Housecleaning and Writing-as-Therapy

I'm taking a workshop this week at the University of Phoenix. On the week my in-laws are coming to town, the week I'm trying to get my garage cleared out so we can take it off our lease, the week we pay rent... the workshop is Time and Stress Management. This makes me giggle. Today's exercise was making a log of everything we did yesterday. My instructor looked at my log and kinda went OMG - how on earth are you going to manage school on top of all that? I assured him that I'm not usually preparing for an out-of-town visit, cleaning out my storage, arranging preschool, sending the kids to camp in South Seattle, etc. We shall see what he says.

My in-laws are supposed to be here at two, although it's a long drive (about as far away from my apartment north of Seattle as you can get and still be in Washington State) and Seafair weekend (so traffic) coming up and all that, which makes "we'll be there at two" a very rough estimate. I feel pretty safe vacuuming at 1:55.

Except that my vacuum suddenly does not suck.

And I don't mean that in a good way.

Laston (or his dad, who has Mad Skillz) will have to look at it. My gifts lie elsewhere, and further than checking the canister to see if it's full I do not go. I can drive a nail, use a screwdriver, change a tire, and reset the disposer in my sink; that's about as far as my mechanical aptitude goes. I prefer electronics. Or better yet, words.

Now, back to the grindstone. Only dishes left to do... but I had to cool down (both literally and figuratively) after wrestling with the vacuum.