We've got this basket in our place. It convienently sits by the door, so that when you come in, if you've got too much in your hands, you can easily drop it in the basket. If you need to take your mittens off before you can wiggle out of your coat, drop 'em in the basket. No place to set your bike helmet as you rush towards the bathroom? Toss it in the basket.
It get's pretty bad.
Last night Sarah sort of went through it. Not really cleaning it entirely, that's going to take an entire weekend. But the soft mound of miscellania was threatining to topple over. And small children may have been trapped underneath. So for the sake of the children, she "cleaned it down" a bit.
There was cash hidden in there, cards we forgot to send, and other strange things along with the mismatched mittens we'd expected. And there was even a Valentine's gift that Sarah had forgotten to give me.
So I got my Valentines gift (even though we mutually agreed to boycott it this year) a little late.
It was a little paperback book called The Art of Kissing: Tips and Techniques from the 1930s
I read through a little bit of it over breakfast. And there is one passage that I found particularily enlightening.
"First of all it is necessary to explain that, although an act can be painful, it can still be pleasurable. The explanation is merely another indication of the variability of human nature. To begin, there are some people who derive an extreme pleasure out of being whipped or burned or beaten. There is no rational explanation for this strange delight. The fact remains that they react pleasurably to pain. These people are called masochists. Similarly, there are other people who derive the same pleasure out of being the ones who inflict the pain or perfomr the beating. Their abnormality, too, is inexplicable. They are called sadists."
Of my stars and garters... that seems a little racey for the 1930s! But it cracked me up, so I had to share.
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