She Lives

Attention, Please!

Just a few quick announcements. 

Okay, I know what you're thinking.  You're thinking it's impossible for me to say anything quickly.  Huh!  I'll show you.

First, Look at our darling amaryllis blossoms.  After but one short week in bloom, they are beginning to fade. 

Oh!  The travesty.  Where did I go wrong?  Did I nurture too much?  Not enough?  Or is that just how the ol' petals crumble?  In the words of the great poet, Robert Frost, "I'm not confused, I'm just well mixed." 

Or was that Robert Plant? 

Uh, where was I?  Plant, confused, photo, bird cage, Starbucks cup...

Oh, yeah!!!

Don't forget to enter my Name That Bird contest to win a $25 gift card to Starbucks.  You have until Midnight Saturday to get your names in.  I tried not to peek, but couldn't help it.  There are some clever ones in there, so think hard!

Okay, okay...I'll be quick.

Secondly Thirdly, I'm not posting here today.  Nope.  Just making a few quick announcements. Which is not the same as posting.  See, posting means....

Okay, okay.

Today, I'm actually guest posting at Rocks in My Dryer.  It's about something I really, really would like you to know about.  And it's really, really a post.  Not just a couple of quick announcements.  It'd be great if you'd drop by and leave a comment. 

Or you can drop by there to read, then come back here to leave your comment.  Or you cold leave a comment here right now, then drop by there and leave another comment. That'd be cool.  'Cause y'all know how your comments just make me joyously glad.  You just have that effect on me, dear readers.  I mean...

Okay!!!!  Yeesh.

Don't forget the contest.

Love ya!  Bye.

(See? That was quick. For me.)

Sag Rants

One of the weird things about aging is the generalized body sag.  Everything, alluvasudden, decided to droop a little.  Everything.  Not just the parts that guys notice, in case that's what you're thinking.  Those are just the parts we worry about guys noticing.  There are other gravitationally challenged anatomical parts as well.

I'm looking at the skin between my thumb and index finger.  You know, that sort of web-like area that folds up on itself?  And I swear it's sagging like a turkey wattle.  I could nestle small objects in there, pouch-like, and smuggle them into foreign countries like that.

And what's with the backs of my arms?  Looks like someone let the air out of zeppelin or something.  No way I'm doing the Chicken Dance, folks.  I might hit someone with the fwap, fwap backlash and get sued or something.

Even my poor eyelids are losing the war against gravity.  How am I supposed to see after they hit the tops of my cheekbones?  The uber-cool literary phrase, "a hooded glance" won't be so cool anymore, is that I'm thinking. 

Maybe that's what's happening with my brain.  It's sagging.  Drooping thoughts.  Sagging memory.  Fallen recall.  If I can't get myself up mentally, how am I to be expected to get out of the blasted bed every morning?  Great argument for staying in bed all day, is what I think.  Don't you? 

Or did I already ask that?

The point is, I know I answered the same questions, gave the same suggestions, booked the same band, for the same price, at the same venue with the same guy.  Twice. 

Maybe I am, in my middle age, simply becoming redundant.

I think I'll go call my sister.  Again.

I'm Really Steamed!

My sister, for various and sundry reasons I shall not go into right now, has gone deep green.  I mean, so green it's nearly black, is how green she's gone.  OCD green, y'know?  Not that she's OCD, necessarily, but her green-ness is borderline pathological.

Since we talk on the phone daily, M-F, sometimes Sa & Su, for hours on end, I pretty much know everything going on at her abode from what they ate for dinner all the way down to the type of toilet paper they're using.  TMI, indeed.

Well, she's still using toilet paper, but she's not using household cleaners anymore.  Seriously.  Not even the green ones.  She'll do vinegar & water or baking soda for some stuff, but mostly nothing at all.  Yeah, I freaked out, too.  That's just weird.

But!  (Get this!)  Her house is probably cleaner and more sanitary than mine or yours. 

She's cleaning with steam!  As in a little hand-held steamer that she points and shoots at everything.  Then she just wipes with a clean, dry cloth and voila!  The heat from the steam lifts the dirt, kills the germs, and she just wipes up.  Don't know what kind she uses, but I promise she did mountains of research before settling on one.

So, in conversation, my husband starts chasing this whole green rabbit trail one day for some random reason and I tell him about my sister's steaming cleaning.  And he says to me, he says, "We have one of those steamer things out in the garage.  We got it free when I bought the carpet cleaner."

People, we have owned that carpet cleaner over five years now.  And my husband got something FREE and never told me?!?  Hello?  Marriage truly does crucify the flesh.  But that's for another post.

Lo and be-hold, there was a hand-held steamer cleaner in the garage, in a way cool case, complete with attachments, (and I do love me some nifty attachments) never even used.  Ever!  

If you must know, mine is the Bissell Steam n' Clean model 1865, which isn't even made anymore.  But I found one one for sale on a Craig's list in in Missouri for $15, in case you're interested.  What?  You thought Bissell had contacted me to do a product review or something?  *snort*

Anyway, I decided to give the whole steamer cleaning thing a go.

A-maze-ing!

• Places riddled with cracks and crevices such as the ceramic tile floor around your can't-aim-for-pee 12 y/o son's toilet?  You will heart steaming cleaning!
• Grilled-on, burnt-on, baked-on gunk on stove or oven? Steam blast 'em!
• Don't want to dull your nice granite counter tops with harsh chemicals?  Steam cleaning rocks!
• Icky soap scum on shower walls?  Get mean with steam!
• Got a gnarly grill?  Steam that suckah!
• George Foreman?  Steam out in the first round!
• Door frames? Slam 'em with steam!
• Cup holders and consoles in the car with bits of ew and crumbs and sticky-ick coins?  Steam-a-on, Steam-a-off!
• Chemical Free!  We're talking water, okay?

I'm telling you, it's so cool it's crazy hot!  It's green!  It's clean!  It's steam! 

And it works for me!

P.S. Unless you stick your hand right smack in front of the nozzle when the steam is coming out, you can't burn yourself with it, either.  Safety first, right?

P.P.S. Two things I don't like:  1)  It has a cord.  I hate cords.  Why can't it be battery-powered?   2)  The water reservoir is kind of small.  Right when I get on a really good, rockin' steamy roll, I have to stop to refill.

P.P.P.S.  I'm sure there are far better models than my free-to-hubby, five-year-old, discontinued Bissell.  That's okay.  I'll wear this dude out, then go for Mr. Top-o-the-Line. Maybe Bissell will want me to review one for them now that I've linked to their site three times in one post?

Nah.

Do you get steamed?

On Fluff and Lies

 

   I am the poster child for marshmallow rejection.  In fact, there are only three "edible" things I really don't like to eat and marshmallows is one of them. 

Check this out.  I didn't know they made this stuff.  It's a jar of fluff. It's sticky, sweet, has no substance or nutrients.  I'm sure fabulous, dessert-type items result from its use.  I really don't want to know.  I mean, think about the mess this would make on your clothes.  Or your hair.  What would it to do your insides?  [shudder]

Our world is packed full of fluff.  Stuff that promises sweetness, but truly has no substance, provides no nourishment whatsoever.  It initially appears soft and light, but quickly dries up, clinging, hardening, adhering to everything it touches. We're bombarded with it.  And we wallow in it.  It's like bathing in jars of sticky, gooey fluff.  And it's just as difficult to rid ourselves of. 

It's everywhere we turn.  It's offered to us in what we wear and what we watch, what we read and listen to, what we spend our money on and entertain ourselves with.  So much of it has no substance whatsoever, nothing that nourishes our minds and souls.  Even the news, full of sensationalism and celebrity gossip, offers us so little substance that we have no way to separate the truth from the hype.

Unlike fluff, truth is hard.  If we wanted truth it would be more popular.  But the truth is, we don't want hard truth. If we want truth we have to reach for it, get a good grip and cling to it; like a rock, it doesn't cling to us.  Like rocks, we dodge truth because, when it hits us, it hurts. Because of who and what we are.

