Tweet Yesterday marked the first day of a self-imposed 30-day strike against all things domesticated. As usual, I left home at 7:30am... consciously stopping myself from picking up dirty clothes off the bathroom floor and straightening the bath towels. I returned at 5:30pm, clothes still lazily piled below the skewed towels. And I was ok. Even after I noticed the tissues in the trash dangerously perched above the rim like skilled Chinese Acrobats, I was still ok. I know this is just the beginning and I shall not be defeated at this early stage of the game.
I grabbed my book - a most excellent read titled No Angel by Penny Vincenzi, I can barely put it down - and headed outside to relax. Dotter came out to join me and suggested we head off to the park, which WE DID! (We invited Bean, but she decided to roll the dice and see if Big V would take her to WalMart so she could get a new music CD that just came out.)
Hand in hand we strolled through the neighborhood pointing out flowers and birds. I didn't realize how pregnant I had become until we started up the slow, steady incline known as "Sixth Street." The park was fun... would have been more fun had the three teens monopolizing the swings weren't cussing and yelling out sexual commentary.
It was a most relaxing evening, just Dotter and I. By the time we returned home it was obvious the lack of my presence was being felt. (Or at least that's what I'm telling myself.) It was announced that since nothing was cooked for dinner, V had to go to town and get food. (I really should tell him where the pantry is...)