DEREK AND THE DASTARDLY DISHWASHER

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My stepson was home over Spring Break, which aside from numerous grandparent dinners, was largely unexceptional. Until Saturday. Friends were in from out-of-town and Derek was kind enough to straighten the kitchen for me after I’d asked three times. I guess he wanted to make sure I REALLY wanted it cleaned. I have to admit, I was impressed with the final results. I only had to run a sponge over a couple of spots that were no doubt difficult for male eyes to see. Typically I’d have had to call him back in several times to explain that pots and pans actually have to be placed in the dishwasher, rather than left to “air clean” on top of the stove.

When my friends arrived I showed them into the den, adjacent to the kitchen, and offered drinks. As I approached the refrigerator, I noticed something on the floor. My mind grappled to identify what my eyes were seeing  as I gasped, which brought my friends racing to my side. I’m sure they thought I’d come across a mouse, lizard, or some such unwanted creature, but luckily, that wasn’t the case. Instead, my dishwasher was spewing white suds. 

A miniature lake of foam stretched across the floor. I think I spun in a circle about three times before I made the decision to stop the dishwasher.  (I’m not that great in emergency situations.) I then spun another three times deciding whether to go ahead and make drinks for my friends, and a double for myself, or simply to fetch the mop. Bad hostess or bad housekeeper? Eh, the floor’s slate. It would keep. As I tended bar I called my husband in to investigate.

So did the dishwasher just go wonky? Get clogged up? Nope. College boy put Dawn dishwashing liquid in the dispenser. Derek was called in to assist with mopping while my friend explained to her mesmerized 4-year-old the difference between dishwashing soap and dishwasher detergent. Hint: One doesn’t make suds.

Of course there was no lasting damage. We ran the dishwasher about three times on rinse and it was good as new. I now have a very clean floor, very clean dishwasher and a stepson who keeps asking why we put those two very confusing soaps next to each other under the sink. (We’re just diabolical that way.)

The entire incident reminded me of  his younger brother’s reasoning at the age of 9. Austin spilled a Coke in his room one day and refused to clean it up, screeching, “It’s not my fault!” 

“How is it not your fault?” we asked. 

“They made the can too slippery!”

Who can argue with that logic?

But boys grow up to become men, and this young man will return to school tomorrow with memories of all those dinners, a baseball game with his dad and granddad, and a bit more personal knowledge of a mop than I’m sure he ever expected.

DISTRACTIBLE ME

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I either have A.D.D. or unrealistic expectations. At one point I had a mind like a steel trap. Nothing escaped me. Now, I think I’m senile. I blame technology. More specifically, email. For some reason I feel I have to respond to every request as it comes in. Instead of working on one project at a time, I juggle priorities on the fly, picking and sorting by time required and potential for success.

What’s that?  So-and-so needs a brochure to show a potential client? Well, I can take care of that in 15 minutes, then get back to the budget I was working on. Problem is, by the time I finish that, another request comes in, and another, then someone’s standing at my desk because they just sent me an email and I didn’t respond within 5 seconds. It’s not like I’m just sitting around HOPING someone will impede my progress on whatever it was I started earlier that I have now forgotten about completely. 

I know it’s especially bad when I go to the little Outlook icon at the bottom of my screen and see that I have 8 emails open. I go through each to see why and find that I have composed an email response to one, but then apparently was interrupted and never sent it. The others are all open because they contain some little task that is currently in progress because I am jumping from one thing to another  like a crazed frog. Tasks-10, Ann-0.  Not winning.

By the end of the day, the to-do list I started with is still staring at me and nothing has been crossed off.  I add a half-dozen carry-overs for the next day.  Lastly, I assure each person I will indeed deliver whatever it is they want into their hot little hands “YESTERDAY,” and I prepare to turn off my computer.   

A warning pops up asking if I would like to exit without saving. Saving what? I click on the program and up pops the very first thing I started this morning. The budget. With a sigh, I save and close. Tomorrow will be a better day. I will complete tasks.  I will not be interrupted by this roving band of well-intentioned hijackers I call my co-workers. 

There.  I feel better alre

DID YOU SAY EATING OR BEATING?

