Arduousness

Don't you love it when, after a long and wretched weekend, after you've finally gotten together and baked the banana bread and cleaned up a little and done most of the laundry, and you're finally putting away the towels, the shelf put up last weekend suddenly collapses with a loud bang and clatter, reducing you to tears as you fold underwear and pair socks?

Me either.

The tears are dried, the husband is home and has vowed to fix the shelf, the laundry is completely done, the living room and bedroom look really rather nice. There's funny stuff on television, E.T. from the library, milk coming over from the neighbors (it was free, but they have no room in the fridge), and there will be a yummy dinner tonight.

I guess I'll live. Sometimes, though, it is very hard to be me. Most of that is my fault.