Gack.

This will probably be written in stages. The alarm clock said that I slept for seven and a half hours. My body said otherwise. And my dreams were more weird than usual. I was attending church in an unfamiliar building with a huge parking lot, on Easter Sunday, wrapped only in a towel. I left the meeting right after taking the sacrament, because I didn't want anyone to notice(!). And then I couldn't find my car. And it was raining and very, very dark. My dad drove up to help me look. He's been gone almost 30 years. I have no idea what all of that means. I just woke up feeling dazed and slightly dark.

~~~

In which your intrepid heroine spends a couple of hours listening to "Revisionist History" while turning worn out, unsalvageable items into rags. Because she needs to clear off the bed, dust the headboard, throw away the old cheap comforter that's been living inside the nice Pottery Barn duvet cover since after Beloved's funeral, likewise the flannel sheet with holes engraved into it by her alligator heels, wash and put away the duvet cover until winter, when maybe there will be sufficient progress on the honey-do list to justify a nice duvet filler from IKEA.

All this because a cup of the sherbet from hell tipped over and spilled mango raspberry fire onto the partially shredded sheet (and the otherwise impeccable duvet cover). Thus forcing her to finally deal with the archaeological dig which is her bed.  PSA: the raspberry mango spicy sherbet from Braums is evil, and you have been warned.

~~~

I've spent the better part of the day sorting out my bed. Clothes hung up; compression socks that had escaped my notice are now matched, rolled up, and in the sock drawer; old comforter extricated from the duvet cover, which is currently tumbling in the dryer; a load of whites washed and waiting their turn; half an issue of "The Economist" devoured and almost ready for recycling; a few rows of knitting; etc. etc. etc.

I learned something while wrangling the duvet cover. It has ribbons sewn into the inside corners to hog-tie whatever one chooses to insert.

Old dog. New tricks.

I am going to need my muscle relaxer tonight. I've been using my phone as a Fitbit. It thinks I've only walked seven steps today. My feet would argue otherwise, but my pajama pants don't have pockets. So it really is true about lies, d@mn lies, and statistics.

PS: I'll have to do a bit more reorganizing in my boudoir before I can lay hands on the lambswool duster. It's around here somewhere...