I don't really have a story for you today. It's early. Everyone else is asleep. The kitten pounced on my butt at 5:47 am.
Yes, that is within three minutes of when the alarm should go off when I have to get up to make Nick's lunch for school, but we haven't been on that schedule for two weeks now.
Or have we?
The problem with the single pounce is that instead of falling back to sleep, I realize I have to pee. No, I can not wait.
I lie there for a while, arguing with myself about whether or not I can get back to sleep with my bladder as full as it is. If I roll over to get more comfortable, I'm toast. Is a bladder on one side? Is it? Because when I'm on my right side, I can never get comfortable. There's just too much pressure and then I absolutely have to get up. Now!
So, I carefully put my feet on the little rug by the bed. The cold of the fake-wood floor would wake me up even more. I slide my feet into my slippers, accidentally putting my left foot on part of the cold floor to catch my balance. I feel a little more awake now.
I try to get out of the bedroom without waking Mike, not bumping into anything, turning the doorknob to close the bedroom door. I have to open it again to make sure the kitten isn't still in there waiting to pounce on Mike's butt when I leave. And then the silent doorknob turn. Be very, very quiet. (We're hunting wabbits. Do you remember that cartoon?)
Why doesn't the kitten pounce on Mike's butt at 5:47 in the morning? Why is it always my butt?
I try not to lose my balance as I lean over to lift the lid of the toilet. When Teddy was a puppy, I convinced everyone in the family that keeping the lid down would keep Teddy from licking their faces with toilet-water mouth. To seal the deal, I told Mike that when the toilet flushes, an aerosol of pee water floats into the air and coats his toothbrush if the lid is up when it flushed.
Is that true or was it some anal housewife touting the number of germs in your bathroom sink and on your toothbrushes? The bleach bitches.
Anyhow, the lids have been down since I said that. My real reason for wanting the lid down is that if somebody forgets to put the seat down I could accidentally sit on the dirty naked bowl and fall into the toilet water a little. I hate falling into the toilet water.
I try not to clink the lid on the back of the toilet too loudly. Noises.
[details deleted - except you should know the kitten thinks it's nice time to get petted while I'm there. The little fucher woke me up for this.]
There's cold water coming out of the tap when I wash my hands. Crap, the cold water wakes me up even more. Once, I tried not washing my hands, but ugh.
When I silently turn the doorknob again, get my slippers back off, and tuck down into the warm covers again, I know I'm in trouble if I start wondering what day it is, what I need to do, what I should be worried over for the next hour.
Most of the stuff I could do are too loud for the time of day. Mow the lawn. Let me tell you something right now. We all hate the person who gets up at six in the morning on a Sunday and mows his lawn, even if the kitten did pounce on our butts at 5:47 in the morning and we're already awake. The same goes for vacuuming, running a load of mildewed laundry, and using the drill driver to remove more screws from the deck.
I make do with getting out of bed, silently turning the stupid doorknob, and padding out to the living room so I can add stuff to my list. I always have a list.
Don't you?
I have to find my glasses first. Then, I stare at the list, thinking about the things on the list that I could do at this hour.
It's Sunday. Sunday at 6:13 in the morning. I do not have to get going on my list at 6:13 in the damned morning on a Sunday.
I grab a couple of blankets, take off my glasses, and curl up on the couch. There must be something on TV, Netflix, maybe. My eyes have to focus to see the settings on the television. I locate my glasses again and squint at the television to get through the menu of who's watching, past all the stuff they think I might want to watch and finally land on something on my list I've seen often enough that I might be able to fall asleep to it. Why do they scramble the order of those lists? I want my list on top, not the list where they suggest a bunch of movies because one time I watched a crazy series about suicide.
The movie starts, a quiet talky movie with decent music. I take my glasses off.
The sound is loud, set to stun. A zinger bolts through my spine. I grab for the remote and try to find the volume button without having to focus on the tiny letters. I drop the remote.
Let me tell you remote designers this. I should be able to press the volume button with one hand without upsetting the balance of the stupid remote. The volume button should be in the middle, not at the top. In fact, the whole thing is designed wrong. A little brick. What the hell? My hand isn't shaped like a little brick.
The remote should be shaped like a small artist's palette with as many buttons on the back as on the front. Or maybe it should be a mitt so you can wiggle fingers inside to do every operation without changing your grip. I don't friggin' know. It should be better. It should be natural. It should be a one-handed operation. It should be completely intuitive so I don't have to find my glasses and look at the tiny buttons to find the volume button.
As I roll off the couch to pick up the remote, I whisper to the remote-control designer as if he's here in the room. I get the volume turned down to a mumble.
When I get settled back in, I realize that I'm hungry. I sigh, get back up, shuffle into the kitchen, and grab a glass of milk to tide me over. The cold slides down my throat. I shiver. I go back to the living room and snuggle back into the blankets. It takes a couple of minutes to get warm.
I'm just falling asleep when the kitten jumps onto my lap and makes himself comfortable.
An hour and three-quarters later, Mike walks into the room. I'm asleep on the couch. Netflix is asking who's watching. My glasses are askew on my face. The blanket has slid off my shoulders and is wadded up over my legs. When I open my eyes, my throat is dry so I know I've been snoring.
The kitten is stretched out on the blanket in the groove between my legs. He is warm and so incredibly comfortable.
"The kitten is sleeping," Mike says. He holds a finger to his lips. "Don't wake him up."
