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My Profile
Gift from Hil Part 2 - 2014-12-30
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10:36 a.m. - 2011-09-01
So far the LA vs Mildew war is going well. Of course it helps that last time we had water in the cellar I got rid of a ton of stuff. Far less crap to get soaked and smelly this time. But the eternal mountain of wrinkly clothing and linens somebody doesn't fold when he does the laundry is smelling funky and had been even before the flood so that's being processed too. And if there's anything I love more than re-washing supposedly clean laundry I don't know what it is. Everything about it is appealing- the expense, the waste of time and energy, the galling knowledge that Mick took out HIS stuff and carefully hung it up but left mine and Wolf's in a tangled heap. It's wonderful, I tell you, simply fabulous. Mick doing the laundry is like getting a hand-knit sweater that's the wrong color and itchy. You love the thought and the work expended on your behalf but loathe having to be grateful for something so useless. I remind myself at least I don't have to handle used man panties. Mick's a fastidious sort and his undies aren't ever skid-marked, but any garment that's held sweaty boy bits all day�ugh. My disinclination to deal with any sort of yuck has grown exponentially in the last few years. Mick spoils me shamelessly. He does the dishes and deals with the garbage and kills the bugs. He also washes and gasses my car and does all the outdoor work. I clean the bathroom but wear gloves when I do housework so the only time my hands get smelly these days is when mincing onions and garlic. It helps too that Wolf is so grown. Aside from patching cuts and scrapes I never have kid fluids on me anymore. Any parent can tell you about how moist toddlers and babies are. Even grade-schoolers get vomit and boogers on you. Though they have usually outgrown spitting half-chewed things into your hand and trying to give you kisses when their faces are ear-to-ear with goo. And while I'm musing about grooming I must brag on my fingernails. I keep the right hand trimmed to fingertip length, long nails on my smart hand are annoying. But I let the left hand's grow out. More to see how long they'd get before breaking than any deliberate attempt to have a lopsided manicure. They haven't broken yet. See above about how Mick does all the yucky chores, so this indolent left hand of mine is sporting some serious claws. Mick loves them. Those glamorous nails say to him that he's taking care of me properly. Also his taste runs toward the traditional femme stuff on women. Loves big boobs, small waists, long nails, twinkly jewelry. In this I can oblige. His thing for long hair and vapid giggling, not so much. That last one might be off the list now. My guy's discovered how much he loves having a woman with something to say for herself. Thank goodness! Imagine being stuck with an opinionated talky thing like me if he were secretly longing for some doe-eyed lash fluttering silent type who just turns her adoring face to him like flower in the sun and hangs on his every word. No can do. Sure, I'm less of a chatterbox than I used to be in person (yet still as bloggy as ever) but when I do talk I mean what I say. And I'm saying now it's back to the cellar. I will reduce that smelly mountain to nothing but a couple stray socks and an ill-fitting bed sheet today or die trying.
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