Sunday Morning

8:30. I wake up because a small dog has planted himself on top of my bladder, and I can’t take the pressure any more. “Zorro, sweetheart, could you move please?” I ask, and he does, though he gives me the patented “slitty-eyed look of doom” that only chihuahuas really know how to give. He will get even with me, later. So much later, in fact, that it might not be til after I come home from our trip, but he will do it.

8:55. Miss Cleo, who began the night under the covers at the end of the bed has wormed her way up to the pillows, squeezing her warm furry body between Fuzzy and me. She moves in her sleep, dreaming – chasing something – and her feet hit my lower back as she paddles them. “Cleo, move!” I mutter. She does. Barely.

I sit up in bed, turn on the laptop and try to decide if I’m in a fit state to get out of bed. I chat over Skype with Rana, at whose house we’ll be partying tonight. She’s making a terducken and a whole mess of southern creamed and fried foods. I am bringing cranberry sauce, steamed broccoli, pumpkin pie, and a veggie tray. It will be fun.

9:34. I decide this “awake” thing is over rated. I reset the alarm for 11. I go back to sleep and dream of music.

11:00. Not ready. I make a woozy Fuzzy give us one more hour on the alarm. I can’t reach. There’s a dog in the way.

11:36. I blog about it.

So what was your Sunday morning like.