I’m back in Kansas City. We arrived at 11 on Friday night, and have yet to accomplish any real good as it pertains to the house, and the contents therein. It went like this. Saturday, we rested and opened mail and grocery shopped, first day back. Then yesterday, the MOG went to church and I laid around and coughed and whined and talked on the phone to my sister Leah for a full HOUR AND A HALF, which is my quota for all phone conversations in 2010, and then I don’t know what happened to the rest of yesterday. I cannot recall.
Two loads of laundry have been done, and they sit in a Hannah’s-arms-shaped ball on the rocking chair. The dishwasher has run twice, and the sink and counters are full of dishes.
My room is exploded. Not literally, mind you. Let me lecture for a moment, here, about the word LITERALLY. Literally actually means in a LITERAL, not figurative, manner. So if you say to me, “My nose was so stopped up, my head literally exploded”, then I will keep looking like normal, but inside my head I will be consigning you to the grammatically damned, and 2)imagining your head exploded.
I digress. The point is, my room is full of clothes. A room can be full of clothes and be neat and clean, if all of those clothes are in their proper place. That is not the case, however. My clothes are dumped in rocking chairs, strewn across our 1 remaining guitar, folded in hampers, being vomited out of suitcases, peeking out from under beds, hanging precariously from gaping dresser drawers, and so on. It makes me tired just typing it. It will make me far more tired sorting them into dirty (and down two flights of stairs) or clean (and sorting, folding and putting away) and what-the-heck-was-i-thinking (back to the thrift store via donation bag).
In other news, I am thinking about writing some decent stuff, heartfelt and thought-out and whatnot. In fact, I should probably do that now, instead of cleaning.