Taking out the trash

How data banks fills up your memory stores

This past week I discovered that my google memory bank was full and needed back up. Well, before paying for memory (as if dementia has a cure) I started trying to find what was filling up the bank. I found a lot of my old garbage.

I mean really old rotten garbage. Apparently all the stuff that I had put into the trash or tried to delete from my OLD phone had been sent to my my new goggle bank, and phone. Now the notes to self in days gone past have been TRIPLED up in my new data storage. What I though was once deleted has now been stored as deleted, trashed, and created. Three times more, I’ll be spending the next two weeks trying to take out the trash in my new data base.

Thank goodness for my husband. I think I’ll let him do most of the work on his computer. Trying to clean up said trash on my tiny smart phone screen is painful. So apparently, I now have to take out the trash that I though I had take out back in 2014!

What kind of to do list from that summer could just be repeated?

Here’s one: call for a haircut, water the garden, weed the flower patch, pull out meat for supper.

Here’s one best left in the trash bin: allergies a-fright, asthma out of control, order another inhaler. Uff. Life has not changed there any.

Who knows what kind of mess the pictures are in. There are probably multiple pictures in different albums. Googles face rec did that to the pictures I take of the relatives. I really don’t need a full album of my cousin’s child in multiple places. There’s how that data storage gets maxed out. Nope, still not paying.

Finding out that my data group created composting bins rather than actually trashing my old garbage was a little rough on the eyes. Especially when my husband showed me whole files in my junk mail! Oh, that made me mad enough to call the disposal company. Nawh, I’ll just let him clean up the mess. It suddenly does not make me so memory unbalanced with my old fits about him leaving the trash can so full until taking it out. I’ll take out the kitchen garbage and the compost for the rest of our married life, if he will clean up my junk mail and sweep out the data doubled storage in my phone. But the dustpan is gonna be full!

Yesterday was Father’s Day here in our country. We got together as a family and let the greats meet the newest great-grandson. Took a couple of pictures for the memory bank. Of course we have so many pictures just out there in the cloud, I wonder if the greats will ever be able to identify the occupants without the aid of some facial recognition software. Maybe I should just keep those albums of my cousin and her grandchildren.

Today I was trying to call for a haircut for the dog. The system at the dog camp just ended the call when it wanted. I wonder how their business is fairing the pandemic. Not so well, if we cannot leave a message. Maybe their data storage is full from all of the dog pictures they take each week. Haha.

My memory bank is not full. It is happily adding new ones as we enjoy the changes of the little grand kiddos. My grand daughter discovered blowing bubbles this spring. She was able to blow out her two candles on her birthday. So this Sunday, her auntie showed her what else a breath can do. Train whistle, tin whistles, and the harmonica all came out of hiding. We pulled up a video of superb mouth harp on display, and she was hooked. Her parents are thankful the mouth harp stayed at Opa and Oma’s house. Our little grandson did not seem to mind all the noise. Except when the ancient woodwind the flute came out. Our band director son-in-law took a look at it’s tarnished state, found all the pads in working order and then tuned in a scale. Little grandson cringed. The dog began to cry and little grand daughter went back to the harmonica.

Creating new memories was pretty wonderful.

This afternoon I have to visit the dentist. The work was delayed due to the world health crisis. Our family made it through the virus spread without any direct contact. I am thankful for our more distanced living arrangements out here in the Dakota Territory. There are days, it would be nice to holler a “Hello” at a neighbor, but living in the high rise apartment has no appeal to me. We have only been on a subway when visiting Boston and community bus travel goes back ten years to those days also.

Having our own vehicle comes with it’s expenses. Hubby just replaced the thermometer for the engine in our thirteen year old nice car. It’s hard to think that the price of a new vehicle exceeds the price of our motor trailer manufactured hallway. One of these days we will get this money thing figured our. Maybe we’ll grow a tree that produces greenbacks. Not.

Now that the memory bank has been flooded with a variety of new and old subjects, I would say the journal pages will close for the day.

Grab a book, open it up, then slam the covers together. There. That’s the sound entered here.

Stocking shelves

Finding the larder lacking…

Now thar’s an ol’ saying ye don’ hear tell much anymawr!

I just finished listening to a “Dandy Gilbert Mystery” and the English and Scotch brogue has stuck to me better then the clear tape I was using on the gift wrap. That thick and lazy tongue of language had me listening at top volume just to get the jist of it all. Uffdah. And there’s the Viking tongue to visit me this time of year.

Why do all the best mysteries have to have a flare of Sherlock and Holmes to them? Even the characters here are two detectives in the books. Ah, well, it ne’er make sense to anyone if they ha’n’t read the book also. On with the days

Today I am suppose to get my shelf stocking list made. The Menu for the meals written, and the last of the shopping items on a piece of paper. Yet, it feels like what I really need to do is keep cleaning the corners of my nest up. How come if we are empty nesters, do the corners of my nest keep getting filled with so much something?

Around about fourteen months ago, I decided to clean the tea cupboard and ended up breaking my foot. It’s amazing how little attention we all get for any little thing that happens. In that whole time, I only remember one person ever asking me how it was healing up. Getting a crooked back from the boot was the next most miserable thing to the break itself. Nevertheless, my foot did heal and I was able to wear the shoes that I bought for my daughter’s wedding. I am not mentioning this simply for the lack of attention, it’s just that whether we want to or not, we all take stock in the niceties that others lend us. And if other’s aren’t lending much thought… well, take stock in how much thought we ourselves offer.

Enough of the soap boxes…

Stocking shelves with whatever it is that we have this time of year is different than it use to be. I remember as a child going to the Prairie Market and getting enough boxed goods to last us four to six weeks. My dad still does the same thing. My mom does that quite a bit also. And we here can get by nearly a month sometimes with no more to purchase but milk and cheese or a bag of apples. Storing up the goods for the winter has become a lost art with the grocer just on the next convenient block over. Gas for the car, milk for the kid.

It seems the dog and cats run out of food more frequently that we do.

Back to the season at hand…

The most enjoyable stocking of shelves that I witnessed this shopping experience was a great wall of puzzles and games at the newest shopping center. It was actually very pleasant to me to see such a stock of items that required interaction amongst the purchaser or the recipient. While my eyes don’t allow me much joy for a game or even the ability to puzzle out 500 pieces, I remember the fun that we use to have and purchasing some of the stock for our own gift giving was a blast. Well, hope the kids don’t read this. Now they know what’s under the wrapping.

The shelf already stocked…

Back to the tea cabinet, I went this morning and decided the green tea that was purchased last year had finally aged enough to use. I had a cup of peach green tea, and then later a cup of ginger green tea. I do like my ginger root. It’s still my favorite. I also pulled out past Christmas tea cups and hot mugs to use this time of year. I don’t know why, but we become such creatures of habit that I use my D handled mugs the most and forget about those old gifts from such thoughtful others.

The presents are not all wrapped. The three lists have been avoided long enough. My cup of tea is nearly empty. And Christmas is less than a week away. It will be a busy week and half and then the new year upon us. I started some writing plans for the new year. Why we do this kind of planning is sometimes a mystery to me. But I still do it nonetheless.

So this years work has been established, next years plans about to be made. And the delivery man just placed four boxes on the front deck for me to take care of. The larder in this situation is “things to write about.” The lacking at this moment is “thoughts of any substantial benefit to others.” And the shelves are all stacked in someone elses’ favor, i am sure. Oh, well.

There is actual work to be be had. Writing will keep until the next free time I have to sit in this chair.

Merry Christmas to all! And thanks for the noticing, Haha!


“Well you know you have to start somewhere.”

It’s like, okay, the idea is hear, now what? I spent all day on the clean up projects. Pulling out the paper tools, tablets, and binders that I have saved over the years. Yet I still feel like something is missing. What did I do with that list?

