Yeah, I was getting up early and doing my shopping before the weather came in. Um, yeah.

I'm heading out momentarily.

I slept to nine, which is way late for me, and am now breakfasting on delicious Diet Dr. Pepper and graham crackers. I threw our first load of laundry in, so I feel a tiny smidge virtuous.

Speaking of laundry, how do you do yours? We make three loads and do it all in one day. I have enough underwear to last maybe a week and a half, and we do have a set of back-up sheets, but we almost never go longer than a week, because that's when we change the bed. We also put all the clothes away on laundry day--mostly so the cats wont A. shed, B. sleep or C vomit on them--or some combination thereof.

While I'm waiting to finish my juice, I do laundry every 2 weeks. Usually 2 loads, sometimes 3 (mainly in the winter with all those bulky sweaters.) It gets put away as soon as it is done.

I thought about going out and doing Christmas shopping and then remembered I basically live on the moon and there isn't anyplace decent to go. Before the weekend is over I'll surf the web and find what I need online.

It's hard to have any holiday spirit when it's 83 degrees outside.

It's hard to have any holiday spirit when it's 83 degrees outside.

I'm from Jamaica. I'm finding LA ungodly cold right now. My sister has offered to come out and spend Christmas with me, and I know she'll whine up a storm. We're used to playing on the beach Christmas day, and given, oh, Bethlehem's location even my atheistic self is perfectly copacetic with it.

I actually really dislike seeing warm weather places with cold weather decorations, but I'm extremely grinchy when it comes to Christmas stuff that's not religious.

Which makes little sense, I realise, but there I go.

I never do laundry enough. That's just how it goes. Mostly I'm driven by krav clothes--I'll need to do another load of hard colours before Wednesday, because that's when I'll run out and have to teach. Actually, maybe Monday. How irritating.

When I get irritated enough to do everything I usually load up the car and go down the street with everything that will be tumbledried and just do eight or nine loads and fold till my arms drop off. Then come home and do the delicates and bright colours.

I hate laundry. Doing it in small increments is obviously sensible, but would require me to put away the previous loads in anything resembling a timely manner. And I so don't. And then there's ironing....basically I'm never done.

What ita said. I am horrible about all of it, which means it turns into a major project whenever I can't ignore it anymore. Which is actually this weekend, unfortunately.

What is this ironing that you speak of?

I usually do one load of laundry on the weekend. Machines are in the basement, so it's really not that much of an effort to make.

Laundry happens pretty much every single day here. I don't do the boys clothes because nasty smelly boys clothes. They have done them since they were tall enough to reach the knobs, with a stool. Our clothes may not be bulky because of the climate, but we change often and most times all 4 of us are involved in some type of sports or physical stuff. Much laundry.

I don't mind doing laundry; I'll do 5 loads before I'd volunteer to do dishes. Bottom line, I really should have a housekeeper. Why oh why is life so hard.

I am a lucky lucky lass in terms of laundry. GF does it and keeps up on it like whoa. She is a manic laundress AIFG.

Plans for today:

Deposit the farewell check my beloved boss gave me yesterday, withdraw enough for Christmas shopping, take Matilda downtown for a picture with Santa, take Hec's iPod to the genius bar at the Apple store, come back and launder, browse a bit of Haight Street while the laundry is laundering, go back up to work to lug more of my crap home, shuffle home at last to curl up, drink eggnog, eat some tasty treats Hec picked up yesterday at the Ferry Building, and fold laundry while watching Project Runway.

I know that she's your friend and everything, brenda, but I have to admit that I almost admire that con artist. He was just so thorough about the whole elaborate tale, with the offers of violence and the 14th-floor spying from his van and the indifferent police and the one conveniently bribeable corrupt cop, and then, to top it off, the final artistic touch of writing incriminating debt confession love letters to himself from her. You can't possibly say the man didn't work for his money.

I mean, I feel awful for anyone who loses such a big chunk of money, but the whole thing is so amazingly straight out of The Big Con; I'm a little awestruck that cons, and con artists, like that are still going on.