Today is officially Laundry Day From Hell. Yes, I know, no one LIKES doing laundry (except perhaps my Mom, but she has some very peculiar hobbies), but attempting to catch up from a week away followed by a week of a broken washer is just unbearable. And the washer is less than a month old. And it was delivered 6 weeks late. I am beginning to believe it is inhabited by a wicked sprite and we are not going to have a very agreeable working relationship.

I know some moms only do laundry once a week. I know some single guys are lucky if they remember once a month when the closet is completely empty (you can only turn those boxers inside out so many times). I cannot imagine forcing myself to endure one entire day of sorting and folding all day long each and every week. I think I would have to call in sick that day. Or run away from home. My theory is that laundry is a bit like cough syrup. You don’t really like it, but it is sometimes necessary in small doses and if you take too much at once you will end up hallucinating or in the loony bin. A much better system for me is one simple load a day. No sorting, no stressing, just dump all the dirty in together sometime during the morning, remember to switch it into the dryer around lunchtime, then the dreaded folding and putting away late afternoon. And usually I treat myself to a few minutes of what I actually want to watch on the telly while I fold–Sponge Bob is silenced while I bliss out to a few minutes of HGTV or Food Network. Everyone has to leave me alone. Then it’s done–no big deal–and the Hubby thinks I am a Domestic Goddess.

But today I have two weeks worth of smelliness and funk to deal with. I haven’t even figured out how many loads–I think if I put a number on the madness I will cry. I will deserve vast quantities of wine and chocolate this evening.

On a completely different topic, I am still trying not to be frustrated by the whole concept of blogging. The Hubby still thinks that all I have to do is post consistently to my blog and tens of thousands of fans will find it and read it and we will be making a fortune within a few months time. Huh? Another friend thinks I should concentrate on making my blog marketable and not worry about writing my novel. Double huh? I see this solely as a way for me to force myself to write, to bring my writing skills out of hibernation, and frankly, to mouth off about whatever I want. No one has to like it. If they do, wonderful. But this is for me.

I posted a few weeks ago about how I can never remember what I have read. I had another unfortunate example of this Sunday morning, on such a scale that I wonder if I should be tested for early-onset Alzheimers or perhaps I am suffering from the long-term effects of having a bit too much fun in college. I thought I finished a book Saturday night and started reading a new one Sunday morning. I was about 20 pages into Elizabeth Kostova’s The Swan Thieves when the talk about psychiatry caused me to ponder if one of the characters in Marian Keyes’ Brightest Star in the Sky had managed to drive her bike into a car after all…wait…did she…? Oh, damn! I never finished the book! I know I was distracted by the Munchkin’s unrelenting commentary as we were watching a Star Wars film fest, but come on…. How embarrassing.

I was very diligent last month and managed to keep a running list of all I read. Here it is…