I should be doing laundry. I’ll have to wear a skirt to work tomorrow, much as I try to avoid that. Something about the mechanics of skirts escapes me: a skirt that falls just below my knees when I’m standing will, inevitably, not cover the backs of my thighs when I sit down. I don’t know if any of you have ever ridden on public transportation in Boston, but the less your skin comes into contact with the seats, the better. Skirts, as fun as it is to swish around in them, kind of make me want to hyperventilate when I’m outside my apartment. I have been known to spend entire bus rides awkwardly attempting to arrange the fabric of my skirt into something that separates me from MBTA!plastic.

Skirtsssssssssssss. Hisssssssssssssssssssssss.

Instead of doing laundry, I am currently taking a break from one of my periodic crazy-insane-killmenow cleaning jags. I have piled more stuff on my bed than I had previously thought would even fit into my room, hung coats on hangers, arranged my shoes, and vacuumed one little corner of my bedroom. I am already sweaty and exhausted and dusty and my sinuses feel like impending doom. I do, however, have a nice little patch of floor where I can sit and type on my computer while I pretend to have achieved something.

No, you will not get to see pictures of the disarray. Posting such things on the Internet would cause my mother to commit harakiri. I sort of like having my mother around to call and whine at when cleaning makes my sinuses hurt, so any form of seppuku is something I would like to avoid.

Instead, you may have a picture of the Mystic River, three days after Irene:


You may also have snippets of conversations from my life:

“Do you have some sort of catnip for Melissa’s male friends?!” – My roommate.

“Boston is really nice, as far as American cities go.”

“What other cities have you been to?”

“Detroit.” – Guy from Vancouver.

“This entire conversation needs to be recorded and put up on YouTube with the tag ‘First World Problems’.” – Friend at brunch.

“I don’t think I’ve ever had Riesling with Botrytis in it.”

“Oh, Meg, we’ve got to fix that!”

“What if I’m allergic to it?”

“Then I’ll get you a bottle of wine and a bottle of Benadryl. You’ll drink it if I have to sit at the table and stare at it for hours. You’ll drink it if it kills you!” – My father.

Speaking of that last, I’ve decided that my father now owes me three bottles of Horseheads Brewing’s Pumpkin Ale. This is to be his penance for making me laugh so hard I snorted and cried and lost my voice for a few moments. Dad, I shall expect the customary tithe of two bottles plus the additional Penance Bottle when you and Mom come to Boston so we can go apple-picking.

Oh, and speaking of Melissa, she sent me a link earlier today: Little Hen Rescue are asking for little sweaters for their hens, who look so pitiful and bedraggled that I want to just hug them all forever. So…the washcloths need to be sent, then it looks like I will be making little cotton poultry garb. I think this is a good thing, as I could use a little distance from the Lace Ribbon Scarf with which I’ve had a rather rocky relationship.

Also, I need to get more birdseed and put the feeders back up. Haven’t gotten around to it since Irene, but I’m a little cash-strapped at the moment and the birds may have to wait.

Okay, back to cleaning. I need to excavate my bed if I want to get any sleep tonight.


One thought on “Pseudoproductive.

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