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marty walks around the house with a kitchen timer clipped to her shirt. this means there is either some bread product cooking in the oven or a child on time-out.
it's the best when you see her stopped somewhere with a flour-coated palm to her forehead saying, 'now where did i put that damn timer'. without raising my eyes from my book or paper, i mutter, 'left hip'. she rips the thing off her sweater and glares at me only long enough to state 'don't look at me as though i'm losing my mind. i'm NOT losing my mind!'. i non-verbally respond with my 'i would never dream of suggesting anything of the like honey' face.
and, so goes our daily waltz.
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