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Dinner with the folks is losing what little luster it once had.  Sure, we go to expensive restaurants that are not in my normal operating budget, but I also have to sit with my mother and stepfather for 2.5 hours. During that 2.5 hours, I spend a lot of time praying for the waiter or waitress. “Please Lord, don’t let them overfill the water-glass. Please Lord, let them bring hot bread, and butter that is not frozen solid.”  Believe me, if these prayers are not answered, we are going to hear about it for the rest of the meal, and in a loud enough tone that the entire restaurant will be aware of the deficiencies.

At one delightful Sunday family brunch I was sawing away at my wrist with a butter knife as I listened to my mother complaining about the temperature in the room, the glare from the windows, and the way the hostess had looked at her.  When the waiter placed a champagne cocktail in front of her that did not contain the requisite cube of sugar with a drop of bitters, I thought the world had ended.  “Oh my goodness…they can’t be serious. No sugar cubes? Well, I don’t want this…”

My stepfather interrupted from the other end of the table in an effort to resolve the issue. “Annette! What do you want?” As we waited for her response, my brother piped in, “To complain.” 

I swear the waiter giggled.

Each extravagant meal takes on some hellish theme involving the food, the service, or the atmosphere. Sometimes, if we’re really lucky, it’ll be a combination of the three. But regardless of what happens during the appetizer, entrée, and dessert, the tension mounts as we anticipate the waiter’s arrival to clear.

This can go badly in so many ways. If you are in the food service industry, let me give you a couple of tips on dealing with my parents. (And probably others of that older generation.) First, do not try to take the plate of someone who has finished while others are still eating. This  spawns at the very least a reprimand / etiquette lesson and at the worst, a call to your mother telling her she’s incompetent as a parent. Trust me.  Do not remove plates until everyone has “closed” them. Second – and this sometimes happens in unison with removing the plates too soon – DO NOT ASK “Are you through working on this?” If you do ask such a thing, you will be on the receiving end of a glare from my stepfather that is so potent it can render you unconscious. He will then explain to you that he is NOT, in fact, WORKING on anything. He is enjoying his dinner. YOU, my friend, are WORKING, and obviously not doing a very good job of it.

I still remember my birthday dinner a few months ago ending this way:  A manager at our table, and a ten minute lecture on teaching his staff that diners / customers are not WORKING.  This is when I typically excuse myself to the ladies room (a.k.a. bar).

Good luck to us all out there. Easter is coming and Mother’s Day isn’t far behind. May your plates be full, your waitstaff competent and your butter knife handy.

HAVE ANOTHER COCKTAIL

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Many of us have done it. Been THAT GUY or THAT GIRL at the party who has one, or dare I say 2 too many drinks and transitions from tipsy-ville to uh-oh land. Supposed friends even cheer you on as you make the journey. Recently, I witnessed a perfectly sound human being lose control of her liquid vacation.  We all watched indulgently, since she “really had been working hard and needed a break.” As the evening progressed she developed repeat-itis, then slurzy – and all about topics that would never have been brought up without booze. Eventually, when the entertainment value dropped due to the repeat-itis, she was convinced to go to bed.

The following day, our poor victim awoke with a dreadful hangover and an odd sense of regret and shame.  It was the “I have a feeling I said too much, but I’m not sure what I said too much about” guilt.  No problem.  That’s what friends are for, right?

All those friends who egged on the drinking with such understanding are the same ones who delighted in repeating every embarrassing thing “Repeatica” said – not only to the victim herself, but to pretty much anyone within hearing distance.  These remembrances were delivered amidst spasms of laughter, and quickly followed by a composed expression of compassion.  “You really needed to blow off some steam.  I’m so glad you had a chance to do that.”  Meanwhile, Repeatica vowed to never drink again.

So why do we feel the need to tell someone everything they did while under the influence?  Maybe because they were so humorous. Maybe because we want to feel superior. Maybe because someone has done the same thing to us in the past, or perhaps it’s an unwritten post-party law. Whatever the reason, we obviously enjoy it.

The moral of the story? Choose your drinking buddies not only for the quality of their booze, but for their faulty memory and complete discretion.

Good luck with that.

WHAT DID SHE SAY?

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My grandmother has a unique way of expressing herself. It’s not always the statement itself that catches you off guard, but the inappropriateness. Her style is much like the twitter and TV show, $#*! My Dad Says.

Grandmother was raised on a dirt farm. She married a nice young man who sold 18-wheelers for a living. He did well and they were able to afford a nice house where they raised their three children, had a membership to the country club, and purchased a new Cadillac every few years. But as they say, you can take the girl out of the dirt farm, but you can’t take the dirt farm out of the girl.  Thank goodness. Since Grandmother was always demanding to be the center of attention, and was attractive enough to command that attention, I privately nicknamed her “Scarlet.”  Following are some Scarlet moments.

Scarlet assumed any repairman who came to the house was ignorant. One evening she was telling us how she spent HOURS instructing some poor man about how to repair her water heater, ending with the statement, “Well, he was as dumb and blank as any old billy-goat you ever tried to talk to.”

Not sure if she just made that up on the fly, or if that was a legitimate colloquialism. I have never been brave enough to throw that out in public myself, although there have been times when it would have applied. I think I have to wait until at least age 65 before I start throwing around comments like that.

I’m sad to say I can’t recall exactly in what reference she used the following expression. I believe it was during the same conversation about the water heater repairman.  “It was like watching a possum up a gum stump.” I am not clear about what THAT means, but it does appear in song lyrics dating back to at least the 1930s. As the rest of the song talks about ‘coons and huntin’ dogs, I remain at a loss. Perhaps she made this statement to the repairman and he then looked at her “…as dumb and blank as any old billy-goat you ever tried to talk to.”  That, I can understand.

Another aspect of Scarlet was her attitude about race. At one point we were talking about a maid who worked for my mother. Nothing scandalous, just a comment about asking her to help out during a baby shower or some such. Scarlet turned to my friend and leaned in to share a confidence. I took a step closer to them, alarm bells already going off in my head, just in time to hear, “I don’t know if you’ve ever had any dealings with…” Scarlet cast a sideways glance to see who might be overhearing and continued in a stage whisper, “Mexicans…” My friend’s eyes grew large and I could see her face twitch as she struggled to repress laughter.  Thanks, Sandy, for keeping a straight face.

At a baby shower my mother hosted, friends were admiring family photos arranged on a table near where my grandmother was sitting.  A woman innocently commented on one photo in particular, saying something complimentary about the children pictured. “Who is this?” she asked, turning the photo toward Scarlet. Knowing full well the portrait was my stepfather’s children and grandkids, Scarlet shrugged and replied, “Oh, those are HIS people.” The implication that they were deserving of no recognition was not lost on the observers, who quickly retreated to the other side of the room and refrained from commenting on any other photos, lest they compliment someone who was not blood related.

If confronted with any of these comments today, I’m certain Grandmother would not take any of them back. She is unashamed by her judgements. This news might distress her grandson’s previous girlfriends, “Ugly Face” and “Ugly Mouth,” but the rest of us are used to her and really wouldn’t have it any other way. It certainly makes family gatherings more interesting. I can’t think of any other time when my eyes are so bright, or my coloring so high.

TOP TEN ANNOYING THINGS – ABOUT MEN

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Some things are annoying. The plethora of reality TV shows focused on housewives, for instance. Also, people who can name the finalists on American Idol, but not the vice president of the United States. My husband accuses me of looking for things to annoy myself. That’s possible, but at least I didn’t have to look far – she said with love and a dash of sarcasm.

In all fairness, I believe this list is not particular to my husband, or my stepsons. Now, on to the cattiness.

(Photo by Gayle Lindgren)

10. The Toilet Seat Saga. This is easy. Although not an actual issue at my house most of the time, I figure it’s a hot topic amongst those with less “toilet trained husbands.” (So to speak.) If I had my ideal, even the toilet lid would be closed. Someone once pointed out, “If you don’t want anyone to look at the picture, don’t put a frame around it.” Amen, sister.

9. The TV Remote is NOT a Right. It’s a Privilege and Should be Used Judiciously. Another gimme. No need to rehash this, right?

8. My Car Stereo is Not Yours. My husband sometimes decides the CDs I regularly have in my changer need to be rotated out. So there I am, driving home from work, irritated, stressed… I reach for the CD player – disk 2, song 6, to blow off a little steam. What happens? A song by a musician I either don’t know or can’t stand blares out of my speakers. I am now even more stressed and irritated than I was a few moments ago. No wonder women have a bad reputation on the road. They are probably all digging through the glove box or under seats looking for their missing CDs.

