…with apologies to Lewis Carroll. We noticed that a neighbor had an old grill on their sidewalk last Sunday, and as we passed it, Fuzzy teased, “You know how you keep saying you want a grill…”

I pointed out that since there was no sign saying otherwise that grill was probably out for trash. It looked much more than “gently used.” In fact the words, “natural disaster” sprang to mind.

The thing is, I do want a grill. We have one of those George Foreman counter-top things, but I want an outdoor grill, the kind with the propane tank and the froufrou grill cover, and the ceramic briquettes instead of real charcoal. I want to roast potatoes and grill salmon and steak all summer. I hate cooking inside when I don’t have to, and the Foreman thing’s okay, but there’s just something about actual FIRE that makes meat taste better.

Vegetables too, for that matter.

To borrow a phrase from my friend Ms. Eclectic, we hired a Domestic Goddess a couple of weeks ago. She was a referral from another friend, and she’s wonderful, but having someone else do housework means I have to remember to tell her things.

Example: the blue bag is for recycling, not garbage.

Or: the hot and cold water in the kitchen and one of thebathroom faucets are reversed.

Other than stuff like that, though, things are going well. I work from home, so I try not to get in her way, and she tries not to get in mine, and the dogs go back and forth between us until the Vacuum Monster comes out, in which case Zorro dives under the bed, and Miss Cleo goes into attack mode. She HATES the Vacuum Monster. She hates it so much that if we forget to put ours away (because we’re briefly distracted by something else) she’ll leave a deposit on top of it.

In any case, Wednesday’s are now Domestic Goddess days in the morning, and bubble bath days in the evening.

Yay Wednesdays.

Unless cleaning the kitchen, and paying for my registration for the conference I posted about earlier counts, I’ve been singularly unproductive today, writing a little, reading a lot, cuddling Fuzzy and the dogs, and catching up on sleep.

We did manage to leave the house (once the car was returned to us with working A/C - a MUST in this climate (it cost $1620 to repair.)) for a lovely dinner at Hanasho where I managed not to drip soy sauce into my cleavage - barely.

I’m caught up on work. Laundry day is usually Sunday. The housecleaner will deal with vacuuming and such. But one task I still haven’t managed is to do the taxes - I who usually do them on February first, cannot seem to drag myself up to my office (the computer where TurboTax lives) and actually plug in numbers.

It’s not so much that I think we’re going to owe, because even as a full-time 1099′d writer I’m showing a loss on paper, as that I hate my current array of office furniture so much that my office doesn’t feel welcoming or pleasant, it feels like a prison.

I hate that feeling.

And so, here I sit, blogging and chattering via email about a script proposal, instead of doing anything remotely useful.

Oh, the laziness of me.

I woke up this morning to a pounding headache, one that had been threatening to arrive all day yesterday, but didn’t really come on in force until I tried to go to sleep last night, and the sound of Fuzzy grumbling in the bathroom. It seems that L, our new housekeeper, did such a great job of cleaning the bathroom vanities, that he can’t find anything.

(Mind you, he is afflicted with the inability to see any object that requires moving another object. I always thought this was limited to looking for items in the fridge, but it’s universal, apparently.)

Outside, while the temperature is mild, the wind is not, and it’s making a howling sound that the dogs are clearly disgruntled by. Poor sensitive chihuahua ears. Zorro’s been giving me his patented slitty-eyed look all morning. As if I can control the wind.

I found the perfect way to soothe my own grumpiness, however. I made oatmeal, laced it with honey, and mixed in half a container of fresh blueberries.

Mmm. Blueberries.

My head still hurts.
But I’ll survive.

On Sunday, driving through Cedar Hill under ominous clouds, I looked at a line of men in plaid pants and cute hats, their golf equipment arrayed behind them, all along the driving range, and thought, “How peaceful. Wonder what would happen if it rained.”

It did not rain on Sunday, and while it threatened to rain all day yesterday, no real precipitation occurred, but this morning the heavens let flow a deluge and it’s been windy and rainy all day.

It’s the kind of day that makes working from home absolutely wonderful, because in between writing and researching, I could soothe the dogs, who are frightened of thunder, and make soup and a turkey sandwich for lunch, which I ate sitting in my comfy sofa, while watching lightning arc across the sky.

This afternoon, I went through the South Beach quick meals cookbook and found a recipe that would use a bunch of odds and ends I had in the fridge, and we’re about to sit down to an episode of Angel on DVD and piping hot pesto chicken with steamed broccoli on the side.

I love Rainy Days.

We went to bed later than anticipated, as sometimes happens, and I was hot when I finally fell asleep after swallowing a melatonin tab and four ibuprofen, but when I woke up I was freezing. I hate that.

I love waking to gentle fog embracing the world, however. Fog and mist feel like magic to me, softening all the blurry edges and allowing me to see the world in soft focus. I snapped pictures of the peach tree in the fog - it’s in blossom - but I can’t find the USB cable I removed from the box not two days ago, so I can’t upload them til later, because neither laptop has a flash card reader (though the desktop does).

As I was steeping my tea, the carpet guys pulled up, though they haven’t yet come to the door or left their truck. It’s all good. I’m not in a rush.

I’m working in the living room today, and there’s no tv or radio on, so I can hear birdsong from both the back and front yards.

It may be Tuesday, but it feels like Monday should have been.

Between Zorro being sick and both of us being sick (we keep passing a cold/sinus/thing back and forth, I think), and just not sleeping well, my schedule is skewed beyond the normal funky hours I tend to keep, which is why I, the one who generally doesn’t work past noon on Fridays, found myself writing news about life insurance policies at 6 PM last night, and working on a music video for a project at eleven last night.

Today was a mix of business and pleasure. We put the order in for the new carpet for the lower hallway and stairs (a commercial grade variegated color called “moss” for the first floor - a mix of sage, clay, coffee and cream, and slate - the swatch looked amazing when we put it near the walls and the cherry floor it will touch.

The upper hall and stairs will get cushy-soft residential carpet in a color called “mocha mist” which is swear is NOT this year’s version of condo cream or apartment gold. It’s a caramel-y warm neutral, but deeper than any of those “we’re about to sell this house” colors, and while it goes well with the current color scheme, will allow us to change the walls without having to redo the carpet AGAIN, should we desire.

It takes 10 or so days for the carpet to arrive.

I cannot wait.

I also met Deb for coffee (this time at the Border’s in Arlington Highlands, where there was an actual bagpiper piping in the square. Apparently, he’s a high school student and a member of the Scottish Rite, and this was some kind of extra credit thing. He was adorable, in the way that freshly scrubbed teenaged boys in kilts tend to be, and somehow it was a perfect cap to a sunny, springy, February day.

We just got back from grocery shopping (London broil 2 for 1, ditto the high-grade chicken breasts. Yay meat!) and I’m doing some pre-cleaning before Fuzzy steam cleans the carpets for the last time. Well, THESE carpets, anyway.

In April, we’ll be tiling the formal dining room.