Well, obviously, getting back to regular daily posting may not be happening anytime soon. Maybe soonish, but not soon, like, you know, soon.
Summer is always a time of flux since the college younglings flock home with their square tonnage of laundry and demands for every dinner out and car repairs and weird hours and on and on and on. Plus they are just so BIG. They bellow across the house, they bound up and down the stairs, they slam doors, they leave lights and TVs on constantly, they leave their shoes in the middle of floor to trip over at night. The bearded one clogs the drains. The eldest leaves yarn everywhere. Ah, the children are home. I love ’em.
It has rained so much this spring/early summer that I feel like the Little Old Woman Who Lives in a Mushroom. The humidity just sucks the air right out of you. Your hair frizzes to 1980’s proportions and you feel a (short-lived) nostalgia for stacked heels and that Peter Max dress you wore in middle school.
Marriage takes time. Parenting takes time. Work takes time. Getting to work takes TOO MUCH time. Blogging takes time. (Don’t forget I lurk about at PeachPundit, as well.) Then there’s friends and church. And lest we forget, my imposing houseguest and constant companion, the gastric unhappiness I acquired in Indianapolis, makes its own demands for togetherness.
But more about church. Since Hub’s new gig has settled into something permanent, we need to get on with the business of moving. Yes, moving. From a house we’ve lived in over 20 years. The church is an hour away, but close to the Holy Land, so the idea of moving isn’t so bad. It’s the actual execution of it that gives me the vapors.
Here’s me on any particular day where I have some available time (which is hardly ever):
1. Stand in front of closet/cabinet/garage/any area spewing forth its bounty.
3. Delegate to anyone within earshot. (Hmm… I wonder if that’s why the kids have suddenly vamoosed to Grandmother’s…)
4. Stomach BFF rumbles about, resulting in more quality time inspecting the bathroom cabinet and it’s bountiful stash of who-knows-what.
5. Spin. Rinse. Repeat.
And we’ve already had one yard sale.
Help me, Obi-Wan Kenobi, you’re my only hope.