I don’t know.
The grand living room project won’t get finished. It made me angry at about the sixth coat of red. And I got tired. So now it’s waiting for the trim to be painted. I need to finish it.
The whole house is in shambles. It feels as though the monsters got out from under the beds and had a rumpus like the one in Where The Wild Things Are.
LightHusband’s parents, siblings and families are coming for Thanksgiving (40 some odd days from now). And the house is in shambles … rumpused, as it were.
Worse than that, I am rumpused. I am torn and lost and tattered by the events of the past year. Grief continues to assail me at the worst possible times. Smaug is generally quiet. I can do all the things a functioning adult is supposed to do. But I am sad and tired.
Every so often the thought of sneaking into the back of a church for a service crosses one of our minds. It would be good to be amongst the faithful again for a little while. But I cannot bear the rape of my soul that goes along with it.
So the droughth continues.
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