I hear the clock ticking and the puppy sighing. It’s late by my reckoning, yet I’m not ready for sleep.
I love the house quiet like this. I can hear myself think and my heart beat. In the still of the night. . . Hold me darlin’ hold me tight.
Life is so good these days.
It’s been rainy and dreary all day. I’m loving The Polar Vortex in July.
I did nothing today. I would say “absolutely nothing” except I installed a new roll of paper towel in the kitchen.
I gave myself permission early on to do nothing today. Generally, when I do this, I get all sorts of things done. I’m just perverse that way.
But not today. I have been the very definition of a couch potato. I read a little. I slept a little. I stalked folks on Facebook. I danced with the dog. I ate comfort food (and didn’t clean the kitchen). I drank two pots of coffee. I have been worthless.
I think there’s something to be said for taking a day off now and again. My life has been such that there’s been no end of things needing to be done for decades. Periodically, I do sit around and do nothing, but I feel antsy and guilty and jittery about it. Not today.
Today I wallowed in my inertia. Savored it. Provided a background of Mozart and a scented coconut candle to enhance it. I’m still in my pajamas at a quarter to eight. I haven’t brushed my hair or made the bed. I have done nothing save unwrap a roll of paper towel and hang it on the wall.
My body is pulsing with endorphins of goodness. I am blissfully happy with my no good self. I hope your Saturday was just as rewarding.
Chef Boy ‘R Mine was here for a week and just left Monday morning. I am all verklempt and singing “Ain’t no son-shine when he’s gone.” (H/T to Mona and Dena.)
My son lives in Atlanta and, as a chef, works crazy hours including weekends and holidays. I don’t get to see him often and, when I do, it’s usually just a brief visit. A whole week was a gift.
I’m fond of saying to expectant parents that no one ever tells you how much fun kids are. And, hoo boy, young souls make my soul sing. But I’m learning that there’s a lot of fun and satisfaction in older children. My son is very much an adult and living a self-actualized life. He’s intelligent, articulate and has a wicked good sense of humor. I enjoy talking to him. I enjoy sitting in companionable silence with him. I enjoy watching him play with his dogs.
He cooks for me, sometimes, when he comes home. This time I bought a filled-to-the-brim grocery cart of quick and easy stuff so he wouldn’t have to cook, but he chose to anyway. We had a quite marvelous Ricotta Gnocchi Bolognese that was so good we ate it for 3 days without tiring of it. I said, as I often say when Chef Boy ‘R Mine cooks, that it was the best thing I’ve ever put in my mouth. And it was.
After the first round of Gnocchi Bolognese when I was still high on the endorphins of good food, I had no sooner settled into a glass of after-dinner wine when he announced he was going to go wax my car. I wondered aloud if I was dying and no one had told me. He had cooked and done most of the cleaning up and was still willing to spend 4 ½ hours waxing my car.
At night, by lamplight, he waxed my car. Not just waxed it, but washed it, clayed it, compounded it, did this and did that and then something else. This was not just a wax job, but the kind of attention a car gets with a $400 detailing job.
When I walk to my car, I see a sparkle and shine that reminds me that I have a son who loves me and is willing to spend his vacation days with me. Adult children, I’m finding, are a great joy. Life is good.
Those of you who hang out with me on Facebook know that I’m still in the seemingly-endless pursuit of organizing The Barn. I go in fits and starts with this, but lately my fervor has been renewed. I love an orderly, clean house. I’m just not very good at it. (But I’m getting better!)
For all of my short-comings in the house cleaning arena, I’m pretty good about keeping my bedroom orderly, in part because I love my bed.
I have a grand bed. I think everyone should have a bed so imposing it is reminiscent of a throne.
I bought the bed along with the Beloved Vanity and other pieces a good 8 years ago. The furniture is so big that they couldn’t bring it up the stairs, but had to lift it to the top of the truck and then from there hoist it through the French doors in the master bedroom.
I decided that since I spend a third of my life, more or less, in bed, that bed should be a haven, a sanctuary, a symphony of hedonism. The bed is appointed with luxurious coverings including very high-thread count sheets. There is a mound of pillows that I remove each night, but leave in place for afternoon naps. I love sprawling among the pillows and watching the sun come through the French doors.
I love my bed. It’s king-sized in keeping with my throne desire and I can sprawl all over the thing without body parts hanging off. The animals sometimes join me in the bed, though not regularly. There’s room for all of us.
In the winter time, I love keeping the bedroom cold so that I can burrow in the bed like the cocoon it is. It’s simply delicious to wallow. It’s only when it gets blazing hot outside, as it is now, that my bed is not quite so wonderful. The bed linens are heavy especially so with the goose down-filled comfortor. While I have central air, the construction of the barn is such that cooling the upstairs when it’s 80F at midnight means keeping the downstairs at freezer level. I don’t want to pay Appalachian Electric that much. So, tonight I will lie on top of the covers and let the ceiling fan swirl air over me.
I realize this is a first-world problem and that I have no reason to whine. I’m not whining, not really. I think I’m marking the entrance of Summer to what has been a very strange Spring.
W. Va. Fur and Root 