After much consideration, the decision was made. Pros outweighed the cons; intellect won over the heart and so I took the sandals off the exhibit and asked the saleswoman to bring a pair in my size. I sat impatiently in the chair, relishing the very thought of having a new pair of sandals snuggled away in my closet. They’d be hidden from sight for the mandatory 3 weeks so that I could then wear them and say truthfully to my husband, “No honey, these aren’t new. I’ve had them for a while now.”
She came out of the shoe inventory door (also known as heaven’s gate) and bobbed toward me carrying several boxes of sandals that may be of interest.
I took off my shoes, slid down my socks and nearly fainted from the sudden awareness of my aged Post Winter Feet. Good lord almighty, there was nowhere to hide. The saleswoman was upon me. My feet were bare and nearly glowed in the unfortunate retail lighting.
As I shuffled my feet beneath one of the boxes that I pretended to drop, she stood there, refusing to move along and help other swooning women. She asked if I needed a nylon stocking and I whispered yes. She handed me a flimsy film of nylon and remained planted in her spot, determined to watch me pull on the sandals.
I scooped the nylon quickly over one foot and put on the shoe. My thick, jagged toenails ripped through the end of the nylon like shark’s teeth. The hoary, cracked skin of my heel snagged and shredded the rest of it. Scars from my ankle replacement surgery three years ago stood out like purple reminders of putting my foot in a margarita blender. My humiliation was complete. Still, I carried on and minced around the sales floor as if I had just come from the mani/pedi salon. The foot-high mirrors told no lies however and it was clear from the bits of nylon and flaking skin floating to the floor that I would have to buy the sandals or be forced to accompany the saleswoman outside to dump them in an incinerator.
At the register, she thanked me for my business and hoped I enjoyed the new sandals. I blurted out that yes, I would enjoy them greatly sometime after several visits to the farrier salon. She smiled politely, wondering – I’m sure – why I had apparently waited 47 years to apply lotion or a soapstone to my feet.
My female compatriots of a certain age, take this cautionary tale to heart. Take a peek at your feet before you hit the shoe store.
As my prior blog entry revealed, my family narrowly avoided a house fire due to my diligence about dryer vent cleaning. Now, I have to take credit for another act of heroism also known as The Culling of the Coats.
Some people have a problem with socks that breed, multiply and then disappear under beds, couches or into the wrong drawers, closets and backpacks. Our family has a similar problem with coats. Last Saturday, I asked my son to search out their favorite gathering places and dump them in a pile on the living room floor.
First, he cleared the entry foyer. That only took two trips. Then he cleared the mudroom coat hangers, hooks and baskets. Three trips. Last, he tackled the darkened coat closet and shelves at the entry to the crawl space. That took 7 trips. I counted 51 pelts.
We formed a family circle around them. My daughter stood near the Keep pile. My son handled the Landfill pile and the Donate pile. My husband guarded his own special section since he is the primary cause for this overabundance. My son drew one coat at a time and we all voted on the final destination. The majority didn’t always win the vote; in some cases, it depended on the emotional outbursts and persuasiveness of the owner.
The one-piece ski suit with the wide belt and high collar stayed because it would come in handy during Retro Ski Day although of course no one in our family has participated in that event.
The worn-out Mother Karen shell coat from 1981 went to Heaven along with vests, parkas and raincoats that were torn, abused and de-zippered beyond repair. Most of the fishing, hunting, golfing, Carhartts and lumberjack gear were saved. Heirloom Patagonia fleece pullovers were fondled. Memories were shared over the fishing coat my husband gave me when we were first married 19 years ago that I had worn once, and dust-covered scarves were reminders of Christmas Past. I brushed cobwebs off some old snowmobiling pants, thinking of the day my husband rode off the trail into a tree and broke three ribs. He wouldn’t let me toss them in the Landfill pile. My son’s beloved cockroach costume was bagged for donation.
In the end, we culled over 20 from the herd. My husband was forbidden from bringing home any more outerwear from his jaunts to the See N’ Save Thrift Store. My fear is that the wide open spaces we now enjoy in the entry way and mud room will slowly and inexplicably begin to fill. After all, we didn’t grab the coats that live in our vehicles or hang on pegs in the garage. Or remain stashed in camping storage or river bags or the horse trailer or bedroom closets.
Snow on the mountains means winterizing in the valley. Teton Ace Hardware was the locals’ hot spot recently with people filling carts with insulating products, heat tape, gloves, and beefy Carhartt overalls. I picked up a new dryer venting tube and fastener, which was just the beginning of an interesting home experiment.
The last load of laundry from my now-retired dryer resulted in a woodsy scented load of clothing. Woodsy as in a forest fire. The clothes were smoked and the filter in the back of the dryer had changed color from white to black. I was lucky the house hadn’t burned down.
Did you know that dryer vents should be cleared every two years? My husband and I had last attempted this task 5 years ago. We opened the trap door to the crawl space that houses the outside vent; it took two people, hammers, levers and an inordinate amount of cussing to remove the door to access the outside vent. As if moving the dryer from its tiny slot and making the skinniest child get back there to remove the inside vent tubing wasn’t a big enough pain in the —. I realized that I would never be able to convince my husband to clear the vent again. Fast forward to the present.
Before the new dryer arrived, I offered my 17-year-old son an exorbitant amount of money to open the freakin’ heavy, ridiculously-designed trap door and use the shop vac and a special brush to clear it out. I vacuumed out the inside vent. My husband vanished. My son emerged from the pit wide-eyed, announcing that there were spiders, glowing red eyes and maybe ancient burial grounds down there.
It was a happy day when I placed a wet washer load into the new Whirlpool. Twenty minutes into the drying phase, a bright red light flashed: Check Vent. My husband immediately packed his bags and disappeared on a three day fishing trip in Yellowstone. My son packed his bags and went to a concert in Colorado with some friends. My daughter gave me the stink-eye. I was on my own.
I hit YouTube first and found a great How-To video about clearing stubborn dryer vents. I had been doing this all wrong. Armed with nothing but flabby arms, I pulled out the dryer and removed the new vent tubing. Then I went outside with hammers, metal shafts, and steel-toed boots. It took me 30 minutes but I moved that freakin’ awful heavy trap door and dropped in the pit. I opened up that vent, not once feeling that my life was in danger. Getting out of the pit was kind of hard, though, and I prayed that my neighbors weren’t watching as I dragged myself out of the pit and across the deck like an inchworm. A very large inchworm.
Here’s the good part: I inserted the leaf blower tube into the inside vent and let-er rip. It was cathartic. Huge piles of packed lint blew out into the pit. In 10 seconds, a mountain shrugged off my shoulders.