There’s no “green clean” in our home. I love the smell of fake clean; lemon Pinesol, Orange Glo, Lysol, Clorox… You know you’re a little obsessive and excessive with the cleaners when your five year-old smells an orange scented wipe, inhales and sighs, “Mmmm. Dad, that smells clean.”
In case you’re wondering what’s on the cleaning agenda for tomorrow, here’s the schedule:
Monday- Laundry.
Tuesday- Laundry leftovers.
Wednesday- More laundry leftovers.
Thursday- bathrooms, toilets, sinks, tubs.
Friday- floors, mopping, vacuuming and baseboards, courtesy of my five year-old. We utilize child labor in our home.
Saturday- Any leftovers.
Sunday- Trying hard not to do any leftovers.
I modeled this method after a suggestion by my friend Michelle, another clean freak. It’s worked out fairly well, although more often than not there are LOTS of cleaning leftovers to do on Saturday.
As I mentioned previously, PBS’ Masterpiece Theatre is showcasing adaptations of Jane Austen’s canon of work from January through April with new adaptations of Persuasion, Mansfield Park, Northanger Abbey and Sense & Sensibility. (Already purchased and on the way. S&S is only available for pre-order at this time.) While I was perusing their website, I came across this link: “The Men of Austen,” which any Austenite will enjoy.
Darcy & Wentworth are delish. Who’s your favorite?
Shlumpadinka.
If you watched Oprah yesterday, you know exactly what I’m talking about. I just can’t stop the frump. Running around in any sort of comfy, soft pants with elasticized waists, my formless shirts hiding the baby pounds that just won’t shed. Covered with stains from painting, cooking, cleaning, spit-up. Hair in a constant ponytail, or worse, using those big sunglasses as a headband. It’s attractive.
I miss the days of work, dressing up, nice fitted shirts, trousers, shoes with heels. (Ever try pushing a stroller in heels in 20 degree weather with snow/ice all over the streets? Gotta get some UGGs) Honestly, even if I had a great wardrobe, it’d be difficult to maintain; if you have an infant, you know what I’m talking about.
Waiting for Spring, so I can dump the frump.
Today my father helped me make ham fried rice for seventy people for Matt’s cub scout banquet. It took him a whopping three hours to cook it in several batches. As he rested while I cooked a batch, instructions flowed from his mouth like wisdom flows from Confucian annalects, and yes it was all in Chinese:
“Heat the oil, not too cold or you will taste the rawness of it. Now, add the rice. Let the rice just rest in the oil. You don’t need to stir. That’s the secret. Just let the rice be. It will heat up slowly and then separate on it’s own. You must have patience with the rice.”
Can rice be it’s own entity? Apparently so. That is the tao/dao of it.
To learn more about the Tao Te Ching / Daodejing, check it out here: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Tao_Te_Ching
Tick tock. Tick, tock.
I surf the net and read someone’s blog. Time is ticking by. Dirty dishes in the sink and I think, “there’s so much to do.” I should be cleaning, I should be sleeping, but still I can’t stop reading, can’t stop clicking. My eyes are glued to the screen.
Tick, tock. Tick, tock.
Before I know it, time’s flown by. This is why I shouldn’t blog.
Bowling. Yes, I know. This one’s quite embarrassing. I don’t know why, but I just love to go bowling. Our friend Jeff was also quite taken aback when this came out and mockingly introduced me, “Hello, my name is Karen Liu. I read fine literature, enjoy classical music and I LOVE TO GO BOWLING.” It’s probably considered a trailer trash sport, but one that’s broadcast, nonetheless. I used to watch it on ESPN on Saturdays, my eyes transfixed on the hideous wrist guards worn by balding, stout, middle-aged men, gracefully moving like dancers to their final stance with the knees bent, the leg lunged behind, releasing the ball at high speeds, only to climax with a deafening crack of pins flying in all directions as the ball rolls by. Ahhhhhh.
Yesterday I tried bowling on the Wii for the first time and while it was fun and a fairly decent simulation, it just wasn’t satisfying to me. No weight of the ball straining my forearm and shoulder, no clumsy release while trying to remain gracefully balanced upright (though more often leaning to one side) and no CRACK as my ball hits a few pins. I never said I was good at it. But I still love it.
Trendiness is a definite pet peeve of mine. Nothing irks me more right now than people professing their love of Jane Austen, “I love anything Jane Austen,” and they’ve maybe read one book in her canon of work for a high school English class or they’ve seen a film adaptation of Pride & Prejudice or Sense & Sensibility. And they think Jane Austen is all about romance between Elizabeth Bennet & Mr. Darcy (but who wouldn’t? Mr. Darcy is delicious.) But they miss the wit and wisdom in Austen’s writing about social commentary in terms of class and gender and choices. It seems that there’s an Austen renaissance every ten years or so with new adaptations in film or TV. Well, I suppose I should be grateful that they’re even interested in my beloved Jane. I suppose I’m a bit of an obnoxious purist, like Prudie from The Jane Austen Book Club, but I don’t break out in French.