Cleaning up the Library is my next project. I am a bit of an old=school writer. I need my paper journals, my pens, my sticky notes and a good whiteboard. The ideas in my brain don’t just jump out and land on the screen in front of me. Even some scrap paper and some sharpie pens are helpful.

So I made a list of the women who as widows gave their hearts to me. And believe it or not there were a few men in the list too. Men sometimes get over the hurt faster by sharing those last years with yet another lonely heart. Sometimes the romances end up in another marriage like in the case of my husband’s Aunt Mabel. She and Arnie were so cute.

Next I decided to pick a few people today whose lives exemplify the biblical widows like Anna. People who spend there time in prayer, in church, in service, and in loving their families. Four of these people I sent hand written letters to invite them into my project. Hopefully they will say yes to my interview.

I also started doing my homework on the first chapter. Not telling much, but believe it or not those newspaper microfiche pages are horribly small. And yes I even went to some online cemetery maps. Talk about digging up old bones. Those things are kind of little too.

Today the library is swept out and the pieces not helpful to me will be removed. We will also have to move some shelving around. But dear hubby is busy trying to find all of his little pieces of paper for out tax appointment this afternoon. We will stop at Walmart and get me a few cases of pens. Picking up a pen that is empty really hampers the flow of these inky thoughts!

Then this evening we can put my writing world in order. I hope my kid does not want her stereo anytime soon. I think I want a radio in there to keep me attuned to the world while I work. Who knows I’ll probably do my best writing on the new loveseat recliner we purchased at the start of the New Year.

Now that I have bored you with the plan of action. Here is some fun things that I found while cleaning out the desk. The first four female characters have no real inspired person. However the bottom right male caricature is of a friend of ours from our Minnesota years. Perhaps there can be a caricature for each of the people that I share in my series “After.”

The Cat’s Meow

If I had a jazz band…”

Well, for the first time in all these many years of jazz fest in our area, we finally went to the event to see what we might be missing out on. Or rather to prove that we had made all the correct pre-judgements. Our Friday evening at the local beer park turned out to be a few moments to people watch and a great way to begin a new blog.

The evening began with a decision based on the beautiful weather on whether or not we should hit the open road with the motorcycle. And then where would we go, or what would we have for a destination plan? We knew that Jazz Fest was happening so that was the choice. The attraction the week before to Hot Harley nights was not ours, perhaps I could have some cotton candy? So off we went in search of bones– to enjoy the good temperatures and the lack of wind.

We were there only a few minutes when two little girls having a somersault race caught our attention. The tumblers were far more attractive than any of the mugs in the beer tents. There were far too many faces for “mug shots.” I was almost embarrassed for having gone to the event until we saw these little girls on their endless quest to outdo the other. The people watching had succeeded in making us smile.

The bad band on the main stage was about more than I could stand in one event. The first song that we heard was about alcohol. The second was about girls. The third song that made us turn around and head back out of the park was about bad booze, bad girls, and bad love. It was rather appalling for the amount of young people that were there. While the main stage was pretty bad for it’s music and then on the way out the smaller stage had a female vocalist that from the sounds of it was much better than main stage. From our half hour “affair” I could write a pretty bad review of the event in the local paper, but I’ll decline the opportunity.

On the motorcycle ride after leaving town my husband turned the public radio on to its evening jazz program. Wow, was that much better than the earlier audio sounds. So while we drove home, my mind had time to wander and I began to remember my jazz piano days. I decided that if I had a band I would name it-

If I had a jazz band…

…I would name it “The Cats Meow.” Why? Because honestly my cat’s meow is better than that lady singing at the garden. Yes,I know there is already a song of that title, but I did not find a band in my google search. So The Cat’s Meow it is.

I began to think of all the better things there are to write about than alcohol. So I began making a list of all the song titles and what they would talk about. I had more material for writing in just that short ride than I could imagine.

