If I Feel Like This, It MUST Be Thursday

If Dick Van Dyke were to show up singing “Put on a Happy Face,” and dancing through my living room, I’d probably have to kill him today. Why? Because my head and back are so sore I feel like I’m dying of mesothelioma or something. (I’m not, of course, I’m just being melodramatic.)

I went to bed early – well, earlier than usual – with a clear schedule and every intention of making up for barely sleeping at all on Tuesday night, only to be rudely awakened around 3:45 by tornado sirens, Miss Cleo barking, and gale force winds and rain pounding at the windows, and Zorro Dog shrieking in distress.

Zorro dove under the bed, which is his version of sticking fingers in your ears and singing La La La to avoid hearing something unpleasant. Cleo, on the other hand, decided that when I went out to change the temperature (it was too cold) on the thermostat, she had to go stand at the back door and beg to go out. “It’s raining and icky,” I told her. “You don’t want to go out there.” But she did. And she DID. For all of thirty-seven seconds, which, by the way, was long enough for her to get completely soaked.

We came back in, but then I had to use the bathroom, and then, in the process of going back to bed, I caught my foot in the laptop cord, and sent it plummeting to the ground, and THEN Zorro came out from hiding and HE wanted to be soothed.

Got back in bed. Got situated, with enough room for both dogs while still having covers and not pushing Fuzzy out of bed. (Anyone who thinks chihuahuas are fragile, btw, has never slept in the same bed with one. An eight-pound chihuahua is perfectly capable of pushing a full-grown human out of bed.) Was almost asleep when the annoying ring of Fuzzy’s phone sounded.

He had a work issue. He went upstairs, I turned out the light (again) and went back to sleep, and just as I was reaching that lovely state where you feel like you’re tumbling into a lovely cotton-filled abyss, he came in the room. “Are you coming back to bed?” I mumbled.

“No. I came to put clothes on. This problem’s gonna take a while and it’s cold.”

“Oh.” I looked blearily at the clock. “Make the alarm later. It’s set to go off in half an hour.”

“Okay.”

Tried sleeping again, but head is pounding, pounding, and dogs are snoring, and pillows suddenly completely wrong shapes and degrees of softness.

And what? Me? In a mood?

Am trying to decide if I should just get up, shower, make oatmeal, and curl up with a book to wait for FedEx, or if I should re-set the alarm for 8:30 and try for a bit more rest.

CC BY-NC-ND 4.0 If I Feel Like This, It MUST Be Thursday by Melissa Bartell is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivatives 4.0 International License.