I seem to spend an inordinate amount of time moving pillows around a couch.

I noticed this morning as I was "straightening" up the living room, that I seem to spend a few minutes of every day moving pillows around on the couch.  Apparently, there is the place they are supposed to sit to be aesthetically pleasing, and then there are the corners they get crammed into when they are actually being functional.  These two locations are mutually exclusive, of course, so I consequently spend a few minutes each morning returning pillows to their proper place.  Or perhaps that's what the Winged Monkey is doing when he crams them back into the corners every night?  Maybe I'm trying to inspire the pillows to be something more, while he simply embraces them for what they truly are.

Which is great for pillows, but not so much for dishes, which I also spend a few minutes every day (or two) (or three, if I'm honest) moving in and out of  the dishwasher and the cupboards.  They're like all the celebrity rehab patients: they get all cleaned up sparkling pretty, only to find themselves covered in half chewed food in a blink of an eye.

It's the tragedy of housework, is what it is.  And I'm not sure human beings were really intended to spend their time on this planet, or this celestial plane, or their current incarnation, or whatever in an endless loop of rearranging household objects.

Which is why I should be grateful that my vacation is winding down and next week I will be back at work instead of sitting on my couch staring at pillows or sighing over a kitchen sink overflowing with pathetic plates.  ("Should" being the key word in that sentence.)  And yet...

Despite my ramblings of an existential housewife, I still feel the most absurd sense of accomplishment when I have a dish-free sink and a drawer full of shiny clean spoons.  Ridiculous, I know, but there you have it.

My version of Buddhist sand art: properly placed pillows and a cupboard of spot-free glasses.