Lazy

I am a woman of routines.  If my keys don't go into the basket on top of the wicker planter that I use as a shoe tree, I'll never find them again.  If I don't TiVo Judge Judy at the right time, everything falls to pieces.  When I change from day to night clothes and don't set the alarm at the same time, I'll wake up late for work and the world will throw me curve balls the size of your head.

So I do laundry on Sundays.  All the loads that need to be done are done on Sundays.  Sunday is my day off, and I fight fight fight like hell to ensure that I do nothing on Sundays that would even mildly smell of anything. 

Most of my friends know this, and a few are afraid to call me on Sunday.  I'd apologize, except that I can't.  I love Sundays for the time I need to be an idiot.  (And talk to Momma.) (And do laundry.)

This weekend a very good friend came to visit, and we may or may not have drank a lot of delicious rum, combined with mint and club soda and no regret.  Sunday morning/afternoon was spent laying on my fold-out (sideways - thanks, Ikea!) couch watching Bravo.  Wondering when our heads would return, but delighting in my quippy comments (thanks for pretending I'm funny, my friend!) and thinking that maybe that last batch was the best/worst idea ever, and eating Fiber One bars.  What?

This long story is to tell you that I'm finishing up laundry tonight, I have more to do tomorrow, and I think I'm doing just fine.