Making a home and living in Guam as a newly-married military wife isn’t always easy. Sometimes things explode at random. Like, a couple of months ago, it was a pan of biscuits. Shards of Pyrex, everywhere. I didn’t even know that was possible.
Last week, garbage disposal. I decided to try to fix what I had decided (after consulting e-How, of course) was a stuck flywheel. I un-stuck the flywheel and congratulated myself on my genius handywoman-ness. Then I flipped the switch and watched in horror as the thing blew chunks of rusted In-Sink-Erator all over the floor.
Candles also explode on occasion. This happens most frequently when the hubster decides to practice his ninja moves while extinguishing a flame.
Episodes like this–and similar Laundry Incidents, which need not be discussed in detail–have strengthened my conviction that, in order to remain sane, I must periodically escape the mostly-welcoming-but-also-explosion-filled loveliness that is my home.
Though I normally avoid shopping malls (they make me irritable), yesterday I drove down to Micronesia Mall in order to people-watch and wander in air-conditioned peace. A large group of women shook their everything in the daily Zumba class that meets on the main floor. Inspired to leave, I walked through a souvenir shop on the way out, and I found President Obama: