Ditching the Fitbit

It's been a fun ride, but I think it's time I bid adieu to the Fitbit. My fears that it would become yet another control factor in my life never materialized. In fact, the opposite occurred. I pretty much ignored the Fitbit from the beginning. 

I was disappointed from the start that the Fitbit didn't accurately track my miles. If I ran 15, it said I ran 12. And it doesn't track time on the bike or at Crossfit or the gym. I might work out intensely for 2 hours one day but per my Fitbit, I've barely moved all day. So I discounted it from the start. 

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The White Jeans Coffee Disaster

Anytime I wear white, God takes it as a throw down.

Yesterday I'm sitting in a coffeeshop with a large coffee cooling beside me. I reach for my laptop bag and... BAM! I knock the full cup of coffee directly onto the right leg of my white jeans. 

After uttering a sedate, "Gee whilikers! What bad luck!" (Kidding--there were f-bombs dropping right and left), I hopped up and ran to the women's bathroom. I had a meeting in 30 minutes so there was no time to go home and change. 

My attempts to rub the stain out with paper towels resulted only in soggy towel bits clinging to the stained fabric. So I did what had to be done. I slipped the jeans off and stuck the right leg under cold running water, pumped a bunch of soap onto the jeans and started scrubbing. 

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Back to Blogging: Spa Days

I've been MIA for awhile, with the new house and job keeping me busy. But in truth, I was having trouble coming back to the blog because I'd been gone for so long. Where to start? How to catch everyone up on all the new changes? 

Then today a moment occurred that was so Dena blog-perfect, I knew I'd found my re-entry. Here goes:

I went to a spa today. The kind with soft lighting, herbal tea and O magazine in the waiting room and everyone speaks in hushed tones. I like this spa, but I don't care for the front desk help. Invariably, it's some 25-year old with shellacked hair dressed in all-black size 2 clothing, wearing plum lipstick and looking Botoxed beyond her years. 

There's never a smile (or maybe the Botox prevents it) and there's an almost simmering hostility that shines through, as if how dare I intrude on her day? 

I want more then anything to look at this girl and say, "Honey, you work the reception desk at the place I come to get my pubic hair waxed. Get over yourself."

Oh yeah... I'm back. 



Dishpan Hands

Our dishwasher has been leaking sporadically for almost 6 months and finally gave up the ghost this last week, spewing suds out from underneath our kitchen cabinets. We ordered a new dishwasher from Home Depot which was to be delivered this past Thursday. Didn't happen. Received a call saying shipment was delayed and the dishwasher would be here this coming Tuesday.

This means we must--gasp!--wash dishes by hand until then. What's a princess to do? Eat out a lot, is my thought. But there's no escaping the early morning coffee mugs, plates for toast, cereal bowls, omelet pans, and this brief lack-of-dishwasher interlude has uncovered the fact that I use an alarming number of spoons. 

We used to wash dishes by hand when I was a kid so I'm no stranger to manual labor (snort), but having gone years and years without sticking my hands in sudsy water, it's no fun going back. 

Or at least, I think it wouldn't be. So far, Blair has beaten me to the sink and taken care of all dishwashing duties. He's handy that way. And wise. He'd rather wash dishes for 5 minutes then listen to me spend an hour gripping about stupid Home Depot, and stupid delivery people, and stupid dirty dishes piling up in the sink...

God help me if our washing machine or clothes dryer ever goes on the fritz. Scrubbing clothes by hand and hanging them out to dry? Sooooo not the life of a pampered princess. ;)

Now--go hug all your appliances and tell them, "Thank you."