December 6th, 2011
I don’t know what’s going on in our house inhabited by two. Yes, we lead an ark-like existence. Two of humankind.
But, but, but…
This is the neverending story ——–>
No. This isn’t my dirty laundry. I could should would never show you that. I bought the use of this image online. Gotta love the internetz.
It is a reasonable representation x 10 of something that never ends in our ark of two.
It’s clothes. It’s bedding. It’s towels. It’s table linens. It’s G-Pup towels/bedding/table linens. Yes, she has a mastodon-sized placemat underneath her G-Pup-dining dishes. She’s a Golden. Enough said.
Where is the laundry fairy?
Riding a luckdragon somewhere, no doubt.
I should be burning a bazillion calories a day — or 348 — running from the W&D in the basement to my office on the second floor. At least.
My only consolation is ——–>
Even Santa, baby…
July 6th, 2011
We’re experiencing warm days, in the low 80s with very low humidity. Dry heat. It never happens. I’m basking in it.
I’m hanging laundry out. Because I can. Because it smells good. Because I’m enjoying the process of snapping it, and pegging it, and letting my mind wander as I snap and peg.
Slow laundry.
I want to slow it down for a little bit. Just for awhile. Even if it’s only as long as we’re experiencing dry heat — a minute day or two. The dry heat is whispering my name.
Over at Small Notebook, Rachel Meeks is using a beater to clean rugs. She calls it cleaning therapy. I call it the whap of happiness. Bring it.
While I’m basking in all this dry heat, doing slow laundry, I might just ease into a wicker chair and watch that slow laundry flap in the breeze.
I could open one of these. Have a glass of iced tea.
Happy Hump Day.
June 2nd, 2011
Last Saturday night, we had this conversation:
Me: What time do we have to leave in the morning?
Himself: 8:45.
Me: Okay. Wake me up at 7:00. That way I can go back to sleep for half an hour and be up at 7:30 to hot roll my hair before we leave.
Thoughtful silence (no, really), followed by Himself laughing.
Himself: You are weird, woman.
I’m not weird. Well, not much. I’m a PMP — pitiful morning person. Even in grade school, I would get up early enough to put on all my clothes, eat and gather my junk, so that I could catch 30 mins on the couch-sofa-davenport-whatever before leaving for school.
I will always ask to be awakened 30 mins earlier, so that I can dive back under the covers and cheat Father A.M. That’s just the kind of gal PMP I am.
I like the night. I like the moon, the stars, the quiet…. the lack of birdsong which, by the way, has been heralding the morn at 4:30 these days. Not a PMP’s best friend. I like birdsong after caffeine, after carbs, after flip-flops and yoga pants, after noon.
It’s not that I don’t like the sun. I LOVE the sun… just not in the morning.
See those feet? Those feet way up at the top of this post? Even those feet tell it like it is. The toes pointing up? Yeah. He’s definitely a morning person. The downward doggy toes? Yep. She’s flipping-off Father A.M. big time.
What about you? Are you from the light or the dark side? We won’t judge.
