I have been blogging for what seems like a hundred years. Every week. I have missed only a few deadlines, due to holidays or being sick. This adds up to something like five hundred blog posts. No wonder I am fresh out of things to say.

I have talked about housework. The vacuum is a favorite subject, along with Swiffers. I have wondered how my counterparts a hundred years ago did without labor saving devices. Conclusion? I am glad I was born when I was. Beating rugs must have been exhausting. I can’t even consider what it must have been like to have to boil laundry.

I have certainly written plenty about my husband. He plays the accordion and is in a near constant stage of confusion about something. He has unlimited enthusiasm and a kind heart. A great guy. But I have nothing left to say about him.

I have posted about global warming; central air conditioning (we lived without it for thirty years; what were we thinking); the fact that I hate to cook but love to eat, but now, thanks to Blue Apron, we actually have decent meals three times weekly; insomnia (I have a contract out on The Sandman); cats; my children; writing; and getting old.

I have what must be the opposite of writer’s block: I have written about absolutely everything. I have said it all. There is nothing left to do but start over.

Here’s the thing about my vacuum cleaner…


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