Monday, April 24, 2017

wet feet

I washed the toilets. I figure if older boy comes home and finds the toilets at least clean he will feel welcomed. I will try to do the mopping of the floors tomorrow after Rebecca's annual care conference meeting.
Snow is still dripping from the runny nose of the sky. It's like we never had a gap period of sunlight and life. Now the pansies in their pots at the store seem like a cruel mockery of what is outside.
At least the geraniums and the African violets inside the boiling writing room are placidly chewing the cud of their flowers. It's amazing how vivid they all are when I don't over water them. The amaryllis bulb is simply interested in it's own life and has not died down as I expected her to do.
I had no time to read the library books. Instead I went to the EPL site and ordered ten million more books to be put on the shelf so I can catch up on the sixty plus days of missed reading spent on the dumb lawsuit Questioning prep. We still have more questioning to do so this thing is dragging on forever like those limp garlands you see on the backs of wedding cars along with old shoes and tin cans.
I haven't looked at the medical file since the last bout of Questioning since my brain was cluttered for ages with the horror of my findings.
Now tomorrow is yet another javelin throw of information. It's like I am in the Olympics of legal horror which is I guess the whole purpose of this business.
My feet are wet from washing the toilets. I will go and shower now. Older boy is coming home late thankfully so I might be able to make the chaos of the house a bit more reasonable before he comes and points out the messes everywhere. His place is of course immaculate. The only good thing that I have done is that I have made the boys in to perfectionists with the clutter of their childhoods hounding them in their memories. That and the garage sale shopping.
Where was I? Oh yes I have done the toilets. This is the only useful thing I have done. Outside the snow clots the field and makes like a ghost.
If only I was a poet and the Muse was teaching me to play the music of my mundane life in a memorable fashion but no all I have to write about is toilet cleaning and the boys who aren't very exciting. I mean they are genius kids but otherwise they are ordinary.
But the wet feet.
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