Well, Mike looked at me yesterday and said,"You know, I think you're feeling better." I asked,"What makes you say that?"

He smirked and said,"Because we had a marathon sex session this morning and the house is spotless. You're a good widdle wifey-poo."

"Widdle wifey-poo? Do you have a death wish?"

He smirked and smacked my butt.

Dork!

But the truth will out. I am feeling better. I worked last week and this and I'm remembering what I am supposed to do and I am keeping track of stuff, and generally, I'm doing a whole whale of a lot better.

And yes. Holy schmoley, Batman, my house is clean. The only room that isn't is the back bedroom and that's because we're halfway through reorganizing everything. I also realized last night, as I was going through my closet that I have a lot of crap that should be boxed up and marked as a size I can't wear right now. I know, I should bite the bullet and just donate everything, but I've got suits I have never worn that I am reticent to give up as I am losing weight like mad. I've lost a full size and am continuing to lose.

I put on a pair of skorts this weekend that used to barely fit, which now require that I use the drawstring on them in order for them to remain around my waist. Before, pure lard kept them up. No longer, however.

Next week, I'm hoping I won't be working and I'll be able to get my canning done. If not, this weekend appears to be a blowout between my birthday on Saturday and Russell's party on Sunday at the company picnic. I supposed I could just prep the canning Friday night and try to get it done on Saturday.