Instead, we rationalize lies and fluff them up so they're more palatable.  We believe what we want to believe, just taking in the sticky sweetness and rejecting that which is good for us like kids reject vegetables.  Because it's easier to lay in fluff, allowing it to engulf us, deceiving ourselves into thinking it looks good and tastes good so it must be good,we ignore its gradual destruction of our lives.

Perhaps wisdom and maturity involves taking in what truly nourishes us and rejecting what sounds/feels/looks good on the surface but has no real substance?

They say the truth shall set you free.  If so, it would appear most of us prefer slavery. 

Why?  Why do we gorge ourselves with fluff and turn our backs on truth?

Fluff allows us to be the god of our own lives.  And who doesn't want that?

They exchanged the truth of God for a lie, and worshiped and served created things rather than the Creator—who is forever praised. Amen.  Romans 1:25

Today's Tuesday Tribute goes to LaShawn Barber.  Because she's  not afraid to tell the hard truth.  Even when it hurts.

All Grown Up

Look what happened while I was away this weekend!

Turn your back for a little while and they just grow up on you!

Lots o' Link Love

I'm actually out of town, on the road playing music with one of my bands, Tweeting from my iPhone and missing my family. I'll be back Monday.  Meanwhile, I set this to auto-post in my absence.  Which is one of my way-cool bloggy tricks.

It's all bloggy awardishness around here today, folks.  Loads of good links near the end of this post if you'd like to skip all the requisite telling-stuff-about-myself stuff.

'Cause you know I read me some good blogs and love to link 'em up!

Susan at a Southern Day Dreamer gave me this Sisterhood award.  Girlfriend is the Tablescape Queen.  She's even got this big 'ol crown.  I'm pretty sure she used it as a centerpiece one time.  Anyway, y'gotta check out her blog.  It's only a month old and doing great!

I'm supposed to give this one to ten bloggers. What the heck?  Do I even know ten bloggers?  I'll think about it for a bit.

Brenda Jean at In the Treetop awarded me this memeish award.  It took me a few minutes to make sure I was reading it correctly.  I wasn't.  Time to take my trifocaled eyes in for a checkup, I suppose.

So, the deal:

A) first list 10 honest things about yourself - and make it interesting, even if you have to dig deep!

B) pass the award on to 7 bloggers that you feel embody the spirit of the Honest Scrap.

That's a lot.  I'd best get busy.

1)  I have a mad crush on Jack Bauer. I think it's his intensity.  Keiffer Sutherland's...meh.  But Jack?  Honey! All true heroes should be able to tolerate torture.

2)  Because I have an autoimmune disease, I'm supposed to adhere to the Maker's Diet.  I cheat a lot.  Chocolate chip cookies are my downfall.  The chewy ones.  You know exactly what I'm talking about.

3)  Brenda Jean and I are the same age.  I never tell my age. I sort of beat people up for asking.  Mostly guys.  "Don't you know you're not supposed ask women their age?  Didn't your mama teach you anything?"  Note to self:  Don't say this to cops.

4)  I'm way jealous that I don't get to go to Blissdom or BlogHer or any of those other away blog conferences for women bloggers. Because I spend so much time away, playing in bands, it's hard for me to ask for time away for blog conferences, too.  One of these days, though...

5)  I am neither pessimistic nor optimistic.  I prefer to think of myself as realistic.  Things aren't all that bad, but they could always be better. 

6)  I don't floss.  Yeah, I know.

7)  The older I get the less I like being around groups of people.  I used to be a true party girl, loving crowds and big groups and all manner of social events.  Now I'm content to hang out with the family or maybe a few friends at a small-ish gathering.  Or be all by myself.  Am I becoming anti-social in my old age? 

8)  I never have any good ideas of my own.  I can totally make someone else's idea work, though. 

9)  I like bad weather.  As long as I can stay home, that is; otherwise, no.  But I really like bad weather.

10)  I am the most unorganized person I know.  Not exaggerating.   No skilz whatsoever there.  Keeping up with calendars/daytimers/to-do lists?  Hah!  It's hopeless.  If professional organizers didn't cost the moon, I'd definitely hire one 'cause I seriously need professional help.