The open road

With the motorcycle underneath and the amber sky to the west the smells surrounding us and the change of temperatures driving us to stop to add layers, the open road on the motorcycle is something we both really enjoy. As we pass by the groves and waterways, the air changes and smells amazing of it’s alfalfa and sweet corn fields.

The fancy footwork

While I am a pianist at hand, I am a complete dud on the dance floor. But the fancy footwork that I did on the dance floor of the barn… with an ewe in tow and two lambs in hand…now that’s quite a jazz piece in the making if you can imagine the fingers on the keyboard stumbling over each other like all those legs and hooves and feet and what footwork it was!

The fresh air…

Ahh, the smells of the evening dew. The fresh air can carry those smells for long distances. The fresh skunk, and the grove of trees have no comparisons. The croaking frogs of the marsh creek bed. Yep, that’s a good one for the trumpet tune! As the bullfrogs jump through the headlight beams so the horns toot the breeze… literally.

The needle in the haystack…

Would this song be about Granny’s quilt rake and all the handsome sewing she does? Or would it be about the pin stuck in the inside of the quilt after the edge has already been done? Oh, this one sounds fun!

The smells of alfalfa, corn silk, feedlots, and creekbeds

My band would be so poplar! Like the quaking aspens that clap their hands (leaves). There would be wood wind chimes, fence rail drums, and garbage dumpster bass clangs. There would be water can snares, and jazz tunes about zinnias and spider webs in the greenhouse. My band is really going places now.

Just you wait and see, no festival could contain us.

…Now that a week has passed since this writing…

Most of my listening this past week was symphonic in nature. I had joy of holding my daughter’s little girl all week while she went back to work. She cried a lot. Bothe my daughter and the little one. Apparently gramma is just different. The day we listened to Mahler’s first symphony was probably the best for both of us. She is only 10 weeks, but thinks Oma is a bit opaque (a little foggy on the Isabelle guessing game). I know that she thinks this because I have seen her politeness with mommy and daddy.

Summer is slipping by fast and this weekend will certainly be another day closer to fall. I know this because the cicada’s are in full jamboree song! Sometimes I can not hear myself think for their buzzing.

They will be the razor in my band…

Counting to Ten

What’s the point with list making anyhow?

Every where I look there is some list. Ten best of this, 20 worst of that, five things that boost something, eight reasons to do this. What’s with the list making and who really enjoys the statistics game?

Basketball season is here and my mind returned to the squeaks and squeals of the court. During high school they never let me take stats during the games. I missed too many things because of my eyesight. And constantly asking the person next to me for “my” stat answer just didn’t cut it. They fired me on the spot. The rest of my high school career was spent in the pep band. I have always enjoyed the role encourager. Leading in nosie making has always been a key crowd control pattern for me.

Today, I am on my church’s prais team as the pianist. Not the keyboardist. I hated keyboarding. The idea that one can play piano, add other instruments, and play the rhythm section all at once is pretty close to playing organ for me. Using all four limbs in contrasting motion to fill an orchestra of sound is completely impossible to me. Most of the time I fill in the bass and add rhythmic jazzy chording. At times my classical training jumps in and I get bored of the quitter keyboarding rhythms. Okay, so now that I have given a horrible review of my abilities as a pianist, back to this list idea.

Last night I had a nightmare that caused me to cry out in the night. I decided that I’ve been drinking entirely too much coffee. So I should keep track of how many cups I drink in one day. Today I have a migraine from the caffeine craving.

Meanwhile, my insomnia has returned and while the MP3 IBible does keep my brain occupied for some of the night, I came up with a list of my favorite cats throughout my life. Other people count sheep in the night. Other people count backwards from some fancy number by threes. Other people get up and watch train documentaries on PBS. Other people make cleaning lists. Other people read dumb lists on facebook that helps them decided what kind of dog not to get. I made a count down or up of all the little fur balls that have purred in my lap. There’s probably more than ten, but these will do as my favorite through the years.

