I may be addicted.
I had a mini-“help”er.
I’ve spent eight+ hours over the past two days, basically this whole weekend, painting a bedroom. At 6:30 tonight I changed my paint-laden pants into a semi-clean skirt and took my daughter out to buy a bathing suit for tomorrow because the one she bought after church today, during the “entire family buys bathing suits after church extravaganza”, didn’t look right (to her). Of course, as soon as I reached the shopping center I realized it was Sunday and the shops would be closed by 6PM. It was 7:08PM. I promised the girl we would stop at the store on the way to the pool tomorrow and get her a suit, I sent her into the local ice cream parlor for a vanilla milkshake for dinner, swore her to secrecy since the sisters weren’t getting ice cream and came home.
Dishes need to be done, my house is trashed and all I really want to do is lay down and sleep. Or watch Signed, Sealed and Delivered, whichever comes first.
I think not.
Before any of that could happen I was hugging my tearful seven year old whose heart was breaking because she didn’t get ice cream (somebody spilled the beans) and I smelled smoke on her hair. When I asked why she smelled like smoke she told me it was because there was smoke upstairs. Uh oh.
“Why does it smell like smoke upstairs?” I yelled up the steps.
My thirteen year old said it was the potatoes on the stove.
The boiling potatoes for the potato salad for tomorrow that I put on the stove. And forgot about.
This confirms that I really shouldn’t be allowed near kitchens or basically attempt to work at all for the rest of the night.
Yet here I am. 7:39PM on a Sunday night and I feel compelled to blog.
I wonder what disasters I’ll find when I read this post tomorrow…
Happy Memorial Day!
Close. When I saw this I immediately read it as in “close the door.” It seems natural that my brain would go there since I say the word, oh, 6 or 7 hundred times a day during the summer. My little window AC is chugging along to cool down my third floor attic bedroom and every. single. time. a child bursts in (which is often) I say, CLOSE THE DOOR! It would be nice if I had a recording that shouted it out every time the door creaked open – sort of like a Harry Potter-esque spell.
Once my brain got passed that definition, I realized the word could also be Close – as in, “she is standing close to me.” Which perfectly describes my seven year old daughter whose “love tank” is always empty. She actually once paid her thirteen year old sister $2 to let her snuggle with her. 
Clothed with Joy 