That’s the “story” I like to tell myself, though it isn’t true: I am not a finisher. I recoil at the examination of my life as such. Why? Because my life is a veritable trash heap of unfinished projects. I start all kinds of things — scrapbooks, craft projects, closet clean-outs, books, writing books, pet…
A conversation about boredom at Scoutie Girl yesterday got me thinking again about the daily tasks that constitute part of the “work” of my life. Not the least of these is feeding a family of six. Not the worst of them is laundry. Some I despise for no particular reason, like emptying the dishwasher. Whenever…
I get to feel superior to socks when I am conquering a load of laundry. That is sort of cool, isn’t it? There’s a swathe of the backyard that is leaf-free. Just one corner. (Well it was yesterday). I did that. I own that. Housework is menial work. Which is to say “humble” or “lowly”…
