You know when you actually plan to sleep in, and you’ve warned everyone within a five block radius of your house, that if they even try to cut a hedge or mow a lawn, or walk their silly little white yipping dog in front of your house, you will launch things from your bedroom window at them? That kind of planning. And when you go to those great lengths to achieve this lofty goal, what do you think really happens?
You wake up.
All night long.
You try so hard to sleep, to enjoy sleeping, to wallow in slumberland, it just doesn’t work.
The wind — which blew fairly strongly all night — was making the string to the blinds clack rhythmically against the wall until it drove someone completely bonkers and they had to get out of bed to put it out of its misery. Someone. Not me.
And because I was waking up and going back to sleep eight thousand times, I was treated to a new creepy dream each time I fell back asleep starring strange people I saw at the grocery store five years ago, or some person I used to work with even longer ago and wondered later about why was he sitting so close to me in that dream? Yuck. Dreams where I’m in public with my pajamas on. Oh, wait. No. I do that.
So I’m up and totally thinking I’m ready for the day. I’m heading over to the VBF’s house to collect her doggo (which really is a huge horse of a lab that could pull a tractor if you let her), pick up yet another VGF and then let the doggo drag all three of us up and over Mt. Paradise. It’s far. And it’s a five kleenex day already, so clearly I can’t breathe. This will be interesting.
It’s grey outside, with big puffy grouchy looking clouds. And the trees are whipping back and forth. Well, maybe not quite that dramatic, but you are picking up that I’d rather not go on this expedition, right? So to celebrate, I’ve selected my walking attire from my laundry basket. I know. Gross. But I’m going to sweat like a pig anyway, so why put freshies on? I have to save those for wearing tomorrow in case I want to actually change out of my jammies.
I won’t apologize that this was a seriously stoopid post, because I knew you’d be here looking for me and thinking, “Where the hell is she anyway — there are no days off in blogland!” Of course, you probably already thought that since the sun most likely came up where you are three hours ago.
Quit whining. Maybe I’ll treat you to some serious pictures of Paradise. Maybe I’ll even bore you with another post today, because the MoH will be at the tax mines again today, poor guy. And the RT will be slumming at the miniature fighting type army guys and war game saloon with all those other teen types who are plotting our futures and the end of civilization as we know it.
I’ll be home alone. Dying from this trek up Mount Paradise. Planning on thinking about whether I should make some of that leek soup to suck down before I have to weigh myself on Tuesday.
After I have one of those big sloppy breakfast burritos at the farmer’s market….
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