I keep hoping one of my FB friend’s visiting mother-in-law will wander over here with an abiding distaste for clutter and general dishevelment. I would greet them with arms loaded with dust pans, brooms and a variety of powerful cleaning products.
Well, that hasn’t happened yet so after another non-productive bout with the laptop, I decided to find something to eat.
What? This surprises you?.
Unfortunately the overhead fixture, replete with three, count’em, three 60 watt bulbs, sat there dark and deader 'n door nails. Three bulbs - all burned out - what'er the odds?
Okay, it is daylight but … and this is a secret, just ‘tween you ‘n me … I keep the secret stash of multi-flavored licorice sticks hidden in a dark corner of a lower cabinet, sufficiently buried so as not to be tempted. Sometimes I forget they are there, sometimes. Not today. When I most need a senior moment, lucidity strikes with a resounding reverb.
So, bottom line. I can’t see for shit. And when stymied, by anything, I tend to laser focus on *my* needs and I *needed* that licorice. Of course, the obvious solution was – change the light bulbs, all three of them.
Imagine my joy when, after heaving every towel, spare boxes of Kleenex and personal feminine products <wonder if I should even mention that, if y’all are squeamish, don’t read that as my bro would say> out the door into the hall, I scrounged a fresh set of 4-60 watters.
I looked around for Rowan but he was off on another tryst with Raoul so I hauled the folding step stool out of the closet and set it under the fixture. With two fake knees, I’m no longer as steady as I’d like to be so I hauled a ladder-backed kitchen chair (well-named, yes?) to balance against.
So when is she getting to the boobs? Patience …
I shakily hauled myself up the two low steps, reached tentatively upwards and unscrewed the little widget holding a rather large glass ‘bowl’ containing a disgusting assortment of insect carcasses. A bottle of Windex later and I’m ready for removal. Three bulbs out, three to replace.
I am filled with joy but realize that I have a problem. To get ‘up there’ I need to use both hands to grip the back of the ladder-back chair, leaving me with few options for getting said bulb into position, let alone into its little socket home. I could stick the twirly end in my mouth, which as you might guess is drooling with the thought of all that licorice goodness nearly in my grasp.
I’m a scientist – or was – and I knew at some intuitive level that screwing in a saliva-sticky-rich light bulb might result in an endless screw-and-repeat scenario <screw, blow, remove, repeat: um, lemmee think about that for a bit> that will yield plenty of frustration, a generous contribution to the American economy, and no licorice.
A light bulb went off – pun intended – so I waddled off to add a foundation garment to my admittedly slovenly attire. Now I’m set. I nestle the first of three snugly in my cleavage, making sure the little devil is secure but not impossible to extract. As I positioned my hands on the chair I glanced over at the microwave and became enamored of my reflection.
There it sat, a cute little bulge, giving me this three-breasted alien being vibe. Wonder what two would look like? This required a bit of unsnapping and re-snapping to make room for the addition. Hmm. Not bad. Perky even. I haven’t been ‘perky’ for a while and the supporting real estate assures that those puppies are staying put for the journey. I slid number three into position, examined my profile and went for the gold.
The visitor to my cleavage was easy to extract as I clutched the chair back with my left hand, wavering ever so slightly with the effort. I screwed it in and reached for boob, uh, bulb #2. Uh-oh.
I forgot to mention I’m squirrely on ladders, even low step-stools, so while I was playing Victoria’s Got a Secret, I’d also broken out in a sweat. So that supporting real estate has established a respectable glue-like hold on the bulbs' curves. Shit. I could climb down and re-position but noooo. So I dig, wriggle and begin to wonder what a bra full of broken glass bits might feel like.
By now I have an audience – no, not the neighbors – JJ the Demon Cat has decided to watch me rather than the birds.
With great difficulty I extract the other bulbs, screw them in, and as the final coup-de-idiocy I get the glass positioned and secure.
Voila! Let there be light and licorice.
And no, I didn’t bring enough to share …