Thank you for listening, jb
Yes, that is within three minutes of when the alarm should go off when I have to get up to make Nick's lunch for school, but we haven't been on that schedule for two weeks now.
Or have we?
The problem with the single pounce is that instead of falling back to sleep, I realize I have to pee. No, I can not wait.
I lie there for a while, arguing with myself about whether or not I can get back to sleep with my bladder as full as it is. If I roll over to get more comfortable, I'm toast. Is a bladder on one side? Is it? Because when I'm on my right side, I can never get comfortable. There's just too much pressure and then I absolutely have to get up. Now!
So, I carefully put my feet on the little rug by the bed. The cold of the fake-wood floor would wake me up even more. I slide my feet into my slippers, accidentally putting my left foot on part of the cold floor to catch my balance. I feel a little more awake now.
I try to get out of the bedroom without waking Mike, not bumping into anything, turning the doorknob to close the bedroom door. I have to open it again to make sure the kitten isn't still in there waiting to pounce on Mike's butt when I leave. And then the silent doorknob turn. Be very, very quiet. (We're hunting wabbits. Do you remember that cartoon?)
Why doesn't the kitten pounce on Mike's butt at 5:47 in the morning? Why is it always my butt?
I try not to lose my balance as I lean over to lift the lid of the toilet. When Teddy was a puppy, I convinced everyone in the family that keeping the lid down would keep Teddy from licking their faces with toilet-water mouth. To seal the deal, I told Mike that when the toilet flushes, an aerosol of pee water floats into the air and coats his toothbrush if the lid is up when it flushed.
Is that true or was it some anal housewife touting the number of germs in your bathroom sink and on your toothbrushes? The bleach bitches.
Anyhow, the lids have been down since I said that. My real reason for wanting the lid down is that if somebody forgets to put the seat down I could accidentally sit on the dirty naked bowl and fall into the toilet water a little. I hate falling into the toilet water.
I try not to clink the lid on the back of the toilet too loudly. Noises.
[details deleted - except you should know the kitten thinks it's nice time to get petted while I'm there. The little fucher woke me up for this.]
There's cold water coming out of the tap when I wash my hands. Crap, the cold water wakes me up even more. Once, I tried not washing my hands, but ugh.
When I silently turn the doorknob again, get my slippers back off, and tuck down into the warm covers again, I know I'm in trouble if I start wondering what day it is, what I need to do, what I should be worried over for the next hour.
Most of the stuff I could do are too loud for the time of day. Mow the lawn. Let me tell you something right now. We all hate the person who gets up at six in the morning on a Sunday and mows his lawn, even if the kitten did pounce on our butts at 5:47 in the morning and we're already awake. The same goes for vacuuming, running a load of mildewed laundry, and using the drill driver to remove more screws from the deck.
I make do with getting out of bed, silently turning the stupid doorknob, and padding out to the living room so I can add stuff to my list. I always have a list.
Don't you?
I have to find my glasses first. Then, I stare at the list, thinking about the things on the list that I could do at this hour.
It's Sunday. Sunday at 6:13 in the morning. I do not have to get going on my list at 6:13 in the damned morning on a Sunday.
I grab a couple of blankets, take off my glasses, and curl up on the couch. There must be something on TV, Netflix, maybe. My eyes have to focus to see the settings on the television. I locate my glasses again and squint at the television to get through the menu of who's watching, past all the stuff they think I might want to watch and finally land on something on my list I've seen often enough that I might be able to fall asleep to it. Why do they scramble the order of those lists? I want my list on top, not the list where they suggest a bunch of movies because one time I watched a crazy series about suicide.
The movie starts, a quiet talky movie with decent music. I take my glasses off.
The sound is loud, set to stun. A zinger bolts through my spine. I grab for the remote and try to find the volume button without having to focus on the tiny letters. I drop the remote.
Let me tell you remote designers this. I should be able to press the volume button with one hand without upsetting the balance of the stupid remote. The volume button should be in the middle, not at the top. In fact, the whole thing is designed wrong. A little brick. What the hell? My hand isn't shaped like a little brick.
The remote should be shaped like a small artist's palette with as many buttons on the back as on the front. Or maybe it should be a mitt so you can wiggle fingers inside to do every operation without changing your grip. I don't friggin' know. It should be better. It should be natural. It should be a one-handed operation. It should be completely intuitive so I don't have to find my glasses and look at the tiny buttons to find the volume button.
As I roll off the couch to pick up the remote, I whisper to the remote-control designer as if he's here in the room. I get the volume turned down to a mumble.
When I get settled back in, I realize that I'm hungry. I sigh, get back up, shuffle into the kitchen, and grab a glass of milk to tide me over. The cold slides down my throat. I shiver. I go back to the living room and snuggle back into the blankets. It takes a couple of minutes to get warm.
I'm just falling asleep when the kitten jumps onto my lap and makes himself comfortable.
An hour and three-quarters later, Mike walks into the room. I'm asleep on the couch. Netflix is asking who's watching. My glasses are askew on my face. The blanket has slid off my shoulders and is wadded up over my legs. When I open my eyes, my throat is dry so I know I've been snoring.
The kitten is stretched out on the blanket in the groove between my legs. He is warm and so incredibly comfortable.
"The kitten is sleeping," Mike says. He holds a finger to his lips. "Don't wake him up."
Thank you for listening, jb
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