Seven bloggers to tag?  And ten bloggers for the Sisterhood Award?  What happened to the good old days when you just had to tag 2 or 3?  Seems like seven tag seven tag seven tag ten ... These award thingies spread so stinkin' fast.  I've gotten a few of them more than once, actually.

Okay, okay.  I'll quit griping. I want to get to know the following bloggers better so first the Honest sCrap.  (Oops.  Freudian slip 'o the fingers there.)  These first 7 bloggers have to tell honest, INTERESTING things about themselves.  They're all more interesting than I am, so piece 'o cake.

1.  katdish - Who thinks I rock like Tina Weymouth.  Which totally makes her my new best friend.

2. Steph - Who can be crazy funny with her chicken-wearing dog and her M&M's and the puppets...

3)  Susan - Who collecting more awards than Benjamin  Button is collecting Oscar nominations here lately.  (Not a tag-back.  Different award, my tablescaping friend.)

4)  Corina - Who has some serious photography skilz.  Hers and mine.  Which means I got nothin'.

5)  Maureen - Who has a way cool, hip new skin on that blog. Very stylin'.  (Did I say that right?) 

6)  Leanne - To help ease the pain of having chocolate milk on her iPhone.  And a really bad day before that.  (Girl, I see why you're tired!)

7)  Rachel - Who has one in the oven!  And is pregnant, too!

Okay, that's 7!  Here's the rest for the Sisterhood Award (see above)

8)  Kim H. - Who is one of my most faithful commenters. (Love ya, sistah!)

9)  Laura - Who inspires me to quit eating to much crap unhealthy food.

10.  And Jenn - Who is now mobile on her CrackBerry.  Which is almost as good as my EyePhone. 

That's 10!!  I did it!

Yeah, I know I cheated.  Give me more awards and watch me cheat again.

Meanwhile, check out those links to my way cool blog friends and be blessed!

And don't forget to enter my contest for a chance to win a $25 Starbucks Gift Card!  (yay!)

Name That Bird Contest

You know that America song, "Horse With No Name?"  My band's sax player wants to know, if the guy is stuck out in the desert with a horse all that time and nothing else to do, why doesn't he just name the stinkin' horse?

I know why!  When it comes to naming things, the guy truly doth succoth.  I can relate.  Completely.

 I've had this bird for about six-n-a-half years.  I have no clue how long that is in bird years.  I'm thinking six-n-a-half, but that's just a guess. 

They say birds like mine (cockatiels) can live to be 12-15 years on average,  So she's got a good 6-9 more years left  before she croaks - or squawks - whatever birds do when they croak. 

As I mentioned in this post, she still has no name.  Sad, I know.  You know what's sadder?  The following parody of the America song:

I've been through 6.5 years with a bird with no name;
 I have only myself to blame.
When you're my age, you can't remember your own name
'Cause there ain't no one for to give you no pain.

Whatever. The meaning and purpose of that song eludes me completely. Wish I could say the same for its monotony.

So, I'm hoping you, dear readers, will help me rectify my fowl oversight via a wee little contest.  (Thank you for the suggestion, Kim H. and the encouragement, Leanne.)

Name That Bird and Win a $25.00 Starbucks Gift Card.  They do make aviary good cup of coffee!  (Okay, that succoth, too.)

ELIGIBILITY REQUIREMENTS:

1. You may enter as many names as you like.
2. Each separate name/entry must be submitted in a separate comment below this post.
   
3.  Each separate name must be accompanied by one of the following:

• A link and blurb on your blog pointing back to this contest (limit one per day)
• A Twitter tweet about this contest  (limit 3 per day)
• A mention on your Facebook w/link (limit one per day)

That's five names per day you can submit for consideration.  And you have eight days from today . . . That's a lot of chances to win!

DEADLINE FOR SUBMISSIONS:  Midnight, Saturday, January 31st. (No late entries will be considered.)

Winner Selection Process

My family (not me) will review all names submitted and select one name for the bird.  Other than giving them the list of names, I will not be involved in the selection process.   ALL NAMES WILL BE GIVEN EQUAL CONSIDERATION.

In other words, I ain't the one making the decision here, peeps!

