When I was living with my parents, Mom did the laundry on Mondays. If your favorite shirt wasn’t in the hamper before you left for school Monday morning, you were waiting a-whole-nother week for it to get washed. Once I moved out and was on my own, I kinda stuck to the once-a-week washing schedule, just because it usually took that long to accumulate a load of lights and of darks. However, living overseas in two countries with impossibly tiny washers and wickedly inefficient dryers, doing laundry became an almost daily event. If I tried to save up a week’s worth of dirty clothes, it would have taken a minimum of three days to get through it all. We’ve been back in the States, with good old American size appliances, for three months, but have not reverted to a single weekly laundry day. Whenever I see a full load has accumulated, I toss it in the washer, be it Monday morning, Thursday night, or Sunday afternoon between football games. I’m grateful that I have so many random opportunities during the week to pull something warm and snuggly out of the dryer!
Daily Archives: November 5, 2013
A tale of two writing spaces
NaBloPoMo, Tuesday, November 5, 2013
Tell us about your writing space. Where do you write your blog posts?
If I’m home during the day and there aren’t a thousand other things vying for my attention, I take time to actually sit down at my desk in the upstairs office to write. When I’m here, I am usually surrounded by silence–which, depending on the day, may or may not have a beneficial effect upon my concentration. My desk is rarely this uncluttered, so writing up here often gets interrupted by filing, shredding, phone calls, emails, balancing the checkbook, organizing the pen jar…
When I’ve been too busy or too lazy to write during the day, I usually end up downstairs on the couch in the evening, banging away on my laptop while the hubby watches TV and reads the paper. More distractions here, but since some days it takes me a couple hours to spit out a hundred words, I hate to lose that time with him. (Although maybe he’d rather I just go upstairs and write what I’ve got to write than snipe at him when he asks a question in the middle of me nearly…almost…just about…damn, lost it…stringing together a coherent sentence.)