The Anatomy of Finding Breakfast
The Anatomy of Finding Breakfast
1. Amble into the kitchen with the sole purpose of getting something to eat. Although I'm not *really* hungry, I've been told ad nauseam to not skip breakfast. So, off to the kitchen I go, to stare into the fridge and get 'creative.'
2. Enter the kitchen and notice the dishes *still* aren't done... and probably never will be. Make a millisecond effort to accept that fact, take another millisecond to decide whether or not I should do them myself, then glance out the kitchen window to the sound of wind chimes, and beyond those, my winter-wracked garden.
3. Forget dishes altogether and head outside in pajamas and slippers. Check out my garden bling hanging from my oak tree. Notice gargoyle wind chime needs emergency surgery.
4. Bring in gargoyle and two other windchimes in need of a good fixin'. Sit in office and make necessary repairs.
5. Return to the backyard and disperse wind chimes in designated and strategic locations (for optimum wind chime-'age' through the year taking into account all four directions; my backyard is very melodic.)
6. Look at dropped leaves in the garden with disgust. Knowing we may get a bit of rain later today, pull the rake out of the garage and scrape as many leaves out of the garden, although a leaf-blower would be the ideal tool to use.
7. Rearrange solar-powered ground bling, and upright my gnome.
8. On the way back to the house, make a decision to return to backyard later today if not raining and plan on a garden-center trip to procure my new annual garden bling, and definitely another windchime (an annual investment.)
9. Take one more look from the back door before going into the house: Veggie garden this year? Fix birdhouses, get more bird food and suet. Wonder if I'm going to see hummingbirds this year? Wonder how much I'll be home this year?
10. Wander back into the kitchen and look in the fridge. Still not hungry, have ran out of time, not creative, not interested in making anything, choose a red bell pepper, go back to the office.
11. Dishes *still* aren't done... and probably never will be.