The person whose name submission is selected for the bird is our winner!

In the highly unlikely event two people submit the same name, only the first submission will be considered.

Winner will be announced some time on Sunday, February 1st.  (Wish I could tell you what time.  It's going to depend how long it takes my family to select a name.  Two of them are libras so it could be a slow process.)

Best of luck!

P.S. - You know that song, "Horse With No Name" I was talking about earlier?   I'd really like to know what the fly did to get that buzz.  Anybody?

P.P.S. - It's a girl bird.  No clue about the horse.  Or the fly.

13 Driver's Education Tips for Parents

My daughter got her driver's license yesterday.  Venture onto the roadways of America at your own risk, people. 

For those of you who have not yet crossed the parenting bridge that I just barely managed to trip over, you will find that the following driver's education tips will NOT be made available to you in your Home Taught Driver's Education Course.  A gross bit of negligence on their part, I assure you. 

You can thank me later. 

1)  Obtain state approved Home Taught Driver's Education Course.  Details can be found online via your state's Department of Motor Vehicles. Select one that is well organized and easy for both student and instructor to follow. Think of it as looking for Dora the Explorer board books at the local law library.

2)  Have your student carefully study your state's driving manual before taking the written test.  Caution her that if she wants to pass the written exam and obtain a learner's permit, she must answer all questions according to the information in the manual.  She must forget everything she has ever heard you say and do while driving.  Just go by the manual. Otherwise, when she answers the question about the yellow traffic light she will be marked wrong.  The yellow light does not mean go really, really fast.  And it is not okay to drive 15 miles above the speed limit in most semi-rural areas.  She'll miss that one, too.  Oh, and the one about fire hydrants?  They do not mark reserved parking for Suburban Assault Vehicles. (heh)

3)  Have all necessary forms ready to procure learning permit.  Including but not limited to birth certificate, social security card, VOE (Verification of Enrollment in school), proof of enrollment in Home Based Driver's Education Course, photo ID, shot record, report card, hairdresser's business card, letters of reference from three adults not employed by the Obama administration and a signed, notarized affidavit relinquishing your student's rights to her firstborn child.  You know, the usual stuff.

4)  Pre-Driving Instruction is Crucial.  Make sure your teen knows how to operate every button and knob and lever in the car before she ever starts the ignition.  My daughter does NOT know how to pop the hood, operate the windshield washer, nor control the climate in her new-to-her car.  After all, we've only owned said vehicle for five years.  She can darned sure crank that XM radio, though!

5)  Pick A Deserted Location to Begin Driving Instruction.  Preferably a large, empty parking lot.  Around which there are no buildings, trees, curbs, fences, lampposts, rocks or other structures, natural or man-made, within a ten mile radius.  The Alaskan Tundra is a viable location.  It's a miracle our town's middle school is still standing.

6)  Do not panic.  It is important the instructor/parent remain calm at all times.  If you gasp, scream, grab the door handle or clutch the passenger seat so hard you rip holes in the leather, your young driving student will probably notice and become very nervous.  And run off the road in the middle of a hair-pin curve.  (Good luck trying.)

7)  Model Safe Driving Skills.  Your young driver's skills will be influenced by your own. It is not good to steer with your knee, talk on the phone, exceed maximum speeds by 15mph, exhibit signs of road rage (including but not limited to calling other drivers idiots and bone-heads), and apply makeup while simultaneously engaging in illegal U-turn maneuvers while your young driver is in the car watching your every move.  (ahem)

8)  Temporarily postpone tight pull-in maneuvers.  At least until your driver can consistently park well between two white lines.  This includes, but is not limited to, mailboxes,  Sonic drive-ins, drive-through tellers and ATM machines, neighborhood gate keypads, drive through dry cleaners (or any other drive-through-ables) and your home's garage.  Unless you don't care a fig about your side-view mirrors nor the afore mentioned structures.  In which case, be my guest. You will soon become friends with many good repairmen.

9)  Remain calm. Serious pharmaceuticals may help.  Especially during interstate travel on Christmas Day when going to Granny's and your young student decides the road needs another lane.  So, ignoring the painted lines, she creates one for herself between a minivan and a semi.  This is not the best time to scream like you're being chased by Freddy Krueger.  (See #6.)

