Last night Mr. Handsome came home from work and went straight upstairs and cleaned up our room. I didn’t even tell him to do anything. It was that bad.
He put away the clothing that was strewn across the sofa, put the freshly-washed mattress pad back on the bed,
picked up the potted tree (who’s beautiful blue ceramic pot had mysteriously been broken and was leaking dirt and water all over the floor—I had just stuffed a towel under it during one of my mad dashes in and out of my room) and hauled it out to the porch, vacuumed the floor (and the floors of the other upstairs rooms, too, I believe),
and he cleaned out the corner of the room where the pack-and-play used to be and where we now toss all the junk that we don’t know what to do with or don’t want to take care of right then. He brought in stackable plastic shelving that had been in the barn, put them back in the corner of the bedroom, spread newspaper over the shelves and then laid out the peaches (I had just picked up two more bushels that afternoon) on the newspaper.
Normally, we just spread an old cloth on our floor and lay the peaches (or whatever other fruit needs to ripen, such as apricots and tomatoes) right there on the floor (and yes, in the dead of the night we occasionally forget about our produce-carpeted floor and roll and slip and shriek our way in and out of our room), so this is an enormous improvement. (Thank you, my Handsome Hunk of a Honeyman!)
Now I need to cease typing and run upstairs and study the peaches lolling about on the handsome shelving unit, checking to see if there are some ripe ones ready to go under my knife. They aren’t going to can themselves, you know.
