I have a white slip-covered sofa. People always tell me that they’d never have a white sofa, but once a month I throw that baby in the wash and problem solved. It’s taken a hit from a glass of red wine and blueberry pie and came out just as purty as ever. I love when it comes out of the wash and is back on. Clean, white, perfect. I like it so much that I prefer nobody sit on it. Seriously. Could ya not sit on the big white thing in the living room that’s meant to be sat in? Over the years, I’ve recognized this as obsessive-compulsive behavior. My dad one time scrubbed the hose because it was dirty, so amongst my people this is called weekend chores.
One day, I said to Big Daddy that this sofa smoothing was making me question my sanity. Do you think it’s time for me to take the bus to Crazy Town? Nah, he says, I’m a little kooky with the water thing. True that, as the youngins say. Our back yard looks like we’re operating a commercial bucket farm with all the containers to catch water and that’s with a rain barrel. I have no idea why he collects water. Or drops his undies by the front door. Or puts fish in the Cialis tub.
I’m a little concerned for the Big Daddy and he may score high on the Nut Chart, but the cat just walked across the sofa and I’ve got to smooth the paw prints he just put in the thing or I will have some sort of anxiety attack that will require a pill. Some days nursing my own mental illness leaves me no time to nurse anyone else.
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| When it’s like this, I don’t have any of my spells. |