I pushed six wheelbarrows full of browning and yellowing fallen leaves into the slippery, muddy muck of the duck pen. Not often do the ducks wag their tails, but at seeing the piles of leaves, their back ends happily swished to and fro like fans on a hot day.
Did you know that lice eggs are called nits? And that nitpicking comes from removing eggs from hair? Not to brag, but I learned that gem in a kid’s book last night.
I have never liked feathers in pillows; their bony-like quills of death are far from my idea of comfort.
A one-time visit to an Eastern acupuncturist years ago taught me not to angle my neck with a pillow. Wanting the nerve-shooting pain from a crick in my neck to stop, I quickly and easily transitioned to a no-pillow lifestyle.
After the pain subsided, I pillowed up again. But the thick, cotton cloud and other pillow sizes have made a Goldilocks out of me ever since.
Enter a “where did this come from?” response at seeing a feather pillow in our guest bedroom last Thursday. As you can imagine, I patted and immediately dismissed it. But needing something, my dismissal was short-lived.
“It’s love. I am in love with this thing,” I told Dave this morning upon waking, my head pressing into the mashed potato-like mass of less-than-noticeable feathers. For a week, I’ve been using the feather pillow, finding that my head lies horizontal, not angled – which I love – and the support, albeit minimal, is the perfect amount for me.
The Handmaid’s Tale is a show that I both love and hate. Love, because I’m into dystopian worlds and appreciative of the complexity of what a writer creates. Hate, because the circumstances of the world prevent the main character from protecting or caring for her daughter. Which is brutal on my poor mothering heart!
I’m glad it’s almost over; I’ll watch the season finale right after I post this.
Good to see you here. Talk to you tomorrow.
Love, Jaclynn
Going On 40 