Yes. I do laundry every day. Multiple loads. Yes, there are only two of us living here. Don't ask me to explain because I don't understand it myself. But thus it is, thus it has ever been, and thus it will be.
Anyway, I think I dreamed of the Asshole last night and had other dreams, the themes of which are so well-known to me that they have become nothing more than dreary and boring. Perhaps they are what have set the tone for this day. I do not know but it feels like Sunday and not in a good way. We've had our pancakes (apple, peach, sweet potato, pecan and flax- I know you need to know this) and I've cleaned up and Mr. Moon is back out to attend to his project and I am feeling grumpy with a small slice of bitter on the side about his projects which never seem to involve things which I need or want and I tell you this not to complain about him but to remind you that yes, I am human as hell and so is he and in many ways, we are completely typical of any long-term marriage although of course, being human, I like to think of us as unique and special. I am quite sure that if pressed, he might well admit that there are plenty of things he wishes I would do rather than spend so much time sitting here writing and reading.
Probably scrubbing the mildew in his bathroom, for one thing.
Well, not all dreams can come true.
I have no idea what I'm doing today besides hanging laundry on the line and hoping for rain. There is plenty to be done in both the house and the yard but I do not feel especially inclined to do any of it. I feel that there is, however, no way to escape the fact that the kitchen and laundry room need mopping and so I shall probably do that but so what? So what, so what, so what? Who will even notice and who will even care?
No one but me. And so, in a sense, why do it?
Fuck if I know.
Oh wait. I had threatened to talk about side boob today.
Let me peruse the Huffpost Celebrity section. Hold on...
Nope. No side boob today. However, I did look at the "Celebrity Bikini Bodies Over Age Fifty (Photos)" and now I just sort of want to either
(a) Kill myself now and get it over with, or
(b) Poke certain over-age-fifty celebrities in the eye with a very sharp, pointed object.
Or perhaps, first (b), then (a).
With the exception of Rita Rusic (and who the HELL is Rita Rusic?) because she obviously needs to have a chat with her plastic surgeon.
Good for her.
In local news, Miss Baby, my sweet little banty hen, appears to have gone broody. Mr. Moon reports that she is sitting on her eggs on a top shelf in the pump house (a place I can't even see without a ladder) and I am in a bit of despair over that situation. As far as I know, the poor dear has never once known a rooster in the Biblical sense and so she could sit up there on those eggs until The Rapture and nothing is going to happen except that she's going to starve to death or die of dehydration.
All right. Just got a text from Mr. Moon. An Airstream trailer should be appearing in my yard within the next hour. Oh boy. Maybe we can fix it up and rent it out by the night. We could list it on Travelocity.
The Downtown Lloyd Inn.
Minutes away from the interstate and not much else. Private, small accommodation for one person or a close couple. Peaceful country surroundings except for the train which passes by frequently approximately ten yards from your bed and the lovely, bucolic sound of roosters crowing from well before dawn until sunset. No wireless, iffy electricity and funky plumbing. Kitchen-equipped. Bring your own damn food because ain't no one going to cook for your damn ass and the only place to eat nearby is a Subway at the Truck Stop. WE DO NOT RENT TO RELIGIOUS FUNDAMENTALISTS OR ASSHOLES. And we do not share our liquor.
For information, room rates and to make reservations call:
We may or may not answer, depending on our moods.
Yep. Sounds like a new project.
Have a decent Sunday, y'all.