Oh.

chickkens

I keep wandering into the kitchen and trying to fill my food craving. After eating a short bread cookie and a handful of salt and vinegar chips I realize – I’m just very tired. It’s not a food craving, it’s a sleep craving. I didn’t get much last night. My nose is stuffed up so whenever I lie down I can’t breathe. And a medium-sized boy joined our bed early last night. When the small-sized boy woke up and tried to squeeze in, he and I switched to the medium-sized boy’s bed (empty) where I got a couple hours, but then there was the not breathing and on top of everything just a sense of doom, pending failure, low-grade anxiety about everything I have not managed to accomplish.

So. I’m tired. Driving to West Leb to get a birthday present may not have been the smartest choice. But the alternative was to drop the largest boy at his Boy Scout overnight camp. I hate the Boy Scouts. They discriminate against gay people and they take my sons away from me for overnights. In the freezing cold! Damn them. I was afraid I’d get teary, and that would make T teary, and then those damn Boy Scouts might sense weakness. So I made his dad take him. Turns out, he still got teary. But at least he didn’t have his nearly unconscious mother sniveling into his hair.

I’m supposed to be working right now. I missed two deadlines last week. Projects are piling up at the office. No wonder anxiety has come to visit, right?

Two injured chickens have been using our mud room as a rehab center. Today M put them out in the sun. They look like two old women sitting on their metal porch chairs, house slippers at the end of their nearly-useless mottled legs, smoking cigarettes and gossiping about whomever walks by.

Maybe some leftover spaghetti will do the trick.

Play well, dears.

Seasonal Daze

rainhouse

I know I’m ready for spring when I strip our bed of its flannel sheets. Not just to wash and replace, but to tuck away in the dark recesses of the linen/BB gun closet until the temperature drops next fall. I’ve been waking up in the tiny hours with a sharp craving for smooth, cool sleeping surfaces. And fresh mozzarella cheese. Either it’s time for spring to arrive or I’ve got pneumonia. That happened once. I thought I was just hot all the time because it was April and our bed was still in winter mode, but it turned out I had a fever. For three weeks. I’m pretty sure, though, that this year it’s a seasonal thing.

What I love about spring:
the noise
the diminished wardrobe
sap buckets
open windows
deer prints in the mud
the once again acceptable taste of white wine and gin. Not together.

We’re not quite there, yet, despite the cotton sheets rumpled under me right now. It’s still red I reach for in the evening. Snow pants still clog the living room floor around the heater vent. If I look hard I can spot a snowflake or two weaving its way down from the skies. But it’s coming. Soon.

Play well together in the mud and wind.