Lint

Another thing I really like doing is laundry. I think, partly because I have taken it on as MY JOB since getting married. Don't get me wrong, Patrick is more than happy to do his share, but hands off husband, I'm the laundry doer around here. I can't cook very well at all (and have no desire to do so if it isn't baking goodness) so I make it my own. Personally, I have never really liked tumble driers. I think they are bad for the environment and cost a fortune to run. Although there is something to be said about toasty PJs fresh from the machine on a cold night. Since moving to the cold wilderness that is New England, I had to embrace the tumble drier because Patrick's parents wouldn't have a line in the garden (WTF) and when it gets cold, putting it outside would be a bloody waste of time, unless your washing instructions said "-10C with a a dusting of snow instead of dry clean only" AND now we live in a small flat, with a toddler who given her way would cover everything in blueberry juice. So I am all about the tumble drier now, more-so because our electricity bill is all included in the rent, and there is a laundry set up in the basement.

Every time I go down there (through the back door in Addie's room down to the basement down the stairs that no matter what, get me out of breath!) I am excited to change over the washing from the washer to the drier. Why you ask? Well, for me, the best thing about laundry is emptying the lint filter. I know that is kinda gross, but it is my Amalie moment (when you find out Amalie likes putting her hands into buckets of seeds). It is great... and if you have to wash real fluffy stuff.. even better. There is something really satisfying about peeling off a little blanket of fluff and throwing it in the bin.

I think some of this weirdness stems from the fact that our flat has wooden floors, and we have one red/purple wool rug that has been shedding since the day I went with Rusty to buy in 2009 to put in their basement. The stuff gets everything, and then joins to random strands of my hair and lurks in the corners of the room or blows down the hall way like tumbleweed in a western flick. I swear to go I have vacuum a ton of times a week, and that fucking stuff gets everywhere.

Tonight I intend on having a great night sleep. I bought a vaporiser/humidifier (I don't understand what the difference is between the two, but apparently in CVS (Boots equiv.) it is about $20) for our room, some ear plugs for me and some snore strips for my husband. Our marriage might be salvageable afterall! My stomach had me up at arse crack of dawn this morning, and then Patrick's snoring wouldn't let me back to sleep, so he got a lot of huffing and puffing and elbows and frustrated shoutings at. Poor him, he can't help it. But we all know my thoughts on snoring. It is my worst nightmare and just turns me into crazy women. I feel a bit like Uma Thurman in Kill Bill when that siren comes in and she then starts kicking peoples arses. Which is actually the theme tune to Ironside. I can't stop myself though. Maybe in a past life I was a conditioned killer that had a similar noise as my trigger.