Yesterday I took my domestic tendencies to a whole ‘nother level.
Ashley and I are enjoying our new house and, so far at least, I’m enjoying the little things that come with it. I mowed the lawn yesterday for the first time since – I’m gonna guess – 1995. We also had a couple of friends over for dinner and weren’t cramped for space at all. There’s so much space it barely feels like we have ten cats. (Well, nine. One of them is refusing to leave her parents’ house.) We have a dog now, too, and it’s nice not to be constantly tripping over the animals.

But hanging clothes on the clothesline was something I never even knew I was longing to do. I guess all those years of watching and/or helping mom do it as I was going up really impacted me in a heretofore unknown way. I’ve hung more clothes out today, including the bedsheets which I’ll admit really weren’t dirty; I just wanted to dry them in the sun. And when I look out the back door and see our stuff on the clothesline, I feel strangely fulfilled.

What the hell is wrong with me?


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