Who Lives Here?

This morning I looked around the house and was confused. "Who the heck is living here?" The Iona simply raised her head off the floor, stared at me for a couple seconds, and then promptly resumed position with a thunk to the hardwood.

At first glance, you might say...nice people live here, travelers, lovers of odd art, people with eclectic taste and style. Look a little closer and you will see orange fur balls rolling through the foyer, a restless bed unmade, and a stack of unread mail tossed on a table. The dishwasher, although clean, is also full. That means the sink and nearby counter are stacked with cups, some popcorn bowls and a plate or two. Across the kitchen near the backdoor are all the recyclables that are too big to fit in the under-counter bin. They consist mostly of wine bottles. There are running shoes haphazardly kicked off near the front door and the pillows are in disarray on the living room couch. Who, who is living here????

My retentive self seems to have taken a vacation, a holiday, a reprieve. While this may be good for the others in my life that don't necessarily care about an organized house, this will soon come to drive me crazy. In fact, this morning I decided the state of my abode was probably the reason I haven't been sleeping again at night. At least this is what I told myself. Today. If you disagree, shush with your rational thoughts, as I am going with this.

And with that, I tornadoed around the house earlier today and put things in order. Dishwasher unloaded, mail read, counters clear, shoes away, pillows plumped, bed made, recyclables sorted, and furballs...well, a girl can only accomplish so much before dawn. I will take care of that this evening after the gym. And then perhaps I will look around and say, "I live here". And then I will sleep.

It's Good to Say Great

It's only natural that when you come off a long holiday weekend, that people ask you how it was. How wonderful is it to be able to say that it was great? It is so freaking unbelievably good to say "great". "I had a GREAT weekend". "HA, take that. It was FREAKING GREAT".

Michael and I did a lot of interesting things over the past four days. We biked through Umstead, we ran at the gym, we worked out together, he made me dinner, we walked the dog, we ran errands, we saw "Inglorious Basterds", and we did a lot of talking. A lot, a lot of talking. And it was good.

Even though I wasn't sure I could walk Sunday after the second 10 mile plus bike ride, I decided to go back to the gym this evening. After running two miles, I joined a pick-up volleyball game. Oh that was too much fun! I hadn't played in years, and I forgot how much I loved it.

Now I am certain that I will not be able to walk straight tomorrow. I do not care, because this was good. No, this was great. It was really freaking great.