I'm supposed to be passed out by now. A strict regimen of sedatives (taken throughout the day) and sleep medicine, coupled with a warm shower and the worlds' warmest husband was supposed to be the siren call that would lull me into the end of the day. I had big plans. Apparently so did my brain, because here we sit, Brain and I, typing, while the rest of the world saws logs. Even the toddler gave up and went to bed willingly... actually, he puts himself to bed every night, usually with a quiet announcement that "I go bed now, Mom", and off he crawls under his covers. Little dude doesn't last five minutes.
The house guests have gone home, and our normally hectic lives are back to the usual pace. I suppose the only difference is Herr Becher had some help moving furniture and the kitchen island is (temporarily) visible. Oh, and my mother-in-law emptied all the laundry baskets. I have never felt life was long enough to spend it folding the laundry my kids simply throw back in the hamper, still folded. Ugh. But I'm thankful she had willing hands to tackle the mountain. I'm also grateful she found my whorepanties. I was shocked to find them in the drawer drawer (you know, the top drawer, where you keep your drawers...) this morning. Made rushing to get everyone ready easier, because I wasn't trying to holler at the kids from around corners, commando-bum and fishing for a pair of jeans. Nope. All the clothes are right where they should be. It's a good thing I'm not prone to fainting. The long sleeved t-shirt drawer startled me, the shirts all arranged with GAP-like perfection. I had to peek twice more, just to make sure I hadn't hallucinated the whole thing.
I'm going to attempt the whole bedtime routine again. Possibly there is a family history of mania. We've already got the surly drunks, homicidal crazies, and demented old women who think (and this is a true story) that since poop is dirty, you should wash turds in the sink... yeah, don't think on that last one too hard. My crazy aunt in Alabama is having a helluva time with my grandmother's still viable pod of flesh (like the Energizer Bunny... how does she keep going?), though the Gran has progressed from washing poop to needing a potty chair and babbling incoherently. Well, she did rally enough to call one of the few decent home-health aides a "G*d-damned fat ass". When I get to this stage of Alzheimer's, I hope my kids are smart enough to take me on a "vacation" to somewhere really freeking cold and set me to ice-fishing in my birthday suit. Preferably with a pack of hungry coyotes standing by. I don't find any consolation in the fact that I won't know any of my children or grandchildren, and thereby will be spared any hint of embarrassment about my 'condition' (should my own offspring choose to replicate...I can't blame them if they don't, what with the freaky sea-monkey show now playing in our gene-pool).
Well, enough prattling on. I thought rambling a bit about nothing in particular would help work out some of my mental stress, but that's too much to ask for right now. The 'dire' prediction that 25% of American businesses are going to fold within the next two years... nope. That one's not conducive to restful sleep, either. If only someone had strapped me to a chair until my 'entrepreneurial moment' passed. But now I need to know how it ends. A very weird tale may come from all of this. C