Ok, as much as I want to call LilSis right now, I can’t call her one more time today. We worked on our blogs a big chunk of the morning via the air waves and finally had to hang up. But only after learning some new things — two heads are better than one when it comes to HTML. Since I can’t call her, I have to post my wanderings here:
So, early in the week I requested a book she recommended on her blog from my local library, and it came in lickety split. Since I had just finished Sternmen, I had no reason to put off starting Eat that Frog late last night.
I wish I hadn’t started it because when I read something convicting, I feel accountable (to no one) to put it into use immediately. My “frog” I wanted to eat today was finishing up some loose ends on this blog. Once that was accomplished, I gloated (on the phone) to my oh-so-intelligent-but-nerdy-little-sister about all I had accomplished on my blog.
She then felt compelled to inform me that the “frog” I was to start with was the UGLIEST frog on my list and to eat it one bite at a time. I guess that means this addiction called blogging does not count as my UGLIEST frog. She knew I had one. I hated to confess.
Clothes, especially those belonging to my I-have-to-change-10-times-a-day-son, have taken over my house. In my busy-ness, and lack of tending to his addiction of changing clothes, the clean and dirty are indistinguishable.
So, why in the world am I (yet again) sitting at this computer, working on this blog? Because I have eaten almost all of the UGLIEST frog, and posting about that froggie feat, though I’m only halfway through, is my reward.
With said son and 3 laundry baskets in tow, we sorted through old, clean, seasonal, wearable, and socks. The outgrown are now in bags and boxes in the kitchen ready to give away. The dirty are piled in the laundry room with load #2 in the washer, socks are sorted and distributed to their rightful owners (he steals socks), and the wearable are neatly folded in their respective drawers.
I am proud to say, there are NO CLOTHES on the floor, none on the furniture, none on the beds, nor hanging from the ceiling fan (no, son, that is not considered an art form).
Now, sister dear, what’s for dessert?