Here's my rather long and methodical bedtime routine.


My eyes closed tight, I rub the gentle rubber scrub brush in massaging circles over my face, feeling the grease and grime of the day disappear in soft, foamy bubbles. Eyes still closed, I find the wire hook by touch and hang the scrub brush on it, then turn back to the sink and rinse with lukewarm water. On the way, I almost trip on a book.

I grope for the dry washcloth and dab water out of my eyes, scrubbing my face dry. Then I put my thick-lensed glasses back on and smile at my reflection.
I try out a few different smiles, then a supermodel glare, then a woeful Arwen gaze. I glance at the tiny digital clock that perches on the coconut oil jar. 11:37.
That’s pretty early! Maybe I can be in bed by midnight this time. Good luck with that.

I open the mirrored door of the medicine cabinet, put away my bottle of contact lens cleaning solution, and pull out the dental floss.
I carefully measure out the proper length: stretching it from one hand to the opposite elbow. Place the box back in the shelf, close the door. I lean over the sink, watching myself carefully as I pull the floss down between every tooth. Then I grab the floss threading needle, and carefully floss around the retaining wire that is cemented permanently to the back of my lower teeth.
It’s now 11:41. I pick up the little clock, push its “timer” button, and set it for four minutes.

The timer ticks away as my toothbrush scrubs my gums in brisk circles. After two minutes, I spit out the baking soda and go back to work with just toothbrush and water.
Scrub and rinse, scrub and rinse. My mind drifts back to my latest Holy Worlds conversation. My brow furrows in the mirror as I wrestle with the theological fuzziness of fantasy---
Bee-bee-bee-beep! Bee-bee-bee-beep!

Quickly punch the “stop” button. I now have five minutes to be in bed and I know it’s not going to happen. Oh, well.

Just one last thing. I reach to the back of my head and yank out bobby pins, one by one, dropping them into a baby food jar. I twist out the Spin Pins, pull the large blue hair pins from the base of the bun, and hang them on their hooks in the towel shelf. The coil of hair falls down, and, after being twisted tightly in a bun all day, stays in one thick ringlet. I separate it into three sections, and I think some more, my fingers braiding automatically. I fold the hip-length braid in half, and wrap it up with a wide blue ribbon, making sure to tie the ends securely.
Oh, and I almost forgot: I pick up my plastic retainer, put it in my mouth, and click it into place over my top teeth.

I’m ready. I unlock and open the door. But before I step out, I take the green dry-erase marker, which hangs from its magnet on the metal side of the cabinet.
“Who,” I scribble on the mirror, “left The Horse and his Boy on the floor?!”

And by the way, BushMaid, your description of the vacuuming process had me giggling aloud!

*laughs* That was so good, Aemi! I was totally immersed in your world! It was wonderfully written!


My mind does this!

I'm glad mine made you laugh. Even though whilst I'm in the middle of all that, the vacuum cleaner is laughing at me.

I'd say this is the best written so far. On top of how well it was written I was really impressed with how you tied the book from the beginning in at the end.

Awww! I didn't think it was that good, but I'm glad you like it.

It was good. *needs to write another one*

I like both the vacuum and bedtime routine ones! Very cute!

Ha, ha! I am finally posting my car bit!

I strode out of the house on my way to work with the purpose of being punctual. My purse's chunky, fashion keychain jangled with each step I took. I plucked my lanyard out of my bag's pocket--my keys following their leash--and approached my car. I paused to admire it fondly.

It was an black 1995 Cheverlet Cavalier. Age and northern elements had done its job to the metal body. Rust was creeping up the bottom of the doors and nibbled away at the paint. A small hole was eaten away near the gas tank located on the passenger's side.

I plopped into the driver's seat and slid the key into the ignition. Turning it, the car gave a pitiful wheeze. I tried again and it responded the same as before. I attempted a third time, and it finally surged to life, the check oil light and check engine light blinking on like usual. I tuned my radio before shifting into reverse and exiting the driveway.

Thar you go! Misspell intended.

~Calen

Aww! You just develop a special fondness for your old car, with all its kinks and quirks.
I don't have my own car, but all three of my family's vehicles are old.

That was soo good, Calen! It sounds just like my car!! Minus the rusty part. Every light that means something's wrong comes on every time I drive it.

@Aemi: Yeah, as much as I harass it, I truly love it. I bought it as a fixer upper car from the high school's auto-shop down the road from us, so it was relatively inexpensive. The money then went to buying new tools for the shop. ^^ At our house, we drive vehicles until they don't run anymore.

@Bushmaid: Thank you! I feel like it ended somewhat poorly, but it's what I could come up with at the time. (I wrote it with some spare time at work.) ;3 Yeah, warmer places don't have to worry about salted and sanded roads in the winter. When we visited Texas earlier this year, no matter how old the car, none of them had rust! It was unbelievable!

~Calen

This exercise was so fun. I think I will do another one soon.

I take out the recylcing at my house, and store it in the garage until we can take it to the depot.

I roll up my sleeves, intending to wash a pot so that I can make lunch, when my attention is diverted by an intruder in my sink. A milk jug –empty, of course, but standing there proudly. He’s showing off to his little friend in the side sink who watches in awe as he stands on his head.
“Oh, no you don’t. I want my lunch!” I proclaim, snatching up Mr. Milk Jug. “All sink intruders must be terminated,” I use a false robot voice, informing him of his imminent death. Before placing him on the floor, I take his cap and put it on –loosely. I aim carefully so that I don’t dent the cupboards when I shoot my makeshift milkjugcannon. I place one hand on the countertop, one on the island, and jump up, swinging my legs so that I come in for a perfect landing on top of Mr. Milk Jug. Pow! There goes his cap, zinging out of the kitchen and hitting the front door. No dent.
I finish my crushing of the plastic invader, and, taking hold of his accomplice, Madam Juice Box, I take them to their final resting place. Mr. Milk Jug goes into one of the two garbage cans (aka Repositories for the Corpses of Evil Milk Jugs). Madam Juice Box, after a quick suffocation by closing her lid, is crammed into a flat with eleven of her clones. There. Justice at last, and I can get back to my lunch.
On my way back, I pick up Mr. Milk Jug’s discarded cap, adding it to my collection. Every one of the criminals has the same pink cap. I’m beginning to suspect gang activity…

*Laughs out loud* Aldara, that was awesome! I loved it! My younger brother who takes out the garbage does the same thing.

This sounds fun! I must try one soon. Tomorrow when I go about my chores I'll see what I can come up with.

Alright! Here I go; this is a day in Noah's life...

Noah woke up, and moved his 15-year-old blanked over his ears to block out the loud yelling and laughing of his 5 other siblings. He stepped down 2 feet to the 2nd layer of his loft bed. And jumped onto his red Ikea-chair and half-fell/half-leaped to his cold wooden floor.

He stepped on his socks that he put on last night (It was done ahead of time because Noah despises putting on socks in morning hours) and made his way into the kitchen. He threw opens the refrigerator door and caught it right before it hits the wall behind it.

The tea pitcher was grabbed and pulled from the bottom shelf of the fridge. He held the tea (mango-peach tea) a few inches from his mouth and poured the liquid into his mouth.

He walked towards the hallway, the tea still in his mouth. He had swallowed the last bit of it by the time he reached the bathroom.
He brushed his teeth, probably at too fast a speed, but he had learned this habit from many days of rushing out the door. He wiped the toothbrush on his clothes to dry it off. Not the towel set apart for that very activity, Noah thought it dirty. So he, as odd as it is; wiped it on the side of his jeans.

He pulled the handle of the water all the way to the right-the coolest setting, and turned it on. He grabbed the bar of soap from it's mantle and washed his hands. Then put the bar back on it's decorated throne. But when he placed it down, he made sure the side originally facing the bottom, was put on the bottom, and the formally exposed side was also facing outward in it's spot from before. He didn't like the look of the bottom of soap bars.

Noah walked down the hallway, picked up his pace, then tombe-pas-de-bereau, glisade-sout de chat-ed down the hall. Then changing into a turning glide and finally a moonwalk, with his hand placed on an invisible hat that as far as he was concerned; truly existed.

Noah sat there, waiting for his unfailingly late-to-be-ready brother (*cough cough* Aeleknight). Noah tapped on the sidetable to his left. Much to the dismay of everyone in the household.
"Again? Always Noah, with the tapping on things!"
"Ach! Drummer boy!"

Noah smirked, he was used to it.

Your mornings are so simple, Sven! Mine are complicated and rushed. My brother would sympathize with you, I'm sure.
I'm a stickler for morning routine...
The first sounds I hear are pipes. “Ugh”. Don’t get me wrong –I love this song. But the pretty pipes mean that it’s morning. 6:45 to be precise. I reach over and switch on my lamp before clicking the button that silences my iPod. Then I pick up the book beside me. I have about five minutes to read –not much, but it lets my eyes adjust to the light. I read a couple minutes past the allowed time. 6:53. I shut my book, flip off the covers and drag myself to the bathroom. My hair is dry now, but knotted. I struggle with a brush and check to make sure it’s lying flat. It isn’t, as usual. Sighing, I pull it into a ponytail and hurry back to my room. I turn on the light and click off the lamp on the table. Carelessly, I pull up my sheets and toss my pillows back on the bed. It’s not pretty, but seeing as nobody comes in here except me, nobody cares. As I sift through my closet, I think back a couple miutes and wonder if I ought to change my alarm to a song I like a bit less. I probably won't -I'm far too preoccupied to remember. Aha! Clothing of the daytime variety! I slip on a pair of jeans, then go on the monthly scouting mission to the family room. It is as I suspected –a pile of folded shirts. Wonderful. I select the top one (unless the top one happens to be a particularly nice shirt) and retreat to my bedroom. I check my clock: 7:01. Oh, snap. A tiny bit late. I hurriedly slip in a pair of earrings and nearly miss my light switch as I dart upstairs.
The tile of the kitchen and dining room is a bit cold on my bare feet, but I scurry to the table, where everyone else is helping themselves to cereal. I join them just in time to bow my head and pray with the rest of my family. Then I grab a cereal box and pour some into my bowl as I slide into my seat. Classical music is playing in the background, but the peace doesn’t last. My cereal is drowned in milk, and I eat methodically as I listen to everyone talk. A squabble breaks out on the other side of the table and I turn away from that, instead watching as my mother measures out my brother’s medication. Then it is time for organisation –signified by my father coming downstairs whilst tucking in his shirt.
“Where am I going today?” He asks.
“You’re picking the kids up from swimming, then going home. I’m going out to piano lessons with Rachel, and Sarah is coming home.” Mum answers him. I always come home directly on Mondays.
“Who wants toast?” Adam asks, rising from his seat –always the first one finished. His question clashes with Dad asking Mum
“Do you need a lunch today?”
“Yes, please. No toast for me.” We’re used to this.
“I’ll have toast,” I reply as I set my spoon down in my empty bowl. Monday means that there’s homemade bread available. Excellent. I snag a piece of bread and butter it, half in and half out of my chair. I scurry around the kitchen, putting my sloppy peanut-butter sandwich in a container and grabbing an apple. I toss both into my lunch bag and return to my seat just in time to butter and devour my toast. 7:25.
I brush my teeth speedily and tighten my ponytail in the mirror, ensuring that I didn’t miss a part of my hair. I grab my iPod off the dock and slip it into my pocket next to my I.D. I pat my other pocket, making sure I have my key. Check. I slip on some socks and grab my messenger bag. When I get back upstairs, I stuff my lunch bag inside, followed more carefully by my book. My pens sit safely at the bottom. 7:30. My brother taps his foot impatiently and I snap, as I do every day, “If you’re this worried, just leave.” He ignores this and watches as I slip into my coat and throw my bag over my shoulder.
“It’s 7:35!” My mother calls.
“It’s only 7:31!” I call back, tying my runners. Opening the door and gesturing for my brother to lead the way, I call out to anyone in the general area, “Love you, see you tonight, bye!”
“Have a good day!” My mother calls back just before the door closes behind me. I saunter across the lawn and down the alley, out to the main street, where Adam waits with five others. 7:35, and no yellow giants in sight. Late. Ha. I never miss the bus.