Compulsing

My email spellchecker told me the other day that's not a word, but I think it's lying. 'Sides, I like compulsing, so we'll go with it.

I'm compulsing with angst over whether or not Mrs. Piecrust squeezed enough juice out of her crushed pineapple when she made the cheeseball for her dinner party last night. If she didn't, I may be on her BFN (best friends NOT) list now, because I had one whale of a time convincing her to marry pineapple to green peppers and cream cheese in the first place. *glistening profusely*

I was compulsing over my right foot freezing (left is tucked beneath me and warmly snoozing under the weight), so I ran over to fabric.com and bought 6 pieces of yarn-dyed flannel. I still have piggy popsicles going on, but I'm liking the thought of some new, soft, warm skirts. Flannel is not just for jammies, don'tcha know, but if the online color swatches were tainted again, the chickens are gonna love me. Stay tuned.

I've been compulsively playing the Quiddler game Zoomer sent me, which doubtless explains the pathetic condition of my house. Yeah, Zoomer's really messed up my house now. There ain't nothin' Zoomer can do -- way out there in that Western forest -- about being my whipping girl.

I need to be compulsing over that mountain of laundry, and if I was a better woman, I would be.

I'm gonna go be a better woman now.

For if we would judge ourselves, we should not be judged. But when we are judged, we are chastened of the Lord, that we should not be condemned with the world. ~1 Corinthians 11:31-32