7. Riding Shotgun with The Bandit. My perfectly normal, pleasant husband (and every guy I ever dated) becomes aggressive behind the wheel. It’s a constant battle to be in front of everyone else. Even approaching a red light, he cannot slow down and fall into line behind the slower car – even if he is turning right at the light. No, he must PASS the slower car, missing the vehicle bumper in front of us by mere inches as he propels us into the coveted lane. I cringe and look out the passenger window, ignoring whatever is happening in front of us and trying to suppress those gasping sounds that are no doubt on HIS list of annoying things women do.

6. Temper-ature. This battle is especially bad…well, all year round. In the winter the comforter is too hot for the man, so he just throws his section to my side. This effectively doubles the comforter covering me, so I wake up drenched in sweat. In the summer, he wants no blanket or comforter at all. However, I, like many women I know, like to have a little “weight” on them when they sleep. Even a light blanket will do. This is impossible to survive when the temperature is 80 degrees and hubby refuses to turn on the AC. The other night our bed was stripped of everything but a sheet. It looked like a prison bunk. I asked if he wanted to confiscate my shoe strings for safety sake.

5. Your Electronics are Screaming at Me. I don’t know when my husband and his children went completely deaf, but they did. For some reason the volume on everything has to be so high the paint is peeling off the walls. I can sit at the other end of the house and hear every word being said on the television. I can turn the volume down from 50+ to 30 or less, and hear everything just fine. And no, it’s not turned up to drown out my complaining. I text my complaints. He reads those because he keeps thinking I might be “sexting” him.

4. Stop Eating My Food. Upon my marriage to their father, my stepsons developed a taste for everything that was “mine.” Suddenly, regular soft drinks weren’t good enough for them. They wanted my caffeine free Dr. Pepper. All of it. They also wanted my favorite cracker, my salt & vinegar chips, and my sorbet. I have to place my favorite items either so low they won’t notice them, or in places they never look, like the Tupperware cabinet. This practice is less successful than you might think. My guess is the dog helps them. I rarely get more than one handful of something before I find the box / wrapper / can in the trash.

3. Kitchen Counter Clutter. The more I move off the main counter and into the office or a less visible counter, the more stuff accumulates. “Gee, Ann, thanks for making room for my bike helmet and gloves and random catalogues. I didn’t know what to do with them, but now I can put them right here where I can find them again in an instant.”

2. The Bedroom is Not a Sports Bar. I’ve known members of both sexes that sleep with a TV on, so it’s not just men. I just think men are less compromising on the subject. I generally don’t want a TV in the bedroom PERIOD. (Unless I am sick, in which case I LOVE the TV.) My husband, on the other hand, apparently had an established habit of falling asleep to the sounds of Old West gunfire, sporting events and screeching tires. This habit was a mystery to me until after our wedding. Now, I have to hold a pillow over my ears and wear a sleep mask to block out the noise / light play. We have 3 other TVs in the house. Watch one of those.

1. Dish-stress. I can’t stand dirty dishes in the sink. This is my mother’s fault. Women pass this gene down just like the shopping or shoe hoarding gene. It’s been more than 7 years and I still haven’t broken my men of this habit. They despise a clean, empty basin. An alarm must go off in their heads the second I load the dishwasher. I will leave the room for 2 minutes and come back to find someone has deposited in my clean sink a knife covered in peanut butter and a glass with milk residue. Shockingly, no one admits responsibility.

WHAT’S THAT RINGING SOUND?

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I was smiling blankly at my mother-in-law the other evening as she was complaining about how difficult it is to get either of her grandsons (my stepson, Austin) on the phone. Once I got past the question of why anyone would want to speak to a mostly snarky teenage boy, I had to sympathize.

In desperation, my mother-in-law purchased an iphone so she could text. Now, the boy’s grandmother has to broach the subject of speaking to him via text, then follow up with a phone call, which he still sometimes doesn’t answer. When asked why the scheduling, the 17-year old informed us that calling someone out of the blue is rude. “When you call someone you have no idea what they’re doing. They could be busy.” My knee jerk reaction was, “Buddy, you better make time to talk to me if I call your butt. I’m paying for your phone in the first place, you inconsiderate lout…”

The conversation stuck with me. I’ve been thinking about phone calls and if Austin was right. Could it be possible? Is phone calling rude? Let’s see, what’s my reaction when my phone rings at work? I glance at the caller ID and either grab for the phone or stealthily sneak the volume on the ringer down so no one can tell I’m letting it roll over to voice mail. At home, it’s similar. Unless I recognize the phone number as one of the few people who still use my land line, typically immediate family, I roll my eyes and walk away from the incessantly jangling device.

