Nesting is a lovely option when it is cold out.
I have made an art form of it, with the last few days melting into a blob of zero accomplishments.
Saturday I visited with my sister, and celebrated the opening of the Blackhawks season with a family party at Matthews.
All the Dahls except Steve sampled Justine's chili, cheered, booed, played with babies and said an early goodnight.
Apparently I had been away too long: Milly left a very hostile protest poo where I would step upon it at the back door. I am sure, had she not been hiding, that she would have enjoyed my pathetic efforts to keep the fake knee upright. I danced. Like Ms. Bojangles.
She would have appreciated the fact that I succeeded by spreading her earthy gift high, low and everywhere in between. She probably smirks when she sees the discarded shoes abandoned and frozen outside. She knew enough to hide while I scrubbed carpeting all day Sunday. The steamer activated a wet dog aromatic. I have more candles lit than the Shrine of Impossible Cures. Still, eau de Milly dominates.
SInce this organic chore, I have fluttered to service items on my punch list. To date, only the counter clearing and cupboard purging are complete. My baby crib is on its side upstairs, awaiting the magic tool that matches the screws. I guess it must be a hex wrench- but there are only 5 sides to the indentation. Doesn't hex=6? I am moving it to the front bedroom so my grandbabies are not positioned over the speakers that Gramps has right underneath them. It will not fit through the door. I am acutely aware that my high school geometry grades were an accurate assessment of my spatial acuity.
I am also punishing Steve by claiming this room for Mary and Henry.
He has taken to using Matt's old room as his gentleman's closet. He leaves his clothes there for me to wash/hang/put away. This, my lord, is not Downton Abbey; I am not a butler. I am the maid, I guess. However, since he has the basement as Podcast Central, Steve doesn't get to utilize this space. It is mine to manage. Therefore, it will be a nursery. That is a postulate. It requires no proof, like in geometry.
Once upon a time, this was Matthew J Dahl's room. Now he lives three miles away with his wife and WallyDog, so I expect he will not be returning for a sleepover. His teenage bulletin board remains on the wall, covered by Bart Simpson pictures and concert notices for his high school band. I have asked permission to remove these artifacts. He said no. They will all disappear. The "Don't worry, Be crabby" plaque I gifted him with in his surlier days perches on a nail where he ignored it daily. Perhaps Justine would like to hang it by his side of the bed. Maybe she will have better luck with aphorisms than I.
During my emancipated week, I have frittered with an I Photo tragedy. When IOS 6 was installed in my computer, the program confused my library of 39,000 photos that were on an external drive. It duplicated them. CURSES.
The Duplicate Annihilator program spent 14 days supposedly isolating and destroying the excess. It was a FAIL. I have now spent 30 hours skimming individual photo files, deleting those labeled as missing, thumbnails and duplicates. I have 72,314 more files to edit. Yep. You read that right. I started with 78,000. It is slow going because they live on the external drive. I hate this job. HATE. Right now I am in August 2004. Can I tell you how much better I looked 8 years ago? Damn. HATE.
At any rate, my slacker tendencies startle me. I have watched a treasure trove of old TV shows, edited my closet, virtually attended the inauguration, high fived Hilary Clinton as she dominated that weasel Rand Paul, monitored two disastrous fires in Chicago as if I was a responder, enjoyed all aspects of the Blackhawks first three games. I have seen Silver Linings Playbook and celebrated a best friend's birthday with candle power that drew the attention of the Fire Marshall. ( I am not sure he really WAS the fire marshall...I think he was insinuating himself into our group) I just polished off a bottle of wine with a friend. Perhaps blogging under the influence is a bad idea. Or a good idea.
I have not abandoned yoga pants since Steve flew South. I have not done one Downward Dog. Or whatever that position is.
Ambitious? Nope. Aerated? Yep.
I'm all right. One week of bachelorette living down. So far, so OK. Keep checking back. You are my lifelines.
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