Monday, January 6, 2014

So theres been a mishap in my laundry room..

Well.. 5 months. I think that may be a record for me.

I lost the will to blog around my birthday, not long after my last post, with reminders of my second miscarriage. By the time it came back in October, I lost it again, when our darling Dusty lost his battle. Then Christmas, which has for 6 years now been a difficult time for me, but since 2012 will forever more be especially so, as its now linked to the loss of two babies.

Honestly, I don't really have the will to blog now, either, but the post Christmas sugar high is influencing me. (What.. you don't get enough chocolate and other sugar filled nonsense at Christmas to last you until well into January? Sucks to be you!)

And so, Fabric, And The Perils Thereof.


While my husband was sensible and asked what I wanted for Christmas - a new camera*, which he showed me immediately after he bought it, so he could exchange it if I didn't like it - my mother never knows what to get any of us, so apart from copious amounts of chocolate (see: sugar high) and probably a book, Sister, Gorgeous Hubby and I get a wad of cash for Christmas (she also does this for birthdays), along with a gift card for the bookstore, and another one for the electronics store in our stocking. The kids get real presents, a long with gift cards for a lesser amount - Boyo for both stores, Mini just the bookstore for now, though likely electronics as well starting next Christmas (This Christmas? 2014. Whatever).

This situation works quite well. Mum is happy that we can get something we really want, and we get to buy whatever we want. The first few days after Christmas usually involve our yearly stock up on books, CDs, movies, and possibly video games. And when I say stock up, as we left the bookstore, one of the cashiers turned to the other and said "wow.. that was a lot of books." We don't have anywhere to put them all actually.

BUT ANYWAY.

While GH usually has One Big Thing he buys with his money (and usually a couple small things with the leftovers), my wad of cash usually gets split between fabric, books, and CDs, and this year was no different. JB's 20% off CDs and DVDs sale, and Dymocks' 3 for 2 are dangerous. Ten albums, four movies, and a couple of PS3 games, eight or nine books.. and fabric. Beautiful, glorious fabric. The post Christmas Spotlight sale may be even more dangerous than Dymocks and JB.
 

Mum thinks the interlinking circles is too fussy. I think its beautiful.

I was sensible, and bought mostly fabrics for making tops, since I am in dire need.

The colour here is not, I think, very accurate. the one on the left, showing bluish, should be more green, and the centre one more grey. The floral is deliberately similar to a shirt made almost 2 years ago, because it is wearing out.

However, I am apparently obsessed with teal/turquoise. I will have to make sure I have skirts that can be worn with teal/turquoise.

This strawberry print was on the clearance table. The same print in a different set of colours was not. I will never understand the logic.

And the random red. Which happily matches quite well with the strawberry print destined to be a dress for Mini. Yay double duty fabric!

GH does not like this fabric. To which I say stuff that, I love it, I'm wearing it regardless.

Theres also this. Which will become a dress. Which means it will most likely sit in my stash until next October when I suddenly panic to make a dress for GH's Christmas party in November.

Corduroy... yum. There was so little of the polka dot, Mum said I should use it for Mini. No. Its mine.

A skirt. Or two, depending on how I manage to get things to fit. The polkadot cord is only 80cm and I have Significant Hips, and am Quite Tall, so it will have to be mixed with the blue.. but there may be enough blue left after for another one. We'll see.

I thought maybe flapping in todays breeze might help dewrinke it a bit.. sometimes it works.

And another skirt. Which I'm beginning to regret.

While I wash my clothes on cold, and almost always line dry, I always prewash my fabric on hot, and stick it in the dryer. Especially if its dark and/or a fabric thats prone to shrink quite a bit. Like denim, which fits both those properties. In fact, for denim, to be extra sure I don't end up accidentally dying our clothes or sheets, I usually soak it overnight with a bit of oxygen bleach. This works wonders to get rid of excess dye - I do the same thing with new black t-shirts or jeans of hubby's, and he's always left disgusted at the colour of the water.

I've used denim before, but this one was.. excessive. I really wish I'd done it in a bucket instead of the washer, but it didn't fit properly. And so..

Thats.. uh.. very blue.

When I checked on it the next morning, I was confronted with a sight much like this, only inside my washing machine. I panicked for a bit, then figured since I had so much blue water, I might as well see if I could use it to change up some of the multitudes of boring white fabric I have lying around. I had to unhook the drainage hose from the wall so I could direct it into the buckets.. I filled two of them, and still had extra to go down the sink.

