annual houseboat vacation. It never fails that whenever we try to leave town, things go awry.

Two years ago, we went out for dinner and left a pot of turkey bones simmering on the stove.  When we returned home the fire department had been in our house which reeked of smoke. We moved furniture into the tiled dining area so that Bill could shampoo the carpet, hoping to get rid of the odor. Instead, it made matters worse. Two days later, Jean and Bill arrived to spend the night before we left for Lake Cumberland. "I hate to say this," Jean said, "But your house smells like pot!"

Before coming in here to finish this column, I moved out the refrigerator and scrubbed the kitchen floor for the third time since my bare feet were still sticking to it and wiped down the cabinets in an effort to get rid of the smell of beer.

I was frantically dashing around yesterday afternoon, cleaning and answering business calls when I had a daft household disaster that equaled that of a few Christmases ago when I knocked a two-pound bag of confectioner’s sugar off the top of the fridge which still has white powder in its door screws.

Preparing to mop the kitchen floor, I set a carton of beer up on the bar that separates the Pullman-style kitchen from the family room. Somehow I managed to knock the beer off the bar with the mop handle. It crashed straight down onto the ceramic floor. Some of the bottles shattered, sending shards of glass flying all over the kitchen. (Needless to say, I was barefooted.) The caps flew off the others so that the entire kitchen was showered with beer--not one of my favorite aromas. A puddle of beer foamed and flowed across the floor and under the fridge.

I ran to the linen closet and grabbed bath towels to throw on the puddle. Then I laboriously swept up the glass and mopped the floor twice. In the midst of this for some reason I touched my hearing aid. Eek! Something didn’t feel right. I took it out of my ear. It had come open, and its innards were dangling! Panic stricken, I left an urgent message for John Payne, my hearing aid specialist.

Bill came in from shopping for groceries just as I was finishing. "I have an I-hate-to-tell-you," I said. This is our signal to prepare our spouse for bad news. "I’ve done something really bad." He said in that special tone of resignation that long-suffering spouses use, "What now?" "Well, I was mopping--and don’t ask me how I did it--somehow I managed to knock your beer off the bar with the mop, and the bottles broke!"

Stricken, he said, "My Michelob Lager?" . . . "Did all the bottles break?" he asked hopefully. "No, the caps just blew off the rest of them. They’ve still got beer in them." "You said that glass went everywhere. Do you suppose it got in those bottles?" "I don’t know. Maybe you could pour the beer through our finest strainer." "ROSE MARY!" In the end I promised him that I’d buy him some more beer which means a trip to the grocery that I hadn’t planned. At least it wasn’t the expensive bottle of champagne that my colleagues gave me for m birthday that broke.

I’m feeling very sorry for myself because cleaning the kitchen, buying beer and visiting the hearing aid specialist are taking time that I planned to use for myself. I’ve been so good, worked so hard that I deserve an indulgence--something just for my own pleasure. I’ve been getting up at 4:00 AM to try to get everything done so that I would have time to read new Harry Potter book that Bill went out and bought for me at midnight last week.

Never mind--in a few days I’ll be living a life of luxury on the boat where the most strenuous thing I do is help with the cooking, munch cookies, raise my glass, lie in the sun, float around on a raft, hoist myself out of the lake onto the ladder, and change for dinner which consists of putting on a different swim suit..

Sigh . . . Bill has just disgustedly informed me that he has mopped the kitchen again as his feet were sticking to the floor.

 

 

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