Nothin' says lovin' like...

Freshly ironed shirts. Twelve, yes twelve 1-2, of them. My mother actually offered to pay for me to send them out (for my birthday gift), but (and I know this is weird) I actually want to do them myself. Partially because I just can't see spending the money (mine or someone else's), partially because I don't want to spend my weekends replcing broken buttons, but mostly because doing the laundry is one small way in which I can be supportive.

You see, I really can't go to all Jon's gigs. The smoke bothers me so much that I have breathing difficulty for days, and I am a morning person. Shows that begin at 9:30 or 10:00 are way past my bedtime.

It just isn't in my nature to go out two or three nights a week; I am much happier at home with a drink and a good book. I am not one for parties, or drinking, or dancing (on account of my two left feet). And there is nothing more uncomfortable than sitting on a barstool sticking out like a sore thumb.

No, not for me the band wife/groupie life. I will wait at home, thank you very much. And when my Jonathan comes in at a quarter to four, exhausted and smelling like an ashtray, I will quietly collect his clothes. And they shall reappear tomorrow, washed, pressed, and in put away.

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