This morning I stood staring at three, clean mismatched socks and felt the unmistakable surge of despair.  It’s not the socks, not really.  Things go missing all the time in my house.  Those AWOL socks, and their brethren are, I am sure, currently being worn by an over-dressed troll who lives behind our washer.  Right now he is decked out in a pink sweatshirt, my swim goggles, James’s inhaler, William’s elf suit (including red and green tights) and my old messenger bag.  No, nothing new here.  But it made me think about a magazine column I read every week when we lived in London.  It was called “Boring But Important” and covered the various acts playing out in Parliament or a recent police incident over parking in Kensington or the nicking of the Abbey Road sign (again) in St. John’s Wood.

It occurred to me that what I do every day are the things that are classified as ‘Boring But Important’.  I’m not complaining (much).  I have had the privilege of working for myself–and by that I mean for my family–for the last 16 years and I wouldn’t trade it for…well I might trade it for a totally amazing, high-paid job with flexible hours and a vision plan (Baby needs new bifocals). I allowed myself a momentary paddle in the slough of despond, and I might have done a few laps if David hadn’t come down the stairs saying “Do you think this belt is dated?”  I turned around to look and let’s just say the belt needed something to hold up.  As my friend Kelly would say, “Pee-larious!”  I don’t know how David knew I needed that bit of the surreal, or the giant guffaw, but he did. Now, before you start picturing any truly disturbing scenes, I went back to folding laundry and he went to work.  Only, I have cracked up all day.  And though that may seem boring, it is important after all these years.

That’s David wearing a scrum cap as he prepares to drive the skull-rattling jalopy to the dump.  I’m still laughing at that one, too.

Today I spent (another) few hours dealing with health insurance paperwork on behalf of my father.  Boring, important and let’s not forget grim and frustrating.  It made me miss the admittedly over-worked National Health System.  And now, on my third Diet Coke, I’m trying to figure out how to make the freezer shelf stay on its little track.  As you sink into a boredom coma, let me add this.  After Emma comes home from school and I try to share that Arthur Miller’s The Crucible is an allegory for the Red Scare of the 1950s only to find out that she’s reading it for history so it actually IS about a witch trial (deep breath here), I will take a package for Thing 2 to the P.O.  In it is a Santa hat tricked out with tubes and straws so as to make beer-drinking and sleigh-driving truly hands-free.  And, before you rouse yourself from that coma to report me to child services, let me tell you about the…oh never mind.  I love the P.O.  I will make a special trip just to mail my letters at the Mother Ship.  I know, I know, boring and really, not that important.  Kind of like this post.

Finally, can I say that even with all the boring but important things I do week in and week out, I always have time to read and write.  Ha!  And every now and then, I have time to nap (well, nappette, really).  And bake and swim and cook and catch up on Vampire Diaries (not nearly enough shirtless Salvatore brothers lately, if you ask me).

So, again, don’t report me to child services.  I really need this job.