I like Saturdays. I get to pretend I’m a 1950s housewife, without children. Today I cleaned my house (bathroom, kitchen, living room), picked up just a few groceries, baked brownies, made my favorite cream of potato soup (and by favorite, I mean, I mixed my standard ingredients and came up with a whole new taste sensation,) washed two loads of dishes (don’t judge me,) and 3 loads of laundry.
To defend my extra dirty dishes and three loads of laundry, I have been really and truly crazy the last three weeks. My brother was home on leave, so I was home six different days, I went to Duluth for a business trip for 3/4 days (do you count the day I spent 5 hours travelling after work?) and I also had a few minor work deadlines. (On the work note, I’m really hoping that they get a Lexington hospital, which I would be ALL over. Unless, of course, the guy across the cube aisle from me is the implementer. I love you all, but not enough to spend 8 hours travelling each way with that *ahem* fine specimen of self-satisfied idiocy. If I had to sit in an airport restaurant and listen to him tell me that he couldn’t meet any skinny girls in Madison, I would probably take him out with a bone from a rack of ribs through his Bostonian eye.)
I fully intended to do some work from home today too, but…
Which brings me to why I love Sundays…my house is clean, and food is already made, and I don’t feel guilty about not doing work…so lovely.