When I first read the prompt, I thought it was compliant and I went in a direction I don’t take my blog. I’m at my most
willing compliant about 20 seconds after I sass The Mister, “You’re not the boss of me.”
But the prompt is Complaint.
Obviously this means I should list my complaints. Complaint singular is impossible.
Tuesdays are stupid.
I miss my husband. Yes, already.
The plumber is here this morning. I’m glad the plumber is here, but I have flashbacks to the kajillion-dollar hole in my yard and it makes me nervous.
Whenever I think about how annoyed I am with the upkeep of my house, I think about how much I love my house. When I think about how annoyed I am with a plumbing problem, I think about how nice it is I don’t have to walk back and forth to Fall Creek with buckets.
I’m a little cold, but grateful the furnace is runnin.
Okay, I’m not into complaining right now. I’m like my trees are swaying so pretty and this coffee is so delicious and this sweater is so comfy and my dog is so precious and this throw is so cozy — I have already entered into the land of gratitude.
Now, at 7am, I had a lot more to complain about. At 7am, the alarm went off. I was cold and hungry and tired, oh so tired. My bed was empty of man and replete with needy furbabies. There were dream-residual maracas and horses in my head. I had to sign reading logs and put on clothes and Moo couldn’t find her boots and my hair kept fallin over my face and I had to make coffee and summon my nice voice for the telephone.