Post-Thanksgiving
The soap I am currently using smells strongly of eucalyptus, reminding me of Sydney and Vick's Vapour Rub. It doesn't linger, which surprises me. I would have thought it more robust.
Stefan has been working solidly and hard, which puts me on tenterhooks rather. I don't want to gallivant too hard, seems to be rubbing it in, but on the other hand if I stay in (sorting, cleaning, cooking, reading) all the while tracking his progress with one ear, it boils down to MORE EATING, which equals more of me.
On the other hand the house is now battened down for winter, I have completed all the sewing I have fabric for, found some interesting projects in my scrap chest, and have even stirred myself to invite dear friends old and new to dinners. Here I shudder a little, because of course this will eat into Stefan's customary fourteen hour day. It would be even better if I could drag him out for walks, for both of us.
The vast soup I made with the turkey carcass is delicious, better than expected, but my lads are surfeited with turkey and won't touch it, so it will go into the freezer in small cartons, for a series of solitary meals a la bonne femme. I am beginning to feel I do a great deal of this sort of ducking and weaving around the running of the household, eating what others won't, plumping pillows, smoothing blankets, wiping cat sick, scraping cat litter, in a strangely concealed way. I don't expect Stefan to housekeep beyond his allotted role of feeding the cat, but I can't help but wonder if I'm the only one who cares. He did say the house looked welcoming and lively when the Monster dragged some investors over, and that gives me absurd pleasure.
I need to buy a table, as Caroline can now fit her precious French farmhouse table, on loan to me, into her new house. The one I want is 106 inches, just short of nine feet, so longer tablecloths are in order.
I'm underoccupied aren't I? Hanging about like a knotless thread, not helping all that much but at least able to intercept phone calls and fill in odd orders, make lunch. Could a grown woman perhaps do better?
I had a fleeting return of meaning, debriefing an investor of his expectations and letting him know where we are. I used to be a woman of business.
Stefan has been working solidly and hard, which puts me on tenterhooks rather. I don't want to gallivant too hard, seems to be rubbing it in, but on the other hand if I stay in (sorting, cleaning, cooking, reading) all the while tracking his progress with one ear, it boils down to MORE EATING, which equals more of me.
On the other hand the house is now battened down for winter, I have completed all the sewing I have fabric for, found some interesting projects in my scrap chest, and have even stirred myself to invite dear friends old and new to dinners. Here I shudder a little, because of course this will eat into Stefan's customary fourteen hour day. It would be even better if I could drag him out for walks, for both of us.
The vast soup I made with the turkey carcass is delicious, better than expected, but my lads are surfeited with turkey and won't touch it, so it will go into the freezer in small cartons, for a series of solitary meals a la bonne femme. I am beginning to feel I do a great deal of this sort of ducking and weaving around the running of the household, eating what others won't, plumping pillows, smoothing blankets, wiping cat sick, scraping cat litter, in a strangely concealed way. I don't expect Stefan to housekeep beyond his allotted role of feeding the cat, but I can't help but wonder if I'm the only one who cares. He did say the house looked welcoming and lively when the Monster dragged some investors over, and that gives me absurd pleasure.
I need to buy a table, as Caroline can now fit her precious French farmhouse table, on loan to me, into her new house. The one I want is 106 inches, just short of nine feet, so longer tablecloths are in order.
I'm underoccupied aren't I? Hanging about like a knotless thread, not helping all that much but at least able to intercept phone calls and fill in odd orders, make lunch. Could a grown woman perhaps do better?
I had a fleeting return of meaning, debriefing an investor of his expectations and letting him know where we are. I used to be a woman of business.
posted by Tricia Rose at 11:48 AM
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