Thoughts from atop the washer

As I type this, I am sitting on top of our poorly-balanced washing machine, which, because our basement floor is slanty, must be up on a complicated system of brick and planks, and must be sat on at all times while wash is being done, lest it walk off its brick-plank structure and tip over, disgorging my ostensibly clean sheets onto the basement floor. It's a really bumpy ride, so I hope I'm not doing any damage to the inner workings of my laptop, but dammit, the world needs its blog fix, and I cannot deny it!

Although, sadly, I have almost nothing of interest to say. Ben has been out of town for the last five days, so I have slowly been devolving from self-sufficient girl ("I'll cook chicken and rice for dinner! I'll clean out my closet!") to lonely hobo wearing the cast-off clothes found in said closet ("Where are the fucking Cheez-its? They will make an excellent repast!"). This was made much worse yesterday when, inexplicably, I was hit with a high fever, and so spent most the day being hot and watching Lifetime Television for Women, which only heightened my delirium.

Feeling much better today, I drove to Seven Hills to see our new office (I have to drive around Dead Man's Curve to get there, which is both terrifying and amusing, because now I regularly get to say the phrase "Dead Man's Curve" in every day conversation, which is much more useful than you would think). My new desk is by a window, which thrills me, because now I not only get regular direct sunlight, but my Sirius satelite radio works there, meaning I will now be in super-heaven, all the time.

And obviously, I have scraped myself together enough to get around to doing laundry, which is why I am currently riding the bucking bronco that is this Maytag. So now I'll have clean underwear to put on so my mother won't be embarrassed when they scrape my remains off Dead Man's Curve.