Volare

I can't believe the weekend is half over already. I know, glass half empty, right? We spent a good chunk of the day at the in-laws, hanging out on the lawn in the shade of an old oak (?) tree. We had angel food cake, whipped cream and strawberries for my father-in-law's birthday. Oh, it was lovely. Everything was. It's haying season in the sticks, so the smell of freshly cut sweet hay hung in the air. Down the road apiece, Cousin Frank (Ellie's- my MIL- cousin) was out with his tractor. He's kind of a shit, but we refrained from betting on any tractor accidents. He takes care of the hay at the homestead, but none of us care much for him. He's had designs on the homestead for years now and he's sorely mistaken if he thinks he's getting one square inch.

When I finally deigned to get out of bed and into the shower this morning, I discovered that I did not have a clean pair of unders to wear. Obviously I'm behind on laundry. So I go down to the basement to get a pair of capris to wear commando while I throw some clothes in the washer; when I pulled them on, I felt a strange bump on the back of my right thigh. It was a pair of clean panties, caught in the leg when Brian hung them to dry. Sometimes the Universe throws a bone and I am all too glad to catch it.

So tonight I need to wash some clothes, watch some Cops and the Red Sox, and get some goddamn writing done.

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