Socks

Sometimes late night in the basement, it’s just me and the washer and dryer; the washer chugs along, whompa, whompa, whompa, and the dryer whirs along right beside. I spend my time there folding clothes and sorting clothes and looking at stacks of junk stored haphazardly that we don’t really need. My least favorite part about laundry is folding socks. I always leave that part to the very end and even then I try to put it off as long as I can, then I just sigh really loud, shake myself and then go ahead and get it done. But I still don’t like it. Socks are a big mystery at our house. We buy lots of socks, yet somehow, no one ever has any. Most mornings, the boys go from bedroom to bedroom looking to see who has socks available and there is usually a rumble over who gets the last pair. I suppose that part of the problem is that no one likes to come down to the basement to pick up their clean laundry; I do my part by washing and folding (even though I don’t like it) and then the clean clothes often sit, waiting on the appropriate child to come and claim them.

Last week while folding, I found myself exasperated because the piles of clothes were getting large and I had reminded the kids but still, no one had showed to pick up clothes. I was especially irritated because just 15 minutes before, K had told me that we needed “to buy socks.” I was alone in the basement thinking,” If they need socks, why don’t they just come down here and get them? They need socks, here are the socks they need, but they don’t have them because they haven’t come for them.”

In the quiet basement, God reminded me that he works like that too. He has good things for me, folded up and ready, but if I don’t pick up my stuff, he can’t give it to me. The socks are ready and waiting whether my kids pick them up or not, and so is God’s grace and provision. He is there working for me (for my good) even when I don’t accept or acknowledge it. God never stops caring for me and never stops matching up things that I need. I like thinking about all the socks God has folded for me just waiting for a pick up. Laters.

Coffee Break

Today, like a direct snub from the cosmos to me, everyone on the train (except me) was sipping from a hot cup of coffee and my seatmate was very elderly. I seriously contemplated snatching his coffee and running because I didn’t think he could catch me.  Yes, his coffee smelled that good. He must have sensed my wicked intent because he kept giving me furtive glances, and he moved across the row as soon as a seat became available. As I walked to work, I called K and told him the story and he mentioned how I might be the kind of person, who in an apocalypse kills/maims other people solely to hoard and drink the last bits of remaining coffee. I couldn’t deny it, and in fact the only other person that I would be afraid of in the coffpocalypse would be my mother, who might love coffee even more than me. I suspect that she might have already hurt a park ranger for his coffee once when we were camping and my dad forgot the coffee pot. All I know is that there was no coffee to be had, she disappeared, and then there she was, smugly sipping a steaming, white, to-go cup. I can tell you, we children gave her a wide berth that morning and minded our p’s and q’s.

 I was able to restrain myself until I got the coffee pot going at work, but, in the coffpocalypse, it’s everyone for themselves!! Laters.

It Was The Right Time

For almost two years, I’ve lived in my current house. The walls are white because it’s a rental and I hate them. What’s my ideal color scheme? Think the Caribbean, vibrant blues, bright pink, rich yellow, purple….birds of paradise and peacock feathers; I love color.   Every time I pass a white wall (which is often because I live there) I think, “ugh!!” I almost painted last year but things were in a toss-up whether we would stay in the house or not, and I thought of all the work involved and the repainting if we moved, so I just decided to take a nap instead. But sometimes the heart needs things that it really doesn’t need. Sometimes we need adventure and excitement and things that don’t make sense except to make us happy. Sometimes we need to paint things, even though tomorrow we may be moving on. It took me almost 2 years to realize how happy that one simple act would have made me, but I will remedy that this weekend. I am painting.

Addendum: I wrote this last week and my mom came for an unexpected visit over the weekend and we painted. I am happy, happy with my new turquoise kitchen. **smiling**

Laters. 

I Bear-ly Slept Last Night

It’s often nice to have someone to sleep with, unless that someone is a cover-hogging, black bear type. Sleeping with my hubs is like goat wrestling at the rodeo. It sounds like fun, but sometimes it isn’t.

K has a bad habit of cover stealing. He also pulls the sheets untucked from the end of the bed. Sometimes at 2 or 3 in the morning, I wake up, unable to untangle my legs, completely encapsulated in a large king size sheet that has no beginning or end. (I can’t sleep with the sheets like that, so I am forced to re-smooth and re-tuck right then and there or else I would lie awake all night thinking, “the sheets are untucked, the sheets are UNTUCKED!!!” 

And though we have a king size bed, we typically use very little of it. I lie on a miniscule 5 or 6 inch portion right by the edge and he lays on me. I figure that we could easily go to a twin, open our bedroom up space wise, and add a latte machine in the corner. In addition, he has the core body temperature of a small black bear. I appreciate the waves of heat in the winter when I have cold feet, but most of the time it feels like sleeping while hugging a space heater set on high. And now with the Tamoxifen induced hot flashes, it borders on sleeping with a space heater, set on high, vacationing in Dante’s Inferno, in the hot season.

At times to garner a little relief, I kick him (softly, oh, so softly) in the leg so that he will move over. And he always does the same thing; he sits straight up in bed and in a puzzled voice says, “Babe, why did you kick me?” I usually answer something witty like, “just for the fun of it,” but my reply doesn’t really matter- he never remembers any of it in the morning anyway. And besides, I know, that he knows why I kicked him, it’s just a little game we play.

 I suppose it’s no coincidence that as he often reminds me; his love language is “touch” while mine seems to be “giving (soft) kicks in the leg.” Laters.