Oh look! MORE FABRIC!!

But, it worked. Its not as dark as I would have preferred, and has a slightly greyish cast, but thats fine - it was free, and its better than white. The white bucket has fleece in it to make a jacket for Mini, the blue bucket is just some random white stuff I figured I'd be more likely to use if it was blue. Unfortunately, while its happily dying my fabric, it also dyed everything else.

Blue.

Observe the tide mark.

BLUE.

Yup, I dyed my washing machine blue.

Blue :(

I scrubbed it with the scrubby side of a sponge. No change.

I'm not sure what to do now. I ran a wash with dishwashing liquid and oxygen bleach and a couple of white rags, and I think it might be a bit better.. but I'm really not sure. The blue didn't come off on the rags, at least, so I should be safe to wash clothes in it without fear of blueification. I've got darks soaking in it at the moment, hoping that an extended exposure to oxygen bleach will help. If not.. my machine will just have tide marks.





*New camera used for all photos in this post. I'm still getting used to it, but good golly can this thing ZOOOOOOOOM. It does have a tendency towards blowout in outdoor pictures on sunny days (I'm sure I'm doing something wrong, I really need to play with it some more).. but this is forgiven, because I can send photos from it to email addresses or directly to my smartphone, or even directly to facebook. This is a YAY.

Thursday, August 15, 2013

Scarecrow

Sometimes I have to remind myself that Boyo is not made of straw, and actually does have a brain.

He started reading Fellowship of the Ring today, and, naturally, wanted to know how much 'eleventy-first' meant. I like to make my children think, so I asked him some questions.

Well, do we a number called 'one-ty'?
No.
Two-ty?
No.
Three-ty?
No.
Four-ty?
Yes!
Ok, so when we write the number 'four-ty', what numbers do be write?
Four, zero.
Good. What about five-ty?
No.
Six-ty?
Yes!
And how do we write it?
Six, zero.
Good. So if we write 'four-ty' four, zero, and we write 'six-ty' six, zero, how do you think we might write eleven-ty?
A thousand and eleven!!!

**Headdesk. Headdesk, headdesk, headdesk**

Everything would be easier if he'd answer the questions I actually asked him, instead of trying to think ahead 4 steps.

This is a regular occurrence. I dread him asking questions. He doesn't listen for the answers, and if he has to actually think, he decides he knows what direction to think in, and then gets upset when he comes up with a very wrong answer.

I really hope he grows out of it.

Thursday, July 25, 2013

I Am A Dork

While I'd be quite happy to have the TV off most of the time, turning it on only for things like Grand Designs, Dr Who, and Bones, Hubby would quite happily have the TV one all day, every day, turning it off only when we go to bed. If he's home, the TV is likely to be on. If he's home during the day and its on, I often find ways to avoid its blare and glare, going to another room to read or sew, but in the evenings I like to spend time with him, so I end up watching a lot of TV I wouldn't otherwise even be aware of. The various incarnations of "I own a pawn shop, watch me buy interesting stuff and/or deal with insane customers" are definitely on this list.

One I hate (the whole show appears to just be one giant bitchfest set in a pawn shop), one I rather enjoy because he often ends up with interesting old things, and one I've only seen once, at which point I misread the name, got terribly confused for a split second, and promptly started planning a new piece of embroidery.


Combat Prawn.

I do not eat seafood. At all. Anything. Even fish fingers. But I do like documentaries and generally learning stuff, and I know that prawns (and lobsters, and crabs, and yabbies, and etc) are generally not red until they've been cooked. So I started searching my shoebox for blue/grey threads. And then I thought 'hey.. I usually avoid the heck out of these things when they're on a menu, maybe I better get my google-fu on and see what they actually look like..' Serendipitous thought - I had originally planned just the helmet and weapon, but it turns out a tiger prawn's stripes can easily be exaggerated and changed to a more camo-ish interpretation, especially when none of your blues and greys look like prawn colours, so you have to pick something else anyway.

So now he's resplendent in very Aussie Green and Gold (I am totally embroidering a sprig of wattle on the next piece of clothing that has a big enough spot, those colours are perfect). I was tempted to go to the store to get some proper blues and greys, even with the camo, because a green and gold prawn would not be very camouflaged and blue/grey seemed more naval.. but I like him like this.

Now I just don't know what to do with him - and whether or not to add the words "COMBAT PRAWN" like I originally planned.

