In the past week or so, we've been very busy around the house. Our very first overnight guests will be coming this weekend. And next weekend will be a veritable influx of Lubbers family to the house. So we want it to look as good as possible and keep people coming back.
I've been sewing curtains and pillowcases, we've painted walls and re-arranged furniture. By far the biggest task of the week is hanging art on the wall, which we haven't done any of since moving in.
Last night, Keith hung the clock we got as a wedding present. It's a beautiful wooden clock that chimes on the quarter-hours. Last night and this morning as I got ready for work, I enjoyed the soft, melodious chiming that floated up from the living room.
But here's the thing: I'm awful at keeping track of time. Really, truly awful. And this morning the chiming was actually a rude awakening that I had only 10 minutes left to get ready for work and I was still sipping tea. Not a good feeling. The chimes somehow seem more real than any of the 20 other timepieces we have scattered around the house. Like seeing the time displayed doesn't seem nearly as urgent as hearing it, the death knell for relaxation.
I want to like the clock, I really do. It's not the clock's fault that I'm perpetually running late and lost in my own world. Maybe we can work together and form a mutually beneficial relationship. "Mutual" in that it helps me become a more timely person, and I don't smash it to bits.