Crunchy Thoughts

Steven and I have some odd arrangements when it comes to household chores, but none that amuse me as much as our laundry arrangements. When we first got married — and started living in the same abode — I took it upon myself launder both of our clothes heaps.

That didn’t last long. Once Steven found out that I didn’t sort the clothes first (and he wouldn’t have found out if I hadn’t shrunk a pair of jeans and faded a nice shirt) he suggested that he would do the laundry as long as I maintained the litter box.

We both feel we got the better end of the deal.

So it came to be I found myself doing miscellaneous things this weekend while Steven tackled the big pile of laundry. Steven tackles laundry like any engineer would: he reads every label on every single article of clothing, then after pondering his findings, he shuffles it off into one of ten piles, with each pile needing to be washed a specific way. When he’s done, the living room is covered with these clothes piles that looks exactly like a pasture full of fire ant beds. One by one, the piles migrate to the laundry room, waiting their turn to be rinsed free of our human filth.

I’ve learned to mostly stay out of the way when it’s laundry time. However, I happened to be in the kitchen when the dryer beeped at me, signaling a pile was done. Steven was somewhere on the other side of the house, so I figured I’d be the nice wifey and fold the well-done load of clothes as a surprise.

Steven came into the bedroom right when I was finishing folding the load: cold darks, which meant they were mostly Steven’s socks and work shirts.

“Ooh, thank you! I could’ve helped, though,” he exclaimed as he set about reorganizing my piles.
“No problem, I should help more,” I replied, beaming at the praise of my mad laundry skillz.

I lounged up on the bed as Steven started to put his clothes away. He picked up a shirt, stopped, then turned back to the bed and began to unfold and refold the shirt. He did the same thing with the next shirt.

I should have known better than to fold his clothes. “What are you doing? Are you redoing my folds?” I asked.

“Well,” he said in a somewhat sheepish voice, “they weren’t . . . flat enough. You know how I am.”

All I could do was laugh. I do know how he is, and I should have known that any shirt of his that I fold will eventually get refolded. I don’t have the engineering mind to fold clothes; you can tell by looking in my own dresser. My clothes are thrown in slapdash while Steven’s neat stacks of shirts look straight out of a magazine.

Not that I’m complaining, mind you. I am just amused by no matter how normal a couple can be, there is always something that is just downright odd. With Steven and I, it’s our laundry rituals.

Well, I’m off. Time to go clean the litter box: i.e. the better end of the deal.

Recently I have found one of the best things about working at a large university is having access to their bountiful library. Indeed, I already had access to the library via my membership of the alumni association, but as an employee not only is the library just across the street from my office, I can also check out books for up to three months at a time.

For instance, the books I checked out today are not due until the 21st of July. July! If that doesn’t get you excited then I’m afraid there’s just no hope for you. July!

Today I checked out three books pertaining to the early Christian history of Rome. A peculiar subject to be interested in, but nevertheless, I am intrigued.

You can blame the Pope for this diversion. News stories, if interesting enough, get me reading, and this new experience of old pope to new has been fascinating. Absorbing information on wikipedia on the pope led me to other popes, which led me to the Vatican City to it’s history to it’s beginnings to the time of St. Peter’s death. Did you know that they found what could be St. Peter’s bones during World War II? How compelling!

Then I found an online version of a book written by a Lanciani in the late 19th century. The university’s library didn’t have that specific book, but they listed others by the author, so I decided to check them out, literally. I could only find one of them despite the catalog database showing all of them to be in the building — I have found more misplaced books in that library — so I grabbed that one and two others that looked amusing.

I can’t wait to read them; they look so nice and deliciously old. Wish I could buy them.

. . . . Yes, I do know I’m a nerd.

Yes, I do enjoy it.

I know you’re laughing at me.

I don’t care as long as I have my old books.

No worries; I do still exist in the world. All these life change-ups force us to rework our schedules, and I haven’t really found time for the writing thing in a while. Everything should be back to normal once we unpack our last box. We expect this wonderous event to occur sometime this November.

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The cats are taking to the new house quite well. Hermione was freaked out for the first fifteen minutes or so, then she meowed, flicked her tail, and began the arduous task of putting her scent on every single corner of the walls. She’s about 20% done, I’d estimate.

They’re also having to learn how to run on hardwood floors. This has been very amusing to Steven and me. When one of them wants to launch from zero to sixty at cat-warp speed, there’s a long second where they’re running in place like Wile E. Coyote.

Renton is mostly busy trying to figure out our new kitchen chairs, which were happily given to us by Steven’s parents. These chairs have casters on them, so they glide nicely across our tiled kitchen floor. Renton has found he doesn’t care for the moving chairs, so he’s working on a system of jumping from the floor over the armrest into the chair so it moves as little as possible. He’s getting pretty good at it, but there are a few times where he hits the chair funny and it goes rolling. This provides us with much entertainment.

One of the most baffling things about the cats’ reaction to the move has been Renton’s mood: he has been incredibly nicer than his usual since we brought them to the house. Even our friends don’t get swatted at by him near as much as they used to — except Willis; Renton still doesn’t care for Willis.

It’s the weirdest thing. The moment Steven and I come through the door Renton is rubbing his head on our ankles, just aching to be picked up and petted. At first I thought he needed comforting since his environment had changed, but this has been going on for three weeks now. He’s not even on any drugs!

Not that I’m complaining, mind. It’s just weird, weird, weird.