Broken

Somebody call Chicken Little because I'm pretty sure the sky is falling over here. Our house and all its contents are starting to fail us. Every day, something else breaks. Here's a list of what we're contending with right now:

1. The Master Shower Door. She's been very finicky lately. Sometimes she shuts, sometimes she doesn't. You never know when she's going to cooperate or when she's going to leak water out all over your bathroom floor. Chris has finagled her a couple of times, but we're pretty sure she's just going to have to be replaced.

2. My Beloved Washing Machine. Yes, I've blogged about her before -- the better half of my Duet. I have a love/hate relationship with this one. Because when she's good, she's very, very good. But when she F11s, she's horrid. Like any high-maintenance girl, she needs to be wooed, coaxed, cajoled. When she cries out her annoying F11 beep, I jiggle all of her wires and speak softly to her sudsy self. "Come on, Baby, don't give up now. You're strong. You're powerful. You can do this." Because I'll be damned if I'm replacing her expensive self any time soon.

3. The Suburban Back Hatch. This one is more than a little inconvenient. That damn gate won't stay up by itself anymore. So, I either have to load or unload groceries through the back window, or I have to trust one of the kids to hold the incredibly heavy back hatch up without letting it fall and completely severing my head from my body. Let me assure you that it's not very comforting to be under the shadow of that beast when George says, "Mom, are you almost done? I can't hold this much longer! It's getting too heavy! Moooooooommmmm!" Normally, I choose the window.

4. Lucy. Yup, she's still broken. Sometimes she tears around the yard on that hind leg like a bat out of Hades. Other times, she won't bear any weight on it at all. The vets are perplexed, but they're pretty sure they can determine what's wrong once we agree to invest the net worth of our firstborn into some diagnostic testing. I love Lucy a lot, but I also love eating and wearing clothes and feeding my children -- all of which cost the money that would have to be sacrificed to find a conclusive diagnosis. As Chris likes to point out, "There are a lot of good three-legged dogs in this world. She'll be one of them."

5. Back Patio Door. The lock broke on this bad boy. It's always been a bitch to open and close, to lock and unlock. Finally, he just gave in. Luckily, he was still under warranty, so the replacement piece has already been installed by my Renaissance Man. Now I can sleep at night.

6. Sonny. The other half of the goldfish duo, Sonny and Claire (sooooo close to the originals, my friends, but we couldn't convince Mary to go with Cher instead) kicked the bucket yesterday. Granted, we hadn't had him for long. Mary Claire won them at the Fall Festival, and we were all banking on an early demise. I guess that doesn't make him broken, though. Just dead. RIP Sonny.

7. The Dishwasher Door. Chris and George took it apart last night, but they still couldn't get it to open and close properly. The new handle has been ordered, but until then, I've been given strict instructions to NOT shut the door completely. Apparently, it has to be coaxed back open with a screwdriver. Me not closing the dishwasher door completely is sheer, unadulterated torture. It's like having socks hanging out of your dresser drawer or the fringe on your carpet being wadded and tangled. Ugh.

8. The South Beach Lifestyle. Because of my training, I've been adding more carbs back into my diet. Good ones, of course, but I must admit that carbs are a slippery slope. I mean, if I can eat some whole wheat bread, why not just go ahead and throw peanut butter M&Ms back into the mix, too? Lots of peanut butter M&Ms. I'm getting all hot and bothered just thinking about them. When I cross the finish line on November 6, I'm going straight back to Phase 1. Well, after I vomit relentlessly, curl up into the fetal position for at least a week, and swear off running shoes for the rest of my life. Right after that.

I'm not sure what all this brokenness means. Armageddon? A reconsideration of my refusal to buy extended warranties? A nudge to return to work so my salary can cover all of our minor catastrophes?

I'm going to go contemplate it over some peanut butter M&Ms.

A Bioluminescent Binge

We’re home.


Finally.

After four hours of bay fishing followed by fifteen overnight hours in the car, we made it. We stink, we’re dirty, we’re tired, we traveled with a cooler full of dead trout, but we’re home.

And what a final couple of days it was.

Friday night, we decided to walk the beach after dark to see the magnificent stars. And what we saw in addition to the stars was straight out of a special effects shoot--the waves that were crashing up onto the shore were actually glowing.

In my 40 years of living, I never knew such a thing occurred. For those of you as dumb as I am, it’s called bioluminescence (the production of light by living organisms).

Now, I knew certain living creatures had glowing capabilities. I’ve squished many fireflies in my day. But I never knew that entire ocean waves could glow.

Apparently, the sea life contained within the waves illuminates when it’s moved. Thus, we witnessed something similar to the above picture. Breathtaking, really. We were all astounded.

Then Gus shone his flashlight onto the sand and we realized we were being mobbed by ghost crabs. When I stopped freaking out -- and when I talked Mary Claire off the ledge -- we were pretty impressed with their presence, too. They were, quite literally, everywhere.

One of the most magical nights we’ve ever experienced.

The next day, we packed up our belongings and headed to meet Captain Terry for our 4-hour cruise... our 4-hour cruise. (Did you sing along, ye children of the 70s?)

We caught trout after trout after trout in the bay. For 4 hours, we threw our lines in and pulled them back out with stinky, wiggly, slimy fish. And we kept enough to grill for dinner tonight. Chris just cleaned them. I can’t quite talk about it right now. The guts, the heads... ugh.

But the big news of the week?

I managed to gain 10 pounds.

In one week, my friends.

That’s true dedication.

When I think back to what I ingested on our vacation, I guess it’s no big surprise. The bread, the wine, the vodka beach drinks, the potatoes, the vodka beach drinks, the Fudge Stripes, the red wine, the donuts, the white wine, the creamy soups, the vodka beach drinks, the fried fish, the red wine, the ice cream, the wine.

I ingested enough of the White Devil to ensure my eternal passage to hell. (As if that wasn’t already guaranteed.) After 8 months of faithful and prudent South Beaching, I just ran that train right off the track and into the convenience store...

Where the Hostess treats of my childhood were waiting.

When I walked out to the Suburban for my 3:00 AM driving shift with coffee in one hand and a 2-pack of Ding Dongs in the other, Chris just shook his head sadly and proclaimed, “That’s not going to end well.”

And he was right.

The bingeing didn’t end well. It never does. I feel sick, bloated, disgusted, 10 nasty pounds heavier.

But the good news is that I’m completely re-committed to South Beaching it tomorrow. I’m going back to Phase One, baby, and the thought of carrots and filet and daily exercising sounds like manna from heaven.

But tonight, I’m going to finish off the gluttonous ride with a Reeses Peanut Butter Egg.

Or four.

Happy Easter, everyone!