There outta be a law. And I’m the one to make it.
The problem is, my bedside table creaks. That’s why I’m not working out today.
I don’t mean it creaks of its own volition, but it creaks when it’s walked upon. I know at least one of the two of you smart a$$e$ is going to tell me to quit walking on it and it won’t be a problem. It’s not me walking on the table, it’s Chunker, you dipsh*ts. I mean that in the nicest and most affirming way possible.
Tuesday morning, for instance. Hubs was out of town which meant that I would not be awakened at 3 or 4am by the sudden disappearance of two-thirds of the bed covers. I’m no math savant but I know that 2/3 is more than 1/2. That means someone, who shall remain nameless but is the only person allowed in my bed, which, by process of elimination eliminates all of you except the hubs – not that I’m naming names here – is responsible for the disappearance of the aforementioned two-thirds of the bed covers. I’m not the one that steals my own sheets, leaving me with less than half (my fair share) of the sheets and thus awakening my own self.
“At my age” (which the Dr. keeps saying every time I visit. I’m thinking, “At your age, you say that one more time you’re going to need a proctologist to remove my shoe, buddy”) there are only two more possibilities with bed covers (other than less than half/more than half). I will be too cold or I will be too hot. At some point I will go from being cold to being too hot, at which time the covers will be thrown off and become fair game for the other resident to steal them, which once again means that I’ll wake up trying to find the missing covers.
APB: someone stole my sheet. As a side note: someone also sometimes steals Mushy Pillow. I ever need to get a divorce, all I need is to find a judge with hot flashes who has a Mushy Pillow and it’s all over.
Tuesday morning, however, no sheet stealing Mushy Pillow thief was around. I went to bed Monday night reveling in the fact that the sheets would remain intact and also that the alarm usually set for 4:30am would remain silent. But, no. A little after 3am I realized Chunk was asleep. On my leg. Which was vaguely cramping. NO nonononono…don’t spasm….CRAP. And: wide awake cat.
Her routine is to amble slowly up my side of the bed, making sure to step on my foot, my hand or my head on her journey to my fascinating and riveting bedside table. You’d think it was made of bacon. It’s wood. It has the same silk flower arrangement, the same telephone, the same pic of B’ster and the same trinket box that it’s had since we moved. The only time anything changes is if she knocks something off. But you never know. The table could suddenly go rogue, so she’d better climb on it, walk all over it, tripping over the items that are in the same place they’ve always been, making sure everything is secure, while the damn thing creaks like stairs in an old farmhouse.
She could be OCD. Because then she leaps with a thud to the floor, inspects the underside of the dresser, returns to the foot of the bed, plays a quick game of Attack The Toes, ambles up my side of the bed…repeat…Poor Murph snorts and sighs and trudges downstairs to sleep under the dining room table.
Why anyone could ever think I’m not a positive thinking person when every single blessed day I think, this is the day she will not climb all over my creaking bedside table, I don’t know. I’m trying to train the cat to wake and leave the room instead of the current routine. But, wait, HAHAHAHAHAHA I just said ‘train’ and ‘cat’ in the same sentence HAHAHAHAHA.
Ok, I’m back, I realized I’d better go take a pill.
And there you have it: Cat wakes. Table creaks. I get up and take her downstairs. Return to one-third of one-half of the covers which I then repeatedly pull on and kick off while thinking well sh*t I may as well get up and do something productive.
Doing something productive at 3:30 or 4:30 in the morning means: go immediately to The Shrine, O Thou blessed maker of dark steaming goodness, Thou protector of all living creatures in my home, I polish your shiny sides and wash your insulated pot, Cuisinart Grind ‘n Brew, thank you for keeping the world safe for one more day. Clutching the steaming mug of caffeinated ambrosia I go downstairs and surf FB uselessly because anyone else up at this time of the morning is not going to have anything better to say than I do. Status update: (state time of a.m.) (state you cannot sleep) (state you’re drinking coffee) *like* *comment: Me too* commiserate.
Later in the day, sometimes – not often – I don’t tell anyone and I pretend I’m working but really I take a nap. In the middle of the day. Like, I don’t know, I think I’m the queen or something. I always feel guilty about it. I think of all my friends who have a real life and a real job and can’t take a nap and the guilt is almost overwhelming. When I think about that and the guilt is the worst it will take me maybe an extra minute before I can fall asleep. See how I suffer for you? What with keeping up with the B’ster a couple of days this week I wasn’t able to do that. I’ve learned that trying to take a nap with a wide awake two-year old can lead to disaster. Not that I ever did that. I’m just guessing. Perhaps if you did take a nap and a two-year old was awake, like maybe they woke up early and got out of the crib, they might be able to write all over the walls with permanent marker. But probably not.
So, I didn’t work out this morning. It’s the table’s fault for creaking and making me wake up early all week. It’s the cat’s fault for not getting trained. It’s B’ster’s fault for being a two-year old. I’m just the innocent victim here. They should make a law or something. Congress needs to pass the Quit Squeaking Tables legislation, or someone needs to form the National Movement for the Right to Nap, or the Campaign Against Creaking Cats, I don’t know. It might be the Demican’s fault, but it could be the Republicrats. I think, personally, it’s the Pluracats, where those damn cats are getting the money I don’t know, but I don’t really care whose fault it really is as long as I don’t have to take responsibility.
Unfortunately that is not going to work because I have a very important announcement for both of you. We were waiting until the whole big Golden Jubilee thing was over to break the news. You’re both going to be surprised because while no one ever thought poor overlooked Charles and Camilla were in the running, the big surprise is that Will and Kate are out on their tails too.
Announcing! The new Queen of England! TRUMPETS!! FANFARE!!! (I’ve helpfully hyperlinked a trumpet fanfare for you to listen to in the background. And one of the first things I’m going to do is make them take those stupid music notebooks off the trumpets. Ruins the whole thing. It’s just a bunch of notes, they can’t memorize?)
Photo Courtesy of Sir John of the Bookas
Pretty freekin’ awesome, huh? Second thing I do after those trumpets is dye my hair, for the Love of Gawd, I’m the Queen of England, I can’t afford some hair dye at the local chemist??