Not to make my love for pressure washing jealous, but a new gentleman caller is on the scene. The Little Green Machine arrived via UPS, hand-delivered by a driver who offered a warm, “Y’all take care now,” despite me being the only one standing there. Like the trigger-pull on my power washer, the steam cleaner had my pointer finger squeezing and shooting hot soapy liquid, then bristling the spot and sucking it up. And much like the orgasmic satisfaction of blasting mossy grime to smithereens, the clean-to-dirty water transformation—from clear to dark chocolate milk—sent me somersaulting down a hill of pansies in pure, childlike summer freedom.
After watching four hummingbirds engage in a dramatic mid-air wrestling match, I got an idea: What if I turned the entire front porch into a container garden pollinator paradise? Not just for the hummers, but for bees and butterflies too. A no-holds-barred WrestleMania where all the big hitters come to play.
So tell me: What goods do you have far too many of in your house? Me? Tortilla chips, bread, all-purpose flour… and inexplicably, gallon tubs of mayonnaise.
A client recently shared an interview question that stuck with me: When’s a time you disagreed with your boss, and what did you do? At the time, I didn’t have an answer. But later, flipping through the memory vault—from my first job at 15 working for my dad’s friend, to casinos, to therapy offices—I realized I couldn’t recall many moments of outright disagreement. Maybe I was just… agreeable? Or maybe I’d simply learned to accept the opinions of those in power.
Except that one time, with Eric, a fellow poker dealer who was technically above me. He insisted something was done a certain way, and cited his years in the industry. I replied, respectfully but clearly, “Well, you’ve been doing it wrong that whole time, then.” We got along just fine after that. In a male-dominated culture, I had to hold my own. And if I didn’t know something, I admitted it. But in this case? I knew.
As I reflect, I’m also having a full-blown snack attack. I just used a handful of those tortilla chips—warmed them with a little mozzarella, dipped them in homemade salsa, and for a finishing move, grabbed a packet of yogurt-covered raisins. Thank goodness it’s a small bag. When I used to buy them in bulk at WinCo, I’d have what looked like a Santa sack full of raisins and wouldn’t stop until my stomach ached.
My snacky self is still scheming. And unless I leave this kitchen island imminently, a scoop of ice cream or a warmed brownie is in my future. So… do I stay, or do I go?
I’m full enough. I’ll take myself out of this salesman-pitching kitchen.
Alrighty—safely tucked in bed, and now I really should take the next steps to properly prepare for it.
Take care.
Love,
Jaclynn
Going On 40 