I’m becoming what my friends became after they got Iphones or blackberries. Anti-auditory communicators. Text me, email me. Status update me, DM tweet me. ANYTHING but call me.

Yesterday I saw this article in the NY Times. It talks about the trend in communication away from actual conversation. http://www.nytimes.com/2011/03/20/fashion/20Cultural.html?_r=1&src=tptw 

It appears that even Miss Manners always thought the phone was a rude interruption to one’s day. I never realized it was insane to stop what I was doing and speak to someone just because they called me. Imagine if I could have all that time back I spent listening to my mother on the phone, or my friends, or that cousin who turned up out of nowhere and just wanted to “catch up.”

Maybe I’m out of it. I’m definitely getting older. But somehow, I really don’t want to give up the phone completely. Sometimes I like to hear someone speak, even though it’s disembodied. A witty or clever status update doesn’t let you hear the tone of voice, or tell you if your friend sounds tired, or sad, or giddy.

My father passed away last year, but I still find myself reaching for the phone to share a story I think he’d enjoy. Then I recall, and have to content myself with the memory of his laughter from a previous conversation. That phone time, though sometimes lengthy, often frustrating or disruptive, is a lot sweeter to me now than a hastily written LOL would have been.

So, hold the line, folks. I may text you, I may email you, but one thing’s for sure –

If I call you, I must REALLY like you.

ON THE OUTS WITH MY INBOX

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There are two types of people in the world – holders and deleters. Deleters are those who read an email and then get rid of it via the delete button, or by processing it into a task or folder. Their email boxes contain a few dozen email at the most.  Holders save the email for future reference and are intimately familar with the “Search” feature of Outlook. As I write this, my work email box contains 4,270 items. I am obviously a “holder.”  Maybe even a hoarder. 

 

When I confessed my situation to my friend, the Duchess, she was appalled. (The Duchess is nothing if not organized and orderly.) “But your inbox is like your to-do list!  Don’t you feel overwhelmed with thousands of email sitting there?”

Why, yes. Yes, I do.

The problem seems to be an organizational one. Or perhaps it’s a prioritization issue. Or paranoia. (I seem like that type.) I’ve tried filing them in my “cabinet,” but then my cabinet is crowded with email I never reference. I spent one afternoon about 6 months cleaning out. I reduced to about 500 items and felt lighter than air. I walked around bragging about how I had “…just pressed delete.” Simple as that. My fellow hoarders were amazed and jealous. I preached, “Just pretend the server went down and you lost it all. Totally out of your control.” But here I sit, back up to 4,200+.

I don’t know how to explain the level of panic that sets in when I consider deleting thousands of email again.  It’s not as if I have regretted it for a second. No issue has arisen that required my searching through email to prove a string of communication, or vindicate myself. It’s just that every now and then I run across something I had forgotten to do, and it justifies holding onto these little electronic marching orders.

I practically dream about an inbox with a merely handful of emails.  As I complete each task, or respond to each request, I DELETE the email and move on to the next item of business. What does THAT feel like?

Maybe I’ve worked at my firm too long. There are ten years of communications involved. I receive probably 25+ emails a day, so when you look at it that way, it could be much worse. Haven’t you ever lived somewhere and accumulated so much STUFF – stashed in boxes or stuck in the back of closets – that you realized the only way you would ever go through all of it and clean out was if you moved? That’s how I feel about my electronic missives. Only quitting my job seems a drastic method of dealing with my inbox OCD.

I need a fresh start. It’s time. Spring cleaning and all that. I am taking a deep breath, envisioning a bright, shiny new inbox, devoid of content. I am stretching my fingers toward CTRL A and hitting DELETE.

Any minute now. Really.

BAD FOR US

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Remember how much fun we used to have? Well, it was all bad for us. I think we’ve all figured that out by now, right? Riding bikes without helmets? Bad. (That part where you put your feet up and rode downhill with no hands was probably even worse.) Playgrounds with concrete, metal bars and stainless steel slides that were approximately 1000 degrees by mid summer? Bad. Sunshine? Bad.

We knew it wasn’t completely smart at the time we were doing it. They were telling us to use sun block. However, like all good teenagers, the more they told us to do something, the more we ran in the opposite direction. “Good grief! If I use sun block, how am I going to roast my skin to a nice crispy tan? Pass the oil. And the foil. Lemon juice for my hair? I believe I will, thank you.”