Monday, July 22, 2013

Less Than Awesome

The birth of my son was the hardest day of my life. His labour was quick and intense and painful beyond belief, and then I lost a lot of blood. I remember the pain, I remember the feeling of relief when he was born, and I remember a few individual moments, but most of that day is a fog of tiredness, weakness, and shock. The memory that stands out the most however, is the intense and fierce love I felt for this tiny squeaking creature who probably would have been the cause of my death a hundred years prior. I felt the same fierce love for my daughter, who had tried to scare me to death, and then tried to make up for it by having the fattest floppiest face ever. These are my children, and I would do anything for them.

The day he came home.

The love I feel for my pets is not entirely different, and in many ways just as strong. We have always had cats. There is a picture somewhere of me - aged a few months - and my parents' big ginger cat curled up together on their bed. I couldn't pronounce 'Brutus' as a toddler, but was devastated when my Brucie passed away. Until I moved in with Hubby at 21, I had never lived without at least one cat - and since I was 3, it was usually two cats. I was pet free for about 7 months, and I did not enjoy it.

No doubt about one aspect of his parentage - those are definitely Shepherd Ears.

I was a very shy child, and did not have many friends. To be perfectly honest, meeting new people terrifies me. But that was ok, because when I was around 3 we had found a kitten, and I became his*.

And that is definitely an adorable pup.

He slept on my bed every night until he passed away when I was a 14. He learned to climb the ladder to my bunk bed so he could still curl up behind my knees. I never used the ladder. It was there for him. He followed me around, sat on my lap, watched me when I wasn't sitting with him, and let me carry him around on my shoulder for his entire life, only scratching me once when he got scared.

Its nowhere near that bright now.

He was a long cat, with a screechy yowl (we found him in a shopping centre car park.. mum though the terrible noise she heard was a catbird, but eventually realised it was actually a cat, this tiny kitten, making the terrible racket - and he only got louder as he grew up), and while he loved me to pieces, he was very independent. But he was my best friend. Thats all there is to it.

He looks so very very small!

When my sister was in 6th grade, someone left a box of kittens at her school. Newborn kittens. With folded down ears, and milky, barely open eyes. The couldn't even walk. My sister brought one home. My mother wrapped a hot water bottle in an old cashmere sweater and put in in the lid of a paper box, and woke up every few hours during the night to feed him kitten milk with a syringe. She took him to work with her.

Grrrrrr

The nurses at the vet thought he was about 3 or 4 weeks (no.. he was a newborn) because of his size, and at his 3 month vaccinations he was bigger than a 6 month old cat. He grew into the largest cat we have ever seen. At his peak, he weighed around 12kg (26lb). There are plenty of fat cats who weigh that much. He wasn't fat. If he sat on my lap, he could reach my toes (remember, I'm only an inch or two off 6ft). If I was chopping dried apricots, he'd stand on his hind legs and swipe them off the kitchen counter. We had to get a medium-sized-dog-door because he couldn't fit through the cat door we bought, and he could barely squeeze through the small-dog-door. He was so strong that he ripped the medium-sized-dog-door out of its socket running through it one day.

This bed is now in his den under the house. He's stolen a cushion from the outdoor furniture to put in it, and theres a couple of stuffed toys, too. He takes up much more space now.

He loved to be up high, and we'd often discover him sleeping in the cupboard on top of the microwave. But he had a great deal of difficulty jumping down again. He was far less than graceful. And he developed a lot of health issues.

He positions himself so you can't go anywhere without his noticing. He does not want to be away from the people, ever.

Because our cats have often been taken in strays, they haven't had the best starts to life, and it shows in their health. My boy had kidney issues and probably died of a heart attack, and our big boy was on a prescription diet for most of his life because if he wasn't, he developed a life threatening UTI, complete with crystals. In the end, his thyroid failed too, and our 12kg darling ended up weighing about 7kg.

Two pups, sharing a chair.

His health got worse and worse, more issues piling up, and the medication becoming less and less effective. Two years ago, a month before his 15th birthday, we took him to the vet for the last time, and it broke my heart. People with children don't always understand how people who 'only' have pets can refer to them as their kids. They're not your children. They're not even people. They're just animals. That doesn't matter.


Would I choose my children over my pets? Absolutely. Thats not even a question.

I've given up trying to keep him off the outside table. Nothing works. He just wants to be up high.

Would I do anything in my power to help my animals? Absolutely.

