I went to bed as soon as decently possible last night. And woke up at least twice. Once around three, when I wandered out and played three hands of solitaire. Again just before five, and I was more or less able to go back to sleep. At some point I had thrashed all of the covers off and sent them slithering to the floor. Bed 1, Ms. Ravelled 0. To say that I was something of a Momsicle would be an understatement. I'm only glad that it didn't happen night before last, when it got down to 40F outside.
I am stiff, and a little sore. You would think I helped moved a piano last night. Oh, wait. I did. It's still not plugged in or screwed together, and frankly scallop I don't give a clam. My body has been screaming for sleep all day.
Tomorrow we get to wear jeans and T-shirts and sneakers to work. I'm kinda wishing that I still owned my "Baroque: when you are out of Monet" shirt, but I gave it away (to skinnier people) after Katrina.
I just realized that I didn't bring in the trash can after work. Not happening before morning.
Middlest was asleep when I left the house this morning, and sleeping when I came home by way of Trader Joe's. I was a little envious until said child woke up and told me (I promise I did not go in there banging pot lids together) that there'd been a long stretch of being vertical and conscious that corresponded with regular people's hours.
Friends, if you were looking for wit and wisdom tonight, you might want to look elsewhere. I'm going to take my meds and my heavy eyes and my crabby knee and mosey on off to bed. My heart is happy and grateful. The rest of me says PHBBBBT!
- 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!