I'm feeling very virtuous today, having walked my dog two miles exactly. I know it's two miles exactly because the streets in Phoenix are in a perfect grid. The streets that are named run east and west and are one mile apart. The streets that are numbered run north and south and are varied, usually only a block or two apart. We walked up the canal park from the Thunderbird overpass to the Greenway overpass and then back. Well, I walked. Justice chased birds and an occasional rabbit (which, I'm happy to report, because of an old leg injury he can't catch), ran in and out of the stream to cool himself off, and generally just had a good time. This is the first time we've done that length and it feels great, although we are both quite stinky, and after his forays through the water my dog smells like pollywogs. Ick!

My husband says if it weren't too weird he'd be jealous of the dog because Justice is such a loving, loveable beast and I dote on him unlike most other humans I know. Why? Because he never smirks at me when I say the wrong thing and he doesn't mind if I don't put my makeup on and he's always ready to go on time. He sits on my feet when they're cold and he comes and nudges my hand with his head when he thinks we need a little cuddle. When I'm dieting he doesn't call up and beg me to please, please try the new Mexican place or have just one more bite of cake. I think people should behave more like dogs. Life would be more pleasant.

This morning I got up and started scrubbing down the kitchen. It's gotten rather snoggy after weeks of neglect. But there I was sweating and groaning like a Marine on an obstacle course, wiping down the cupboard doors, and my husband walks through and says, "You missed a spot." I slapped the rag down, got up off my knees, and said, "Why is it that on your day off, you actually have a day off and when it's my day off, I clean house?" He shrugged. I threw the rag at him. He finished swabbing down the cupboard doors, after which I introduced him to the dustmop and the wetmop while I started preparing a pot of hammocks and beans (his favorite). When he finished the floors I led him outside where the trees are full of grapefruits, oranges, and lemons that need picking and boxing up for friends and family as we can't possibly use them all, and he's now in the kitchen juicing lemons. These things he is doing without complaint, and is even whistling while he works like one of the Seven Dwarves, and so I've concluded that his lack of participation in the finer things of life such as dusting, mopping, scrubbing, and organizing, isn't due to disinterest or even laziness. It's because I never asked. Just like Mom. We kids always helped with housework, but my dad didn't do a thing in the house. His domain was the yards and the garage. My mother, though she didn't work outside the house, would clean until her fingertips bled. I'm just not willing to do that and I don't think I should have to spend my days off cleaning and running errands and doing laundry and grocery shopping, dog walking, bill paying, and whatever else is left to do if I'm still breathing.

Now he's just come in and offered to get us a hotel room in April up north so we can go up and ride the train through the canyon with my cousins who are coming on vacation that week. Maybe his day of chores has enlightened him regarding how much work I do beyond the eight hours that brings a paycheck. I'm practical enough to know that things will never be equal when it comes to housework, but he can at least have a share in the work.

Now I've got to go take a shower and get myself cleaned up. Wonder if he'll share in that too.

Well, it's been a while since I've been here. Had to get priorities straight. I've been writing up a hailstorm, started second novel. Joined Nutrisystem. Working overtime. Running dog down at the canal where he can fly free and loose and splash in the creek and make my truck smell like swamp all the way home. Santa was kind and brought the CD player I wanted, the kind that fits up under the kitchen cupboard and doesn't take up counter space...not that I'm limited there. My kitchen is so huge you can tire yourself out just nukking a bowl of oatmeal. I have an entire cupboard that is empty save for an enormous Mormon-size jar of dill pickles left over from my wedding two and half years ago. Guess if there's a disaster we won't starve for a while, just get pickled. Son is home and safe and ship won't be going out for a few months at least, so, for right now, this minute, today, everything is perfect.