Last night, we went to a hockey game. We only stayed for two periods, as Nick had to work today and I wasn't feeling so hot anyhow. We got home, after me fighting the chills for a few hours, and I curled up on the couch with a blanket while Nick watched the last part of the game on TV. He went up to bed at some point, and I woke at around 11:30 there on the couch, realizing it was time to go upstairs and crawl under the covers there.

I don't remember much after that, but found it altogether interesting this morning to find all of my discarded clothing folded neatly atop the pile of dirty clothes in my closet. I always do this. I fold my dirty clothes: makes no sense, I know. But anyway, there they were, every layer I wore last night separated and folded crisply in a way that I know the washing machine will appreciate, though it will still agitate.

I am impressed that this bit of orderliness should come so naturally. Too bad I woke up to the apples of my cheeks rained upon by the cascade of old mascara, the aged stench of last night's oyster sauce emitting from between my lips, and my brassier perfectly in place. I guess personal hygiene isn't quite on autopilot yet. But yay for the state of my dirty clothes, eh?