... except when I want to throttle him. This morning I cleaned the kitchen--vacuumed and mopped, and scrubbed the fronts of all the cabinets. I don't know what he was off doing, but it didn't make it onto his radar. After Hannah and I had made cookies this afternoon, I was lamenting the state of my freshly mopped floor.
John: "You mopped this morning?"
Me: "Yes."
John: "I was wishing the floor would get mopped."
Me: bust out laughing
He's lucky I have the sense of humor I do, or he would have been dead meat. I guess my response offset my super-bitchy attitude this morning. I don't do mornings, and John was being all chipper and awake, and he expected me to be the same, and that just chapped my ass.
I have a paper to write by the end of the month--procrastination, thy name is Nee--but I have been too busy to work on it much. I have been engaged in the domestic equivalent of putting a pillow over my head and humming loudly. I've been quilting, balancing our bank account, going to the library, cleaning--oh dear dwarfs, Hannah's room was on the verge of being condemned; I found a half-eaten marshmallow cookie while cleaning in there. Hannah has been fussed at quite a bit today, and she has commanded me to report that she called herself a pile of doo-doo. I only told her that she was just getting herself deeper into the doo-doo with her bad attitude and poor hygiene, not that she actually *was* doo-doo. Just want everyone to be clear on that.
I've been kicking around on one of my short stories, with a little success, but I doubt it will be in form to send to any editors before school starts in about a month. Maybe I will have a flash of inspiration, but it is more likely to be a flash of annoyance.
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