Sometimes days are far better than they appear to be. Take this Sunday: I could give it a bum rap alright. Consider it:
We wake up and I have to say, all these years of my dutiful Sunday house cleaning have left their mark because the first words out of Ed's mouth are -- is it time to clean the house yet? (He's my vacuum guy.)
So I, or rather we, clean. And eat breakfast.
Yoga next: now that's very nice. Though a little tainted by the fact that I have to drop off, on my way there, a catch-and-release mouse that had wandered into the farmhouse. The second one in a week! Somehow, this year, they're stubbornly finding a crack that we haven't quite yet identified. This tyke is spunky and runs around my feet before scampering off (and no, it is not the same mouse doing a return trip -- I take them a good couple of miles away from us and smart as they may be, they're not homing pigeons).
Gray skies, skimpy snow -- it's an uninteresting landscape out there, around us today.
After yoga? Well, I wait for the ice storm to come. So concerned am I by the forecast of slick, dangerous roads that I call my daughter and tell her not to come for dinner.
In the end, we have a half hour of this:
...which admittedly looks lovely, but it's fleeting and besides, it should all melt tomorrow as we're getting a two day warm spell.
When the ice storm changes its mind and takes a different (non-Madison) route, I call back my daughter and reinvite her to dinner, but by then she and her husband have settled in for the night. Wise people. You don't go out unless you have to on iffy weather days.
So that doesn't sound too good, right? A day of mousy tones and shades of gray and failed dinner plans.
An yet, consider this: the farmhouse is warm and spiffy clean, the ice storm passes us by, and a thrown together supper of chicken brats turns out to be more than fine.
A simple day with simple foods and earthy tones. I'm okay with that.