is a medal. It doesn’t have to be fancy or engraved or even made out of metal. No strings attached necessary. No ribbons. No ceremony. No podium. Just a medal.

The definition of good-for-nothing.

 

For doing the dishes. And folding the laundry. And putting most of the laundry away in drawers. That’s about all I seem to get done these days around this joint I call home though many other tasks beckon–or at least I think they are beckoning but it’s hard to see for sure under the piles of paper and books and such. People get medals for running races–I have acquired several of them over the years–but I think it’s much easier to run a race than to to keep doing the unglamorous day-in-day-out crapola of life where there’s no date to focus on, no cheering crowds, no bands playing, no finish line (in sight, anyway), and no post-doing the dishes snack under a tent. Want to know my folding the clothes time p.r.? That’s what I thought.

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