Russian marching over spiders

My dishwasher has been very naughty and not cleaning the dishes as it should. I have cleaned out the filters and the holes in the rotating arms to no avail. I decided that what it needed was a dose of vinegar and bicarbonate of soda down its pipes. The online video said it had to be white vinegar. And all I had was brown vinegar .... but then lurking at the back of the cupboard I spied a bottle with white vinegar written on it. Yay. Poured a whole lot down the dishwasher down pipe and waited. No fizz, wang or even bubbles. Can vinegar go off? I picked up the bottle to see if it had a use by date. And yes it did, 2001. Well that was obviously why it wasn't working. I was replacing it at the back of the cupboard when the bottle twisted slightly in my hands ... and, oh dear. It had a sticker on it that said 'Spider spray from Little Miss Muppet's revenge'. Just as well I hadn't got round to pickling those veges. They might have been a bit spidery and not very tasty at all. But do you know what? The dishwasher worked perfectly. Truly. Have I discovered a new use for spider poison? I ran it through a cycle totally empty to clean out any residue, and then loaded the dishes and hoped and prayed that it would not make me ill. And so far so good.

It reminded me of a washing machine we bought in Empangeni that was almost brand new and refused to work no matter what I did. I phoned the shop in a real snit and demanded they replace it forthwith. Oh yes, I can throw a hissy fit with the best of them when I want to. The repair man came and switched it on at the wall and I felt a sense of relief that the machine didn't immediately run smoothly. Sighing deeply, he proceeded to take off the top of the machine to peer down into its innards. Two seconds later he was holding up a very dead mouse that had been burned to a crisp in the wiring. Well obviously we had a mice problem that I would need to sort out. Well, actually, Barry would have to sort out. That was definitely not my area of expertise. Barry insisted that it wasn't his area of skill either, but I played the 'fair maiden who needed rescuing from vicious vermin', card... and nice man that he was, he did rid the house of mice. Over the years machines in our house have died on us due to toys being stuck in pipes ... Barbie doll shoes and Lego and some war game pieces, are the main culprits. But never again have I had mouse in the wiring. Thank goodness. Did I have to pay a bill to have the dead mouse removed from my washing machine? Yes. Sadly that did not fall under its guarantee. I tried to argue that the mouse could have climbed in there when it was still in the shop, but sadly, they did not believe me. And neither would I have in their shoes.

I am not too shabby with repairs around the house. I have changed electric plugs, replaced burnt out fuses and even repaired fried heating elements in the hot water cylinder. And usually I am not scared of spiders. But recently I noticed a marked increase in their numbers and then one came and bit my hand in the middle of the night. My joints ached and my hand swelled up. What happens if it is one of those dangerous ones that eat your flesh? What happens if I black out and lie undiscovered on the floor for days with a swollen hand that is slowly rotting its way up my body? Well, we all know I didn't sleep a wink after that episode. Paranoid about every little spider, even the Daddy Longlegs were under scrutiny. I sprayed all over the place and then waited to see what would appear. Nothing. Those little beggars are really sneaky. I am now going to haul out that bottle of Miss Muppet's revenge and go on an arachnid hunt before I get back into bed tonight. Wish me luck. By the way, my itchy hand swelling went down on its own accord and shows no signs of necrosis.

It is funny what a throw away comment can do to your peace of mind. Many years ago, I was standing at a party talking to a friend of my brother's. He said something about it was nice to see all the family gathered together and how different we all were. I agreed. At times, I feel like a stranger in my own family. So, I said, 'Yes Jane has the brains, Jill has the beauty, Dennis has the brawn and I have the babies (mother of five).' He turned and looked me up and down, and not in a nice way at all, said 'No, Dennis has the bikes (he loved motor bikes) and you have the brawn.' Well I guess we know what he thinks of me then? Every time I start to feel better about myself, I think of that comment and wonder what he would say about me now. And also, what does that say about his rapidly expanding waistline? Does he now have the brawn?

This week I saw a video about a woman with a large body, who had learnt to love it. She dry brushes her body every day and says positive things like, 'I love the way my arms can hold my grandchildren with love. I am amazed at the sparkle in my eyes and the way that I laugh... and so on and on.' The whole time she is dry brushing her body. And I thought, wow, what a great idea. Perhaps I should use this method on myself and then I thought, 'What if I try this on the grandkids?' I could dry brush their arms and legs and backs and say things like, 'Your body is a miracle of muscles and cells that are perfect for you. God has made you exactly like you should be. Your heart beats in time with the heavens and your lungs are filled with pure air that feeds your body... and so on.' How would that make them feel? Freaked out that their Ouma is brushing their arms and legs? No, they love a back tickle or two. They often drape themselves over my lap and expect me to 'cut out the naughty' ... which is what I did with my own kids once upon a time. I would 'cut' out a square of 'naughty' with a fingernail. Then I would put a 'plaster' of 'goodness' over the 'hole' and sew it on tightly before ironing it in place. All done with my hand of course and greatly enjoyed by this new generation of children. I really do feel that we should replace negative comments with positives. There is no such thing as, 'positive criticism'. Okay, I am a stuck record on that subject. But really we need to feed their souls, not poke holes in their egos.

Life is almost back to normal after Covid and today I went aqua-sizing. I had such a good time getting back into the swing of things. I Russian marched and Grapevined across the pool, then split jumped and jogged for an hour. One thing I discovered is that my swimming costume is baggy on me. Did it lose its elasticity somewhere in the last few months? Or stretch? I felt quite embarrassed as I got out of the pool and the crotch flapped against my legs... retail therapy required to find a better fit. Some of my co-joggers said I was putting too much energy into it all, and my reply? 'I want to get my money's worth' ... which is not really true because it is a fairly cheap form of exercise class. But if I have to get out of a nice warm bed and travel for twenty minutes to the heated pool, then I am going to make it worth the effort.

This Saturday, 13th June, will be one year since Barry died. We plan a family get together and a simple lunch. There is strength in togetherness at times like this. I have stopped wearing my wedding ring. No, not because I am on the lookout for a new man. But rather, that I feel that I let Barry down and don't deserve to be wearing his symbol of love. It's a totally personal thing and I don't expect others to understand. When our daughter, Colette, died, I went through the same issue. I felt I was not a good enough mother to be able to save her. Again, I don't expect understanding. It's just me being me. No. I did not do anything bad to either of them. I love them totally and would never hurt them, but my internal belief of what I should and should not do, includes not being able to alleviate their suffering and not being there at the moment of their deaths. Maybe it's Hollywood's fault for putting that ideal of loved ones sitting next to the bed of their dying and holding their hands in comfort? Is that what I believe? Maybe? But it is really hard to know that you are helpless and have no control over their moment of death. The watching is awful. Horrible, Horrendously painful for the watcher. Someone said that mental pain is worse than physical, and I agree. I would rather cut off a hand or leg than go through that moment again. Barry said he wasn't scared of death but didn't want to be there when it happened ... and I feel the same way. Remember the happy times and forget the grieving. Easier said than done, but I will get there. Give me another hundred years or so and I will be over the worst of it. There is an old song that says, 'Once a day all day long,' And that is what happens, it is hurting only once a day now.