He's not barking at her, he's coughing. He doesn't bark. We've had him for seven months, he's barked 3 times. He cries sometimes, but he's an exceedingly silent dog. This does make it very difficult to know when he wants outside, so we generally leave the door open for him, even in winter.

They are my friends. They are my children. It hurts so much whenever we lose one that after Morgan, I seriously considered never having anything other than goldfish ever again. I couldn't stand the heartbreak that comes with losing a treasured family member, even if they are 'only' an animal.

A child went outside. He wanted to join them.

And for over a year, we didn't. We were a pet free house. The freedom was nice. We could go away overnight and not have to worry about whether there was food, and water, and plenty of clean litter - and whether the darling would get lonely and sad without his people around.

Hubby was late coming home. Dogling was confused, and kept checking to see if he was here yet.

Not having a pet is significantly less expensive, too, especially after an animal with so many health issues. Prescription food is expensive, and his medication was definitely not cheap.

Gremlin ears.

But then, my Mr started talking about wanting a pet. Specifically, about wanting a dog. While I'd lived with dogs before - both my aunt and cousin have cats and dogs - I wasn't sure if I was ready for that. I am not a fan of small dogs, and I know big dogs have their own set of issues.

Sigh.

Not only that, but I don't know how to deal with dogs. I've always had cats. I know cats. I can read their moods, I can interact with them, and they like me. Granted, our Morgan was a very dog-like cat, but he was still a cat. I told Hubby I'd only go for it if we could have a German Shepherd, and we had to be absolutely certain we could afford it.


And then he found Dusty.

We took a cushion off the couch cause there were too many people. Dog found it, and decided it would make a good bed. This is what prompted us to buy him a sleeping pad for inside, despite the fact that he'd shown preference for sleeping on the floor up until this incident. Now he gets upset if his bed is not available.

I love this dog far more than I wanted to. I was determined that he would be Hubby's dog. I fed him, I petted him, I let him sleep near my feet, but I would not fall in love with him.

And I thought my kids slept in uncomfortable positions..

He had other ideas. He loves us fiercely and unconditionally. He wants to be with us always. If he is sleeping and we leave the room, he wakes up and groggily follows us. And he has become my shadow. It is very difficult to keep your heart walled up against a puppy who follows you everywhere and cries when you shut a door.

Hubby says they do this to keep their noses warm. I know he means putting the tail over their nose, but considering how tightly he's curled, it could easily be something else.. and considering how easily he clears the room, I'm surprised he doesn't wake himself up. Gagging.

It is very amusing to turn around while hanging out the washing and find that he's dragged his barely awake self outside to curl up behind me because he can't stand to not be near me.  He sleeps under my sewing table while I'm sewing. He curls up on my fabric while I'm trying to cut it out. He leaps onto my bed and smothers my face in kisses. He snuggles into my knees when I'm sitting down. He has wheedled his way into my heart, and now he's breaking it too.

Sewing with dogs. Just as awkward as sewing with cats.

When we got him, we thought he had kennel cough. He and his eight littler mates were dumped at an industrial site. The shelter said their mother was a German Shepherd, and the father might have been an Akita (though we and the parents of some of the other puppies have noticed a distinctly Dingo appearance, and they were certainly in an area where this is a possibility). All the puppies were skinny, and all of them had the cough, and some digestive issues. Seven and a half months and 5 courses of anti-biotics later, he still has a cough. He almost died of pneumonia a couple months ago and had to be put on medicine that is usually avoided in growing puppies. The other vet at the practice was apparently freaking out at his being given it, but if we wanted a live animal there wasn't any other choice. He got better, but a couple weeks ago he started to get sick again, and now he's on medication for his cold before he gets another bout of pneumonia.

I had to move him off the pedal a couple of times, he wanted to be right up against my feet.

I've lost track of the number of vets who have checked out these pups, and been unable to figure out whats wrong with them. Between them they've had dozens of tests run, but nothing has shown up. In desperation, one vet even suggestion having the worst off put down and doing an autopsy, to see if that would yield answers.

While he's got the black and tan (with the incongruous addition of white feet), he does not have a shepherd saddle. He has a funny little mostly-tan diamond, instead.

Our own vet believes they have some sort of deficient immune system. Our sweet little Dusty is going to keep getting sick over and over for the rest of his life, however long - or short - that ends up being. We'd started wondering this ourselves, and given the lack of anything identifiably wrong with them, it is the only thing that makes sense. There is nothing we can do, just monitor him for fever, check his weight regularly, and get him promptly to the vet whenever he gets sick. He's also recommended the dogling be kept intact, as he thinks surgery on a immune deficient animal is taking too big a risk with his health.