By the time I was a teen, I was obsessed with tanning. When I say obsessed I mean desperate. And obsessed. I have laid out on blankets, beaches, lawn chairs, car hoods, picnic tables, porches, backyards, trampolines, roof tops, rafts, driveways, canoes, sailboats, diving boards, logs, motor homes and decks. Not to mention tanning beds. Eventually, after years and years and thousands of hours spent basting in baby oil and iodine, I managed to get “some color.” Finally! I was elated. Hello, tan lines! Hello, honey toned skin! Where’ve you been all my life?

Flash forward to adulthood. It took me YEARS to back off the tan time. I have finally come to accept my pallor (to some extent.) I give myself little pep talks about how I may be colorless, but at least I won’t look like a “saddle bag with eyes” one day. This makes me feel better for about two seconds, then I schedule a spray tan session.

Last week, despite my better judgment, I was looking in the mirror and noticed a spot on my chest. It’s right where I can’t look at it directly because it’s too high, so I have to lean into the mirror and study it. It’s misshapen and a little raised. Sure, it’s probably nothing at all. I have an appointment tomorrow to find out. My parents and friend’s parents have been going through this for years – getting little chunks of themselves removed thanks to a little too much time in the sun. It just might be my turn now.

 If I could have foreseen this as a teenager, thought it possible to get bad news from the dermatologist – other than “you have incurable acne,” would I have changed my behavior?

 Pass the oil. And the foil.

 What can I say? I’m obviously an idiot.

 

MY BIG FAT GREEK…STATUE

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I live on a semi-busy street, next to a house I refer to as the “My Big Fat Greek Wedding house.”  The day my husband and I pulled up to the curb to grab a flyer out of the “For Sale or Lease” display sign, I glanced up and saw it.  Right there in the neighbor’s yard. A knock-off of a Greek statue. A scantily clad woman in white, mounted atop a concrete block and surrounded by bushes.  She looked a little worse for wear, her arm broken just below the elbow, her nose missing. She looked like she HAD been knocked off – at least once.

As we moved in my husband was urging my stepson, Austin, to gather his friends and knock the statue over. I like to think he was joking. Strangely, my stepson did seem to feel the statue was an affront to good taste.  (This from a teenage boy whose idea of formal attire translates into, “No baseball cap.”) 

Well, for someone the temptation was too great. I arrived home from work last week to find the statue lying face down in the neighbor’s yard. My elderly neighbor, Burt, was standing over her, shaking his head in disappointment as though she had gone on a drunken rampage and this was the result. Certainly not the kind of behavior she had exhibited while residing at Burt and Esther’s lake house for 20+ years. This behavior was new and unacceptable.

My husband and I walked over and expressed our concern. We gave a couple of half hearted attempts to lift the fallen goddess, but she was made of sterner stuff than Plaster of Paris. She clears 400 lbs., easy.  A concrete goddess.

There she lay, all week. Face down. Disgraced. Other neighbors strolled by, trying unsuccessfully to disguise their approval. For some, the statue was an eyesore. For others, it was a landmark. I heard more than once –  “How will I find my house without the statue as a reference?”  (Okay, so that was said most often by me.)

This past weekend, a number of men were recruited to wrestle her back to a standing position. I volunteered Austin to assist. After much cursing and crushing of fingers, a level was applied and she was declared acceptable. Barely. A new injury was added to her existing medical history. Her chin was lopped off during the fall – perhaps when she hit the stones that surround the “monument. At least she hadn’t lost her head, which I saw had indeed happened in the past. A large jagged seam circled her throat like a necklace.

The last time she was knocked to the ground was at the hands of a group of SMU frat boys who lived across the street.  We hoped this incident might have been the result of the slab settling and tilting forward, but after attempting to move the goddess myself, I cannot imagine her falling without a good healthy shove.

For our neighbor’s sake, I hope the statue stays upright. Esther considered throwing her away, but we are uncertain how to dispose of a goddess. Even a damaged one. I suggested retirement to the back patio, out of temptation’s way, but the orchestration of that little parade is unfathomable.

The greatest concern is that someone will do this again, and not realizing the weightiness of the situation (literally), may be seriously injured. 

So, I suppose the moral of the story is the same as it was in ancient Greece: 

Beware of goddesses bearing grudges.