The first cat that I called my own was named Mittens. While my mother had always had a good mouser, Mittens was mine. The love of my middle school years, I defied my boy cousins by giving him a “girly” name. They thought his name should be socks. Mittens was a gorgeous gray colored saddle with white markings. I think he had blue grey eyes, but my memory might fail me., Saying goodbye to cats is not fun. In life, however, it is this lesson that teaches us people have more value than pets. Mittens was the pet of my paper route years. Delivering paper route in an older community gave me several “death’s door” deliveries. The first customer that died, was when I noticed a two day pile up and the television still on. I notified the neighbor and learned the following day that she had passed on. Saying goodbye to Mittens seemed minimal compared to when a favorite friend’s husband died on my paper route. Hearing her laugh about how he died, was a new experience for sure.

Tigger was the second pur-buddy to leave me. Tigger was true to his striped name and very fast. But this was more traumatic, because my children were little ones and witnessed the event. The postman ran over the cat when the dog chased it under the pickup. Lady never did like cats much. But we had hoped to remove our mouse problem by having a cat in the basement. Poor Tigger. Poor wee children.

Socks was number three. My cousins favorite cat name ever returned. A beautiful calico cat that rode over in the wheel well of the pickup from the neighbor lady, This one actually survived the dogs chasing game. But her fight to save her kittens, gave a deadly infection from the battle. She was our sheep-cat. She use to sleep on the backs of the warmest ewes and lambs. Lucy the lamb and Socks were quite the pair! Her kittens became my ten year old daughter’s mission. She fed them with a dropper for two weeks until I decided some kitten food slurry would maybe help her out. Needless to say, I wasn’t a very kind mother when that summer blew through. I just didn’t have the patience.

Saying goodbye to the fourth purring friend was rough. Patches was Socks survivor. This cat was amazing at how high she would jump into the air. Patches was the summer of trying to teach my children some sports rules. So we acquired a bad-mitten net and some little plastic birdies. I tried to teach my girls the abilities only to find that Patches kept jumping into the air to catch the birdies. Soon it became the girl’s complete joy to watch me attempt to hit the little plastic bouncer and then wonder where in the world the cat would be after the retrieve. This mostly white calico made us fall in love with a cat’s athletic ability. It was far better than mine, or the kids, or my husbands. Saying goodbye to Patches was rough because a rabies skunk took her into the garage and the tangle ended with two pops of the rifle. I had managed to bring the dog inside, but forgot about the cat. The encounter has ruined my taste for shredded wheat cereal. Amazing the weird things that one remembers. Like what I had for breakfast should not be a big memory, but it is.

The fifth kitty adios was a pair. Susan and Sunny were the answer to Patches’ departure. We picked them up from another home school family. Named after flowers, “Black Eyed Susan” and “Sunny SunFlower” were also the pair that joined us at the same time as our collie Dolly. These two are the beginning of the genes for our barn cats that we have today. Because the Tom that came around was pretty wild, so are their offspring.

The sixth goodbye that was sorrowful was the cat with the longest life. Daisy was the best of them all. She was Yolanda’s girl. We even had pictures of the tow of them together. Daisy really did love her best I believe. They had a good bond. Daisy lived the longest of all the cats we have ever had. I think we got her to the vet nearly ten years. She disappeared a year before we lost Dolly. I think she missed the college girl too much.

Not sure if he is number seven or not, Fresca was the year of kittens that were named after off-brand soda pops. There was Shasta, Pibbs, RC, Jolt, and others. Fresca was the long haired one of the bunch. He lived three or four years as my purring pet. He also became good friends with our new puppy at the time, It was hilarious to see him lead us on our walk to the corner and back. He walked the line on road the best of any cat we have ever had. Some of the neighbor farmer’s took to calling me the neighborhood cat walker. Fresca got owl-ly or catty in his later years and refused to be friendly with our zuchon puppy. The dog’s feeling were pretty hurt the day the cat hissed him out of the bush.

