In addition to the lightbulb conundrum (to follow), I also fate-tempted. I tempted fate when I said in this post, “I can coast on these points for quite a while.” I said this, smugly, arrogantly, strutting peacock-like with my 47 points, only 3 points shy of maxing out the scale entirely.
Of course the next day yielded a ten point deduction for nearly burning the house down. But, hey, 37 points in nothing to sneeze at. It is apparently, though, something to cough at. As evidenced by my coughing. Repeatedly. Continuously. Day and night, night and day. I believe it is safe to say that a lung, a spleen, and possibly one kidney were expelled from my body.
Because it turned out that I had bronchitis, strep throat, and early pneumonia. I can now attest personally that pursuing Martha Points is difficult under these circumstances. It is difficult to accomplish anything even moderately domestic-goddess worthy when the most you seem to be able to handle is channel hopping between ancient episodes of “Law and Order” and infomercials trying to sell you “The Amazin’ Blazin’ Wond-O-Mop.” (I don’t think that’s a real product, by the way, although it could be, and that thought should make you want to lock up your credit cards.)
The silver lining, if there is one, is that it is difficult to make any kind of serious mess while you are immobile on a couch waiting for “Bones” to start.
But there is one tragic, pitiful episode which must be relayed. Documented here in indelible pixels for all posterior. I mean, posterity. (Did I mention that when you have bronchitis that you get codeine cough syrup? I’m pouring mine on ice cream.)
Here is a photo of the light fixture in our bathroom. This is the light fixture that replaced the one that looked like it should have been in a Gypsy Rose Lee dressing room. Note that it is not operating at full capacity.
Now, I hear you kindly excusing me from replacing the burned out lightbulbs because, after all, I have typhoid. And then I say, “No Martha Points for You!” because, really people, we must have standards! And there’s not just one bulb out, there are TWO. Honestly, I’m lucky I haven’t been arrested yet.
But it gets worse. (“Worse?” you ask. To which I reply, “You betcha!”)
For those of you who have not actually been to my house, here is a schematic which shows the distance (or lack thereof) between the burned out lightbulbs and the place where lightbulbs live in my house.
First, I would like everyone to sit in silent awe for at least a count of three over my incredible use of Paintbrush. One…nine…eleventeen…three! (You can also mix codeine cough syrup in coffee.)
Ok, not to scale and all, because that would have required math. Which is an unfair thing to expect of people who have consumption. And some details (like, for instance, the actual bathroom vanity and a door into our son’s room) have been omitted for clarity. Or laziness.
But it is still very, very obvious that there is almost no functional distance between the vanity and the replacement lightbulbs. Honest to heavens, the lightbulbs could probably migrate there on their own if I so much as left the closet door open. (Which, incidentally, I am incapable of doing because I am OCD about doors being open/closed when the should/shouldn’t be. I also have OCD about how to make the bed, but that’s another post.)
Pitiful. With a capital “Itiful.” Regardless of the fact that I have malaria induced pleurisy, the fact that I cannot get off my kiester long enough to walk 10 steps to retrieve two lightbulbs is really an epic Martha Fail.
Penalty: -10 points
I am going to be kind and not tally other points, because, after all, I do have cholera and a certain amount of stagnation is acceptable.
But the light bulb situation. Tragic.
Current standing: +27 points