My son says he doesn't love me
I've got the moves like Martha

Scheduled maintenance required



Sitting in my living room amongst the Seuss-like towers of clean laundry isn't the best scenerio for typing up a story.  But it's cozy and has a bit of excited anticipation attached to it.  I never know when a tall stack of men's pants or tiny kids' underwear is going to topple down onto my head.  It keeps me on my toes.

I've been trying to keep up lately.  With laundry, housework, my daughter's reading log for school, the latest Ashton Kutcher tweets, home cooked meals...

That's the story of my life. Throw in a tonsillectomy for one kid and the Coxsackie virus for the other and you've got a novella of my last month.  I get it all under control and then BAM!  The maintenance light in the car goes on.   

Why would this silly little orange light blind-side me so much?    I knew it was coming.  Even if I don't know what most other things are in a car, I can read an odometer.  (That's what it's called, right?)  I saw the mileage creeping up, but I chose to ignore it. 

I do that with most scheduled maintenance.  My hair has a semi-permanent inch of dark roots because I wait too long between visits to my magician beautician.  The straps on all my bras are twisted and frayed.  I still have Halloween decorations waiting to be deposited into their spot on the attic floor.  Oh, and my computer is waiting to download about 25 updates just as soon as I decide to turn it off and restart it.

Why do I wait?  Because right now, things are good.  My kids have recovered from surgery and viral invasions.  My laundry is clean and folded.  I can stop everything and sit here to write for a minute.  That's the maintenance I NEED today. 

And my brain is content.  And my soul is happy.