I don't know how long we will have the privilege of having this sweet, cheeky pup in our lives. Given his suspected parentage, he is very small. He is not a small dog, but he's not as big as we expected him to be. He's not as tall as a shepherd his age, and he's less than half the average weight. Even if he is part Dingo he is extremely slight - he has never reached 16kg, even at his un-skinniest, and every time he gets sick, he loses weight. And we don't know if being so skinny to begin with contributes to his ill health, or if its a product of it.

He's so naughty. He shut his eyes when he noticed me there - he's convinced that if he's asleep we won't move him, silly thing.

This is precisely why I didn't want another pet, but I am eternally grateful that we have him. The joy he brings to our lives outweighs the pain that will happen. I am happy that I am able to give him the love he deserves, and make his time here as happy as can possibly be. And when my sweet Dusty dog is gone, I will dig my nails in, and open my heart to another furry friend, and live through the pain all over again, and it will still be worth it.



*Cats don't have owners. They own us. They allow us to keep them in our homes, and feed them, and share our beds with them, and occasionally to even sit on the comfortable furniture.

Monday, July 15, 2013

Froth v2

I made a new skirt for Mini. Its full, and pink accented, and trimmed in lace. She's excited. Its constructed almost exactly the same as the blue/green floral skirt (I even used it as a measurement for the length and waistband), with just a few minor changes.

A few months ago, a friend of mine put a post up on facebook lamenting the fact that her daughter (who is a few months older than Mini) flat out refuses to wear pants, sticking solely to skirts and dresses, and that she's also worried about her getting cold in the winter.

This is not a slim skirt.

Now, other than PJs and a pair of boardies (and old jeans for painting, at the very beginning), I've been solely skirts/dresses for somewhere close to 6 years now, and quite honestly, I find it warmer than jeans. I was always cold in jeans. I commented on her post saying as much, and suggesting that she just make sure she has a good supply of thick tights and leggings for her daughter to wear under her skirts. Wherein comes the big problem. She won't wear tights or leggings under her skirts, and if she is made to wear them, she just takes them off as soon as she has free hands.

Isn't it cute? This denim was all of $3/m.
The skirt took about 25cm, I still have over 75cm left, and its over 150cm wide.
I think I'll make a dress for Mini from it, too.

I see some problems with this situation. The most important however, is that her daughter is a small child, and she is controlling the situation. Yes, we have to pick our battles (I leave Mini looking like a shaggy homeless scarecrow most of the time because putting her hair up is hard, and she hates it; I am impressed if Boyo remembers to put clothes on, I am not too fussed about his bed being made every day), but my children are well aware that I am in charge, and if I insist that Mini wear jeans instead of a skirt because we are going to the park and it is muddy and that skirt will get ripped and the jeans are easier to clean (or just hide the dirt better), she may cry, but she'll do it.

The pink broadcloth used for the waistband was leftover from the dress I made last year for Hubby's Christmas party. It matches perfectly (the button was from a card originally bought to match that dress, too). Hand attached to the skirt so as to be invisible again - but at least I managed a machine buttonhole this time!

I am not a perfect mother. There are many, many ways I could be better. But the point is I am the mother. I have more life experience, I know that just because you are warm under the sheets in your bed doesn't mean you won't be freezing when we go outside so yes, you do need to take a jacket. I know that even though it is sunny outside, it is cold, and the ground outside is going to be wet, so you cannot go running around the yard in just your socks. I know that if you don't brush your teeth properly, you will have all sorts of painful and expensive problems in the future.

The lace cost more than the rest of the skirt put together, since apart form the denim, everything else was scraps left from other projects. But it really finishes it off nicely.

It is my job to, in effect, force my children to do the proper thing when they are little, so that by the time they are able to make their own decisions in an informed manner, they're still around. Thats the point of us as parents - keeping our children alive long enough for them to reach the point where they are able to keep themselves alive.

I made extensive use of my overlocker for this skirt. I even changed out the plate to get a rolled hem on the lining/petticoat. Not perfect, but not bad for my first attempt, and significantly better than hemming miles and miles of sheer cotton. The ribbon was a fortuitous match, and I rather like the way it looks hidden away on the inside.

