At the moment, I am proud to say, the house looks not half-bad. After dropping Nancy at the airport, I made myself a wholesome dinner of baked chicken, green beans, and corn on the cob. I ate dinner and watched reruns of The Tudors and drew a bit. (I'm working on an illustrated novella; my concept is that the illustrations will having nothing to do with the narrative. What do you think of that idea?) After supper I put my dishes in the dishwasher, the scraps in the compost bin, and the leftovers in the refrigerator. I also made myself a nutritious lunch.
Reviewing my accomplishments, I am so seized with the fire of ambition, I may even make the bed this morning.
I deserve some recognition for this. I deserve praise. Maybe a medal.
"But," I hear the you nit-pickers out there picking nits, "Nancy does this all the time without any prompting or special acknowledgement whatsoever. Nancy, in fact, does it far better, for if you inspect carefully, you will see the sinks are not as gleaming as they might be, and hither and yon a popcorn kernel's snowy head peeps out from beneath the furniture."
This may be true, but unlike Nancy, I labor under a terrible impediment that makes this accomplishment as remarkable as John Goodman running a marathon.
I'm me.