Mooch and Garfield were the year of comic strep cats. Pictured above, Mooch was a college friend save. The friend moved and needed to re-home the two. While we could not say their Korean given names the new one for Mooch became her personality completely. We took them booth to the vest but Garfield was no match for Fresca or the other township Tom. He disappeared pretty quickly. Mooch however stuck around about five years. So that makes eight and nine. Glad that they were a few years apart. Sometimes my husband says cats are a dime-a-dozen. But taking care of them is far more than a dime from the paycheck.

Suga then would be number ten. She was offspring of Mooch. The only kitten and sister that the mother cat ever took care of. She just didn’t have the mothering “hood.”The tenth goodbye of the favorite cats. So saying goodbye to cats seems like a list better made in the sleepless hours of the night. Writing the list out covers four decades, three houses, eight different vehicles (or is it ten), nine dogs, and countless brands of pet food. There are so many more things to count when one cant sleep in the night then just sheep. Oh, yeah, we had those too.

Now that I have a friend that does cat fostering and rehoming for her life work, it seemed appropriate to count these four legged creatures in print. Everyone has their list. Cars, baseballs caps, tractors, horses, or what’re the collection is, we all have something that makes our motor hum.

For me it is writing.

Okay so here is another blog written in the year eighteen that proves no matter what the topic, I can write something about it. I could get even more detailed and five the cat breed and color for each, their gender, model and make. One time my brother asked me what kind of tractor my husband was driving to snowblow the driveway (in Iowa). I had no clue. Had he asked me something significant, perhaps I might have had an answer. I teasingly answered the year and make of my piano- 1974 Everett. Now there’s something I know that is not significant to him!

Whether it’s a short list, or a detailed drama, I enjoy writing. List making is great for those sleepless hours. Writing is my new daily to do! It makes my motor pur, So I guess it’s my new passion. Just have to listen to the Spotify sound waves instead of my little Suga. She lives with a new family now. She’s very happy to inside “all the time.”

Thus ends at this time in my life any cat that puts whilst I pet it’s soft fur.


Teach us to number our days

Anyone remember the year they were eighteen?  Not really.  I do remember it as the birthday that my mother forgot and that my dad gave me a birthday card with just his name on it.  Granted as the spring of my junior year in high school, I was rather busy and wasn’t home much that day.  But reminiscing about that year wasn’t my plan for this journal entry.

Follows seventeen of course. Eighteen that is, follows seventeen  Obviously.  But each year it seems many gather for the New Years celebrations as if just by chance the clock won’t keep ticking and the next number needs to be encouraged on it’s way.  I usually just go to bed.  God seems to be in control of numbers.  He’s got a whole book for then in the Bible!

Goals.  New Years goals.  Changing, rolling over a new leaf.  I usually do that.  Misplace them.  Then wonder what happened to the past twelve months.  Sometimes I recap them in a Charistmas letter.  That’s kind of fun.  Not this year.

Honey broke my nose.

I repeat.  Honey broke my nose.

One week ago while playing frisbee with her “hyper pet” red one, she jumped up and my nose collided with hers.  Not good.  

I didn’t talk to her for a whole day.  It hurt.

The only word she heard for two days straight was DOWN!

So since the glasses still hurt the noggin, the Christmas letters are still in the box, the letters have not been read by me, and there issn’t much that can be done without the spectacles.  

I’ve been cleaning house.apperently one can still see dirt without glasses on!

So while I sat crocheting a large hook afghan, I began making my New Years resolutions.  

The first was to write a blog each week. 52.  There are fifty two weeks in a year.  To date I have only written that many in the last two years.  This is a lofty goal for me.  But maybe they will be shorter.

There are other goals, but I don’t want to bore you.

For now, I will keep cleaning up my stashes of clutter.  I will continue to let my crooked nose grow back together.  And hopefully I haven’t just done a “Pinocchio” and lied about my plans for the year eighteen.

