Laundry Day

I know traditionally Monday is laundry day, but I have to work at my paying job tomorrow so today's the day. I got to sort out our clothes, convinced that the neighbors must bring theirs over, but then I recognized every piece as either mine or Don's, so I was finally forced to admit that we had made all that dirty laundry all by ourselves. We are not particularly messy people, me and the mister, but we sure are good at accumulating laundry. Some day soon (when I'm resting or exceedingly bored) I intend to ruthlessly sort through my clothes, making piles of things that I love and love to wear, things that I sometimes wear, and things that I seldom wear and don't know why I keep. Doing that would certainly make more room in my closet and since I'm losing weight, I'd have room for new things. Maybe I should watch another episode of Hoarders... If you need motivation to declutter your life and house, that's the show to watch. Yikes.

January 10--Windsurfing. The light was fractured by the tiny wavelets that paved the protected bay on the windward side of the island. It was late enough in the day that the light was flat, not golden and sparkling, it was flat and white on the green water the color of the sea grass on the shallow bottom. The last few windsurfers blazed across the bay on their fragile-looking crafts, leaning against the pull of the wind on the clear sails. Anya felt the day's heat begin to rise from the pale pink sand under her feet as she upended the Heineken bottle over her open mouth. "Want another?" The voice of the tall blond bartender right at her elbow made her clatter the empty on the bar top. "Uh, no thanks." She scraped up the wet money with the pretty colors, leaving one with a lot of blue on the edges. Blue for a boy, she thought as she slid off the bar stool. The world tipped as she landed with one foot on the beach bar's floor and one on the soft sand. "Whoops," said the bartender who hurried around to steady her. "Maybe you'd better take it easy and let me take you home," he said, his cool hand firm on her upper arm. "I'm Lars. I get off in an hour." Anya smiled up at him and hummed her agreement, letting him steer her into a chair at the table in the shade near the path to the parking lot. Such a nice man, she thought as she dozed off.

That might not be a good thing. Makes me want to shake her awake and call her a cab. Could it be because I just read/listened to a book with a serial rapist? Maybe. Stay warm.
--Barbara