10)  Limit the frequency and duration of on-road driving lessons.  In other words, the heck with it!  Make Dad take her driving until she can at least traverse the neighborhood without placing the anyone's life at risk.  After all, he's the one that started this whole stinkin' Home Based junk.  You wanted to call Sears Driving School, right?

11)  Allow limited and controlled opportunities for nighttime, hazardous road and high traffic driving experiences.  Do not, under any circumstances . . .  I reapeat, DO NOT let anyone under the age of twenty-five drive any vehicle you own at night, on wet, snowy or icy roads, or down a road on which there are more moving vehicles than a farm tractor and a Yugo.  Never.  Ever.  Amen.

12) Take student to obtain license. Remember the paperwork:  affidavit stating all teaching and driving logs are accurate, learner's permit, another VOE, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah....  And, when the DMV Lady enters your student's license number in the computer and discovers she is a "dropped file", (meaning the State of Texas totally lost all her previous records and now has no record of your student, her written test scores, nor the pile of paperwork you submitted six months prior) and the nice DMV Lady tells you she can't get her license until they submit X, Y and Z to Austin and it will take about a week, WHINE! LOUDLY!  That your daughter had six months on that permit and and you jumped through all their various and sundry hoops and your girl has been sixteen years old since October and you need that kid driving on her own right stinkin' now!  Then, when the lady calls Austin to get special permission to issue a "26", (30-day temporary license), breathe a sigh of relief, thank her profusely, and call Jack Bauer back to tell him you got a 26, so you don't need 24.  Yet!

13)  Pray.  Hard.  As your young, newly licensed, baby drives your heart away for the very first time while you stand in the driveway grinning like an idiot with mascara running down your face.  You have done all you can for now. The rest is up to God.

I'm certain meds will help, too.

 

UPDATE:  She texted me she got to school (a but tardy, but that's okay, baby - drive S-L-O-W!). A cute guy stopped her in the school parking lot to tell her he likes her car. She walked into class late, but on Cloud Nine.

Plunger Hygeine 102

Optional prerequisite to this course:   Taking the Plunge 101

After plunging the toilet, the plunger is all drippy with grossness.  It must then be transported to a place in which it can be pseudo-sanitized.  Because really, who believes a sanitary toilet plunger actually exists.  Even if you washed it in a dishwasher.  Which, of course, you wouldn't.  (Um...You wouldn't. Would you?)

After successfully plunging the clogged commode, I place the ick-end of the plunger in a plastic grocery bag and transport it directly to the laundry room where I immerse it in a bucket of clorox & water solution. (Unless you're plunging the powder room toilet, the bucket can await you in bathtub or shower. Powder rooms, as we all know, are not equipped with bathing facilities.)

I then leave it, the gross plunger, in the clorox water long enough to make me think it is pseudo-sanitary, then remove it and stick the working end into a clean, plastic grocery bag.  Safely encased in the bag, I then return its bagged, pseudo-clean self to its storage spot in the garage, behind the hot water heater where I absolutely do not have to look AT it, but can still look FOR it when the need again arises. 

And, like Noah's waters, the need will definitely arise.  No doves and rainbows  at Hacienda She Lives loo, I assure you.

The next time I need the plunger, the bag in which I stored the pseudo-sanitary plunger becomes the bag I use for dirty transport after all the nasty plunging work.  That way, I end up needing only one clean bag for each plunger use.  It's enough to make me feel truly green for a few minutes.  Which can be very important when working with toilets, I assure you.

It also means I do need to  restock my plastic grocery bag supply by forgoing my reuseable canvas bags from time to time. Not so green, but hey!

 It works for me!

Taking the Plunge 101

There are five toilets in my house.  Yeah.  I know.  It's a lot.  Especially when you consider there are only four bipedal residents here, sporting only one backside apiece.  I devote one day each week to cleaning bathrooms.  That's another subject altogether.

One of the five toilets is strategically placed for company use and to for the convenience of the bipedal residents when we are not inclined to walk to our own bathrooms in the nether regions of the house. 

