Yesterday was one of those days where I transformed into a one‑person domestic circus. I was straightening up like a caffeinated Generation X ( and I don't mean the Billy Idol kind), recording songs like I was auditioning for a gospel revival, updating the record database with the seriousness of a librarian who’s seen some things, and then hauling Cooper to Tractor Supply for his scrub a dub dub day and even my wifie helped with that endeavor. He strutted out of there like he owned stock in the company.
And now—boom—Monday. Back to work. Back to pretending I’m a functioning adult. And if the appliance vibrations of the earth decide to align, maybe the washing machine will finally be repaired. If not, I foresee myself stomping into the laundromat at dawn like a mythological creature fueled entirely by rage and washing machine pods. That evil machine has been testing my spirit.
I overslept, which I’m choosing to interpret as “my body needed it” instead of “I’m falling apart like a thrift‑store recliner.” Cooper didn’t get his walk, so he gave me that look dogs give when they’re disappointed but also plotting to knock something off a table later.
Then came the shower. I tried to be present, letting the hot water hit me like a tiny spa moment, when suddenly my brain screamed, “WHERE IS THE WASHING MACHINE RECEIPT?!” Full thunder panic. The kind where your soul briefly leaves your body to check the junk drawer. Miraculously, I found it in two minutes. Two. Minutes. I should get a medal or at least a parade with one float.
And yes, I absolutely saw my own cleverness using song titles in the post. I basically winked at myself. I must think I’m adorable or something.
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