And sometimes, this means they will argue, and be disobedient, and that is the point at which they have to get in trouble - whatever ever 'get in trouble' means at your house: time out; spanking; stand against the wall with your arms above your head for three minutes; move a pile of rocks from one side of the yard to the other; 10 push-ups; no dessert; write out 50 times 'I will not yell at mum and dad' (or whatever); clean the fish tank; wash the dishes by hand instead of loading the dishwasher; weed the vegie patch; polish dad's medals; no speaking for an hour; no TV/computer/video games for a week..

Buttonhole elastic filched from a dead pair of Boyo's jeans. There is SO MUCH room to grow in this skirt, I'll have to keep adding layers as she gets taller.

The possibilities are endless, and depend only on what you (and presumably your spouse or spouse type person, if you have one - these need to be joint decisions when theres more than one parent) have decided is appropriate for the transgression, and allowable in your household - many families do not spank, some spank only for the direst of crimes, some would never put their children to hard labour (moving rocks, washing dishes, etc), some find the more passive punishments (no dessert, no talking, time out) ridiculous.

She loves this skirt. She also picked her own clothes today. I probably wouldn't have paired a teal 3/4 sleeve shirt with a pink accented denim skirt in the middle of winter.. but she's wearing a jacket over it and we have the heater on, so I'm not too fussed

Fortunately, Mini is quite happy in pants, or skirts, or just stockings, or shorts over stockings, or just shorts, or anything really. She generally picks out her own clothes - though she'll often ask for help - and I try not to make her change her choices just because I think the colours don't match, or the fluffiest skirt on earth looks weird with a batwinged jacket (though I will insist on steering her away from short shorts and a sleeveless shirt in midwinter, or stockings and jeans and a jacket in high summer).

She wanted me to take a picture of her holding out the skirt. Precious.
I think part of the reason for this is that she is interested in her clothes. Just like her brother, she has input into the clothes we buy her, and often the clothes I make her. Even when she hasn't had input into the clothes I make, the fun of having something made just for her, of seeing it change from a few pieces of fabric and threads and buttons and zips to a wearable piece of clothing seems to pique her interest and raise her excitement about the item. The jeans I made her were just plain, dark jeans, but when I first gave them to her she wore them every day for an entire week, and cried when I had to wash them. She got this skirt last Thursday, and today is the 4th time she's worn it.

I don't know whats the best way for my friend to keep her daughter warm in winter, its not a problem I've ever had because my children have been raised differently and have different genetics and different personalities, but giving in and letting her wear whatever she wants all the time is probably not the answer.

Tuesday, July 9, 2013

Cleaning.. woo?

I am not a natural housekeeper. I'm pretty sure I've mentioned that before. I have a detailed list of things to do each day, and a separate room to concentrate on each day*, because otherwise, my house looks like a bombsite. Actually, it pretty much looks like one anyway, but shhh... Don't tell anyone.

That's not the point though. The point is that even with my ineptutude, I seem to be doing something that is helpful and sensible - it made a friend who was over stare at me like I'd grown three heads, then say 'thats a brilliant idea. I need to do that.' So maybe you'll find it helpful too. (If you're not already doing it.. my friend may just be slow on the uptake.)

Ready?

...

...

...

...

Can you guess which one I refuse to let touch my counters? (Or stove top..)
They've just been used, and are due for a clean.. they don't usually look this terrible.

Two dustpans. One for counters, one for floors.

I got tired of using my hands to wipe crumbs etc off the counters, then feel like I needed to clean them (my hands), but didn't want to use the same dustpan I use for the floors - even though I'm generally going to be scrubbing the counters afterwards, it's still icky, and quite honestly, if I'm just wiping up a bit of spilled flour, I'm not going to scrub the whole counter - since I don't give it a thorough clean with soap and all immediately after each use.

The floor pan lives under the sink, or in the laundry, depending on how rushed I am. The counter pan lives on the breakfast bar counter bit behind the sink, so I can reach it easily whenever I manage to spill something on the counters. (Usually flour. Or oats. Or cereal. Or rice. Or bread crumbs. Or grated cheese.) Which may or may not be at least twice a day. *Cough*.

So there you go. Two dustpans, less ick.



*Monday is Kitchen Cleaning Day, which is what made me think of my dustpan thing. Today is Tuesday, but Hubby took a 4 day weekend, and my sister had 3 days with the kids, so yesterday (and all weekend, pretty much) I did precicely nothing other than hang out with my man.. and now I have 4 days worth of cleaning to catch up on. Sigh.

Wednesday, June 19, 2013