Run and Done

When I was in twelfth grade all the chicks in AP English had eighth period gym, because a good way to encourage overachievement is to make you play dodgeball for forty-five minutes in the sweltering heat after all the other seniors have gone home for the day. ANYWAY, the point is that sometimes we’d have Run and Done, which was both the best and worst kind of gym, because you had to do laps for twelve minutes (which is a LONG TIME if you are spastic like me) but then you could leave.

I don’t know why I’m thinking about that right now. 

Anyway. Tom’s been home in New York this week doing boy things. He bought me flowers before he left.

In his absence I’ve been doing some serious around-the-house puttering: laundry is folded, coupons are clipped, and by the time you read this the brand-new bedskirt will hopefully be on the bed. I grew up in a house with bedskirts, and not having one has made me feel like we live in a tenement. Is that anal? That’s probably really anal.

Moving on. I hit Target with my friend H, took the Tank for a long walk, and finally all my loose magazine-page recipes into a notebook. I finished my entry for the Real Simple essay contest.  I caught up on some Lost. We are moving along at a steady clip here behind the kitchen door, or if we are not we are tricking ourselves into believing it. 

The air is cooling off, chickens. Something is about to change.