Ai, what a night
It's not every night that dear_hubby comes late to bed, and many times, this doesn't even bother me. But for some reason last night, the entrance of himself to the bedroom jarred me from a sound sleep. That would be the first sleep-cycle disturbed then, urk.
But he thought, after coming to bed, that he wasn't really falling asleep, so he got up again. (Sometimes, his pre-sleep hygiene could be better, although 3 a.m. is not the time to start a detailed analysis or critique.) And tried to get down our very steep stairs without turning on a light. Oh, he's fine; it's my nerves that are a wreck, when he tries to manoveur that staircase in the dark, *shudder*. At least, this morning, when he mentioned how he worried being so disruptive, I could point out it's actually less disturbing if he does turn on the hall light, because I know he's looking after his safety on those stairs.
dear_hubby wasn't sure, but next he might be cooking up another IBS attack. *sigh* (and double *sigh*, as his seems to be going towards the runny side of things, and all my learned strategies are for being stopped up. Cue recitation of "Jack Sprat could eat no fat, his wife could eat no thin," but then reverse...) One long trip to the bathroom, next sleep-cycle disturbed.
Then, in the middle of a dream, my throat got all scratchy, and I woke up with a coughing fit, one that hit the "insides sound like the want to come out" intensity. Gaaah. Stupid post-nasal drip. Stupid me, forgetting to maintain my antihistamine medicine; glass of water, find the medicine, get a dose, go back to bed.
The clock alarm goes off - no problem, it's music only, and with the broken night, I'm not too bothered that I'd slept through the first five minutes or so. dear_hubby offers me an arm to snuggle onto, and Old Cat gets the other.
Except Old Cat looked at my forearm and somehow took exception to its being there next to her, so she attacked it. (OW! and many nasty names I wouldn't call humans, but animals, even Old Cat, are fair game...) This earned Old Cat getting kicked out of our bedroom, while I wandered off to the bathroom to find something to put on the scratch - not a terribly deep one, but rather itchy. Ack.
So, let's try getting up, I think, after that.
Yesterday's coffee pot hadn't been cleaned up, so first order of business is to give that a quick rinse, so I can make today's fresh pot. So I get the pot, with a small amount left in the bottom, and the basket full of coffee grounds. You know that thing we sometimes do, when getting out and putting back breakfast things, and the sleepy-head puts the cereal "back" in the fridge, and the milk into the cupboard?
Well, I poured the coffee - into the trash, where I'd usually put the coffee grounds.
Hitting myself in the head and muttering, "Frames, girlie! FRAMES!!", I had to clean up that mess. Fortunately, dear_hubby had been through the rubbish areas the day before, preparing for a pick-up, and so I'd poured the coffee into a completely empty bag. It was straightforward enough to just lift the bag out, and hold it over the sink, draining the coffee into the sink as I should have done.
Then, of course, put the bag back, and wash hands before returning to the coffee making.
Whine, whine, whine, oh yeah and I never got around to replenishing the fresh ground coffee in its container, so before I could really get underway, I had to open a new pack (I don't know if this habit has jumped the Atlantic, but the coffee here is packaged in vacuum packs that would do Fort Knox proud... great for freshness, but not the thing you want to be dealing with when the day has started so badly.)
Typing this out, I'm thinking of the various friends who say they won't keep a journal because their lives are boring. I'm feeling much better having typed this out, although I fear it's beyond boring and gone to tedious. Still, trying to create something even just a creatively vented moment from them has been theraputic.
Here's to a better day, eh?
Thanks for stoppin'.
But he thought, after coming to bed, that he wasn't really falling asleep, so he got up again. (Sometimes, his pre-sleep hygiene could be better, although 3 a.m. is not the time to start a detailed analysis or critique.) And tried to get down our very steep stairs without turning on a light. Oh, he's fine; it's my nerves that are a wreck, when he tries to manoveur that staircase in the dark, *shudder*. At least, this morning, when he mentioned how he worried being so disruptive, I could point out it's actually less disturbing if he does turn on the hall light, because I know he's looking after his safety on those stairs.
dear_hubby wasn't sure, but next he might be cooking up another IBS attack. *sigh* (and double *sigh*, as his seems to be going towards the runny side of things, and all my learned strategies are for being stopped up. Cue recitation of "Jack Sprat could eat no fat, his wife could eat no thin," but then reverse...) One long trip to the bathroom, next sleep-cycle disturbed.
Then, in the middle of a dream, my throat got all scratchy, and I woke up with a coughing fit, one that hit the "insides sound like the want to come out" intensity. Gaaah. Stupid post-nasal drip. Stupid me, forgetting to maintain my antihistamine medicine; glass of water, find the medicine, get a dose, go back to bed.
The clock alarm goes off - no problem, it's music only, and with the broken night, I'm not too bothered that I'd slept through the first five minutes or so. dear_hubby offers me an arm to snuggle onto, and Old Cat gets the other.
Except Old Cat looked at my forearm and somehow took exception to its being there next to her, so she attacked it. (OW! and many nasty names I wouldn't call humans, but animals, even Old Cat, are fair game...) This earned Old Cat getting kicked out of our bedroom, while I wandered off to the bathroom to find something to put on the scratch - not a terribly deep one, but rather itchy. Ack.
So, let's try getting up, I think, after that.
Yesterday's coffee pot hadn't been cleaned up, so first order of business is to give that a quick rinse, so I can make today's fresh pot. So I get the pot, with a small amount left in the bottom, and the basket full of coffee grounds. You know that thing we sometimes do, when getting out and putting back breakfast things, and the sleepy-head puts the cereal "back" in the fridge, and the milk into the cupboard?
Well, I poured the coffee - into the trash, where I'd usually put the coffee grounds.
Hitting myself in the head and muttering, "Frames, girlie! FRAMES!!", I had to clean up that mess. Fortunately, dear_hubby had been through the rubbish areas the day before, preparing for a pick-up, and so I'd poured the coffee into a completely empty bag. It was straightforward enough to just lift the bag out, and hold it over the sink, draining the coffee into the sink as I should have done.
Then, of course, put the bag back, and wash hands before returning to the coffee making.
Whine, whine, whine, oh yeah and I never got around to replenishing the fresh ground coffee in its container, so before I could really get underway, I had to open a new pack (I don't know if this habit has jