I am home from my sleep study. It was weird. I know that I slept somewhere between six and seven hours, which is a lot for me, and that it was interrupted a little after midnight by Mr. Lasix warbling “Toreador, don’t [p**] on the floor” at the top of his lungs. Which meant that the technician had to unplug me so I could shuffle down the hall like the Bride of Frankenstein. And then plug me back in.
And of course the technician couldn’t tell me whether I snored or stopped breathing or talked in my sleep. I don’t remember dreaming, so I hope it wasn’t the one where I’m sitting naked on the curb with my 25-year-old body and my 55-year-old brain, waiting for the school bus and having a philosophical discussion with a complete stranger who never notices that I left my clothes at home.
Those dreams must not be taking place in Texas, because I would never park my derriere on the curb here in fire ant country.
I started HP7 on Wednesday night and finished it at 1:30 yesterday morning, which made for a long and interesting day at the salt mines. I spent very little time at the switchboard, as the principal scanner was out on vacation, so the data clerk handled the phones and helped with the mail, and I scanned the bulk of the mail and incoming faxes, aided by my office manager and one of the legal secretaries, bless them both. Thankfully, we had relatively little mail yesterday, and thankfully I’ve been scanning the fax confirmations into the system for three months now, so I understand the process and am loads faster than when I was first trained as backup.
By 3:30pm, my body was screaming for sleep, and I had six hours to go before check-in at the sleep clinic. I did have sufficient sense to grab a small burger and small order of fries (I wish it were possible to get a child-size portion of fries from the regular menu; that would be just about perfect in terms of volume and sodium intake) and a non-caffeinated soda for the drive home, otherwise I’d have been one of those sad statistics.
I nodded off at the keyboard while working the AARP Sudoku puzzle, so tired that had Sean Connery rapped on my door and proclaimed, “There you are, darling, I’ve been looking for you all my life!” I’d have told him to wait on the couch until I got home this morning. He could have read HP7. LittleBit spent the night at her best friend’s, as it spooks her to be here if I’m not. So it’s not like he’d have had to arm-wrestle her for the book.
So. I am home, and I’ve eaten a bite of breakfast, and I need to wash my hair for the third time in 24 hours to get rid of the goop that held the electrodes to my scalp, and Fourthborn needs for me to take her to the store, and I am So. Infernally. Tired.
I think I will go lie down on the couch and see what happens.
The megablock for the Miners Block Project is a little over three-quarters done, and I don’t want to play. But I do expect to finish it later today and haul out the last dregs of the black Cascade 220 to crochet around the edges. Photo when that’s done, maybe tonight, maybe tomorrow, maybe not until Monday.
398 people are ahead of [me] in line.
17897 people are behind [me] in line.
That’s all the knitting content you’re getting for now.
- Four years into widowhood, after one year of incredible happiness and nearly 14 years of single blessedness. Have given up perfect manicures and pretty hands in order to resume playing the soprano recorder and to see if I can figure out how to play bluegrass banjo. Singing in the shower. Still really, *really* love to knit!