Sunday.....

Sunday morning. 9:05am.

I should be at football.

Foxy's late night foray into the ER on Monday night however, resulting in essentially an obstructed lower intestine (something I'd expect, frankly, from our resident goat, not the one child that actually chews with his teeth) along with a possible hot appendix, has kept us off the football field entirely this week. He's blown hot and cold, literally - with a temp, without a temp, icky tummy, not icky tummy - so I've sort of okay with skipping out on a game where he takes the majority of the hits right in the abdomen.

If not at football?

Well.

There are a myriad of various tasks on the list, most of which fall under the Required heading; by that I mean, I've family coming, quite a bit of it, so all of it should fall under the Required heading. I left off the things I can do when they're here...like scare them senseless while cleaning out my microwave. Since I do still have a tendency to over-steam the innards, I've had several (ahem) more Microwave Bombing moments in this house. Could be fascinating for my step-mother to see; then again, I'm not totally sure her constitution is up for that sort of thing. Watching my father's eyebrows hit his hairline as the door popped open (or, um, off)? Priceless. He's a man of few words, my dad, so most likely he'd limit his response to Holy Shit, or OMG, eyebrows hitting his hairline, one sort of forced sounding laugh (which it's not, he has the best laugh) before asking me if this happens a lot.

I'd love to say, nope, it's a one-off....but I think my blase' attitude would give me away. Or, say, had he read the other entries I have on exploding things in my house. My guess is going to be that he's beyond thrilled I've left the dehumidifier in the basement he set up alone. In the sad news department, my drill has suddenly gone MIA....I swear, this house eats things like drills. Or socks. Not the important things I'm welcome to let it eat...dust, perhaps.

I've done the Big Cleaning already - the skid marks are indeed missing in all three bowls (at least for now, I'll check just before they arrive....I do have an eight year old multi-bowl enthusiast, as well as all his buddies) the downstairs floors are coming along nicely. The howling dog, accompanying any noise made by any machine to attack her fur snow storm? A tad overwhelming, especially this early in the morning, so perhaps I'll stick to lesser frightening things to face: the Sunday paper, perhaps.

I should read it before it goes in the recycling bin...the one in the new cleaned out garage, so I could perhaps, place my car in it again. One, it's great to not have to run through rain to get in the car, two, especially if I've left the windows down (.....again) so I'm not resting my backside in a lake while dropping (or is it dripping?) my little guy off at the bus stop. Also? It's a great way to hide out at home, with no one knowing I'm there. Sort of like sneaking off for the day....but more like a sneaky stay-cation.

I've yet to face the 3000 Lego's gracing the floor upstairs in the loft, and while I'm putting cleaning off the carpet with Karen's Little Green Floor Cleaner in the Plus category, I am SO putting the fucking Lego's in the OMG, Ive Got To Pick Those Up category. I thought briefly, about putting the train together, displaying it lovingly, up on the wall, on these shelves I bought...but I tried to hang one of the shelves yesterday, and I think I've figured out why they were at Home Goods, in the clearance aisle: they don't, no matter what you do, hang.

Disappointing in a shelf. I do expect them to, gee, I don't know, hang.

Either way, I'm sitting outside, on possibly one of the last truly gorgeous Sunday mornings we may have, as Fall air has begun nipping it's way in at night, dew sparkling on my flowers, still sort of alive, Pucker laying in the sun, for once not either attacking me for using machines she detests, or, attacking me to walk her; paper, at the ready.

Cleaning can hold off. For Pete's sake, they're family. If they can't handle a bit of dog fur and not judge you for it, who will?