I spent the relatively-but-not-really cooler hours of the morning clearing a corner of the garage of its five years’ accumulation of What Do We Do With It I Dunno Chuck It Here For Now so we can move my treadmill out of my MILs spare bedroom so I can use it without annoying my SIL or exciting her dog.*
All of which means I’m exhausted and courting borderline heatstroke and wondering when in the Name of Meteorology all the bloody precipitation around here is finally going to get itself together and fall instead of just swirling thickly about and sweltering at people.
So all I’ve got this Wednesday is a poem by Henry Timrod who was a well-known poet around the time of the Civil War. He wrote several poems sincerely extolling beliefs I can’t possibly condone,** but I couldn’t at this precise moment in time care less because he also wrote the perfect poem for times like this:
Did anyone else read that second verse as sarcastically as possible? Let me know in the comments, ’cause misery loves company.
Speaking of, I’ve got to go ice down the cat so I can extract his half-melted carcass from the carpeting . . .
*Watson swears she won’t mind and the dog won’t care, but as I prefer to walk as early as possible so I won’t be awake enough to talk myself out of it—which in my small world means no later than 5:15am—and the platform shrieks so badly at first that I’ve always worried I’m going to wake my MIL anyway, I have a feeling this will be a better arrangement for all concerned. Or at least I’ll have eliminated one or two of my favorite excuses for not using the dang thing. But I’ll kick myself for that when I’ve recovered.
**I’ll do more with him later, when I can deal.