Back to the drawing board

What is normal?

The day when writing a letter was an option again, found me listing all the things that I had not been able to do for the past six weeks. Raising my right arm into a chicken wing position to write letters was one of them. 

Normal  has a definition. “Conforming to the usual, typical or expected” is what most dictionaries quip.  One’s standard of normal however is often self-relevant. In other words, my normal is not your normal. Anything measured has a standard normalcy. But about the only thing measured in my life this last month is how many pain pills were needed to make it to the end of the day while remaining upright. 

So now that normal is approaching, behaving so that the rib can have it’s goal healing time is far from normal to me. Doing things the old-way is so easy until it suddenly is not 

Writing letters to dear ones comes easy at times. Words for those closest to me however seems lost. With the conveniences of phone calls and texting, the pen and paper are no longer normal. What more is there to say I tell myself as I sit before the empty pages. 

Other mothers or fathers have done such a thorough job of imparting their wisdom. A brief look at the list of “letters to my daughter” on the search engine proves my point. I’m really not sure at this time in our lives that I have anything new to write to my girls. 

Then I come across a list of what parents are to impart to adult children, failure finds my eyes sweating profusely. Step up to the image of good parent and the measurement seems quite lacking. What is normal -I find myself in the category there. Perhaps this checking out normal is a bad decision. 

Writing is only for the few. Normal is only relative to one’s own expectation.  Thank goodness my girls live in the day of easy phone calls and conversations. Thank goodness I can create a new normal any day I so choose. If perhaps I can figure out what to say on part to my adult children then maybe perhaps I will behind writing. Until then there are thousands of books to comb through.  Somebody has already written a few million words to their child. 

I will just keep doing my normal letter writing. And normal does not have to be re-defined for me. 

Phew! At least I talked myself out if that one! I love my daughters and son-in-law; thanks for not expecting a usually typical letter from your mom.

Rainy day projects

Not just for children

When the drip-drops woke me up this morning I knew getting out the door would be something like pulling a stubborn donkey to his feet.  Honey sits down and digs in her haunches at the first sign of raindrops. I thought I was allergic to rain.  She is worse!

So today her food went into a mini-pop bottle. That kept her busy -oh, about five minutes!  Then I was quite tempted to give her a sleeping pill so that I could go back to bed.  Not really, just tempting, that’s all. 

The dishes are all finally washed from our family gathering on Sunday. I know okay, I know I am am really lazy if it takes me two days. But the meat dish had juice in it to take to the cats in the barn. And I kept forgetting. I only feed them once a day, it wouldn’t be fair to take it down at a different time. 

So the dishes are done and the cookies are made. Bother, now I have more dishes to do!  What’s next?  Rainy day project lists are always for little kids. What about me? Can’t I have a rainy day list?

Most people go clean a closet or do some baking or paint the dining room.  Perhaps the best option for me is to just clean the counters off!  Cleaning isn’t very fun though. And anything that I do on a rainy day HAS to be fun.  I use to curl up with a talking book and crochet. For hours…  since the chiropractor told me I have to take more breaks, I really haven’t gotten any crochet projects done. It takes hours-hello.

The cookies are made and I didn’t even snitch one. Yet. So now it’s back to the cleaning list. I did get the floor in the bedroom swept, with a little honey-help. She ate the lid to some container. I threw it away after coaxing her to give it up for a treat. That wasn’t easy. I mean sweeping the floor. This crazy RP gets me dizzy often as I loose my place in the room. Luckily after t sweeps the  dust pan   was clean on the third swipe. 

Rainy days are meant for inside activities. Playing hall-fetch didn’t last very long either, so now that the sun came out it is time to go get our feet wet again. I really don’t like wet feet. So forgive me for this rubber boos  and shorts fashion statement. 

Now that I have spent the morning writing perhaps I should actually make that list. Let’s see…

To all those with a real diagnosis o ADHD  my apologies for this distracted by a four month old puppy writing. And good luck on that list!