And it gets clogged.  A lot.  Recently, in fact.

I've had much practice at this, okay?  I know what I'm doing.  My plunging skilz are to be envied.  Observe and learn, dear readers, as I pass along the wonders of my potty wisdom to you.

Lifting the seat and positioning the circular round thingy that protrudes from the bulb-ish part of my heavy-duty, industrial strength, semi-professional plunger just so into the bowl's bottom hole part, I began exercising my well-practiced and highly effective plunging technique.

Let me just say that when the water level is high and has bits of biodegradable Charmin floating in the diluted pee (we'll address the added challenge of poo for my Advanced Course, Poo Plunge 201), extreme caution must be exercised in order to prevent the over-the-rim splashing potential. 

When done properly, the sound emitted from the plunging goes something like splish-UH, splish-UH, splish-UH.  When done incorrectly, it's more like SPLASH-ee, SPLASH-ee, SPLASH-ee or some other non-splish-UH sound. Sound is everything.  It may seem like a minor thing to the untrained, but to the expert plunging ear, it is an important factor in assessing the overall procedural efficacy of the plunge.

So, everything starts off well, with minimal water waves and good sound tone...

splish-UH, splish-UH, splish-UH

. . . as I focus carefully on maintaining good body mechanics with knees slightly bent, wrists straight, shoulders over the handle, the handle directly over the bulb and almost, but not quite perpendicular to the ground . . .

        splish-UH, splish-UH, splish-UH

. . . back straight, firm but gentle strength coming from the hips . . . 

        splish-UH, splish-UH, splish-UH

. . . and eagerly anticipate the sweet sound of the "grrr-UMPH-ahg" that will signal the unclogging of the communal loo.

splish-UH, splish-UH, splish-UH, splish-UH, splish-UH, splish-UH, splish-UH, splish-UH, splish-UH, splish-UH, splish-UH, splish-UH

(sigh) Strategically timed breaks are often necessary to reevaluate positioning and grip.

splish-UH, splish-UH, splish-UH, splish-UH, splish-UH, splish-UH, splish-UH, splish-UH, splish-UH, splish-UH, splish-UH, splish-UH, splish-UH, splish-UH, splish-UH

Okay, it's a tough clog. 

splish-UH, splish-UH, splish-UH, splish-UH, splish-UH, splish-UH, splish-UH, splish-UH, splish-UH, splish-UH, splish-UH, splish-UH, splish-UH, splish-UH, splish-UH, splish-UH, splish-UH, splish-UH, splish-UH, splish-UH, splish-UH, splish-UH, splish-UH, splish-UH,

Hmmmm.....

splish-UH, splish-UH, splish-UH, splish-UH, splish-UH, splish-UH, splish-UH, splish-UH, splish-UH.

Blastitall!

splish-UH, splish-UH, splish-UH, splish-UH, splish-UH, splish-UH, splish-UH, splish-UH, splish-UH, SPLASH-ee, SPLASH-ee, SPLASH-ee., SPLASH-ee, SPLASH-ee, SPLASH-ee., SPLASH-ee, SPLASH-ee, SPLASH-ee., SPLASH-ee, SPLASH-ee, SPLASH-ee.

Okay.  Wait.  I've lot my technique.

SPLASH-ee, SPLASH-ee, SPLASH-ee., SPLASH-ee, SPLASH-ee, SPLASH-ee., SPLASH-ee, SPLASH-ee, SPLASH-ee., SPLASH-ee, SPLASH-ee, SPLASH-ee., SPLASH-ee, SPLASH-ee, SPLASH-ee.  Splish-SPLASH-SPLOSH-splatter.

Oh no.  Splash drops on the rim and floor.  Not good.  Take off sweater. Readjust the round thingy into the hole thingy. 

Splish-SPLASH-SPLOSH-splatter.Splish-SPLASH-SPLOSH-splatter.Splish-SPLASH-SPLOSH-splatter.Splish-SPLASH-SPLOSH-splatter.Splish-SPLASH-SPLOSH-splatter

Blast this satanic clog!  Dadgummed, stinkin', porcelain, hunka junk!

Splish-SPLASH-SPLOSH-splatter-sistishist, Splish-SPLASH-SPLOSH-splatter-sistishist, Splish-SPLASH-SPLOSH-splatter-sistishist, Splish-SPLASH-SPLOSH-splatter-sistishist-slosh-SLASH-ishist!!!!!

(sigh)  Okay. I know what you're thinking right now.  You're thinking I should just call the plumber.  For the record, I do not call plumbers for toilet clogs. Not even if they would do it for free which, I am willing to bet my favorite pair of bloomers, they will not.  It's a patter of principle. This would be a good time to remind you that I am highly skilled with toilets.  Keep that in mind, okay?

Splish-SPLASH-SPLOSH-splatter-sistishist, Splish-SPLASH-SPLOSH-splatter-sistishist-slosh-SLASH-ishist, Splish-SPLASH-SPLOSH-splatter-sistishist-slosh-SLASH-ishist, Splish-SPLASH-SPLOSH-splatter-sistishist-slosh-SLASH-ishist, Splish-SPLASH-SPLOSH-splatter-sistishist-slosh-SLASH-ishist

The heck with the plumber!!!!   Where the heck is Jack Bauer when you need him?  

Splish-SPLASH-SPLOSH-splatter-sistishist-slosh-SLASH-ishist, Splish-SPLASH-SPLOSH-splatter-sistishist-slosh-SLASH-ishist, Splish-SPLASH-SPLOSH-splatter-sistishist-slosh-SLASH-ishist, Splish-SPLASH-SPLOSH-splatter-sistishist-slosh-SLASH-ishist, Splish-SPLASH-SPLOSH-splatter-sistishist-slosh-SLASH-ishist, Splish-SPLASH-SPLOSH-splatter-sistishist-slosh-SLASH-ishist, Splish-SPLASH-SPLOSH-splatter-sistishist-slosh-SLASH-ishist, Splish-SPLASH-SPLOSH-splatter-sistishist-slosh-SLASH-ishist

Okay, now I'm ticked!  Because I'm too much of a lady to use the p-word even if the floor of my guest bath is fast on its way to being covered in it.

Splish-SPLASH-SPLOSH-splatter-sistishist-slosh-SLASH-ishist, Splish-SPLASH-SPLOSH-splatter-sistishist-slosh-SLASH-ishist, Splish-SPLASH-SPLOSH-splatter-sistishist-slosh-SLASH-ishist, Splish-SPLASH-SPLOSH-splatter-sistishist-slosh-SLASH-ishist, Splish-SPLASH-SPLOSH-splatter-sistishist-slosh-SLASH-ishist, Splish-SPLASH-SPLOSH-splatter-sistishist-slosh-SLASH-ishist, Splish-SPLASH-SPLOSH-splatter-sistishist-slosh-SLASH-ishist!!!!!!

Okay.  Okay.  [gasp, sputter]  At times like this, when I find myself on the brink of using swear words and coveting Jack Bauer's semi-automatic weaponry, I do what every exasperated, pee-spattered, hand-blistered lady should do. 

I pray.

 Before you laugh, please be advised that God does care about our toilets.  Christmas has passed, but let us not forget that He came to earth as a baby that peed and poo'ed and grew into a man that also exercised the most basic of human bodily functions.  He feels our pain.  And He loves us.  He understands that our toilets must function properly so that we can maintain sanitary homes and all that godly cleanliness stuff. 

Yes.  I do pray.  Over my toilet.

splish-UH, splish-UH, splish-UH, splish-UH, splish-UH, splish-UH, splish-UH, splish-UH, splish-UH, splish-UH, splish-UH, splish-UH, splish-UH, splish-UH,

Please note my return to proper technique and my cool, spirit-filled attitude.

splish-UH, splish-UH, splish-UH, splish-UH, splish-UH, splish-UH, splish-UH, splish-UH, splish-UH, splish-UH,

grrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr-UUUUMMMMMPH-aaaaahhhhhggggg

gg...uuuuhhhhh.....

Success!!!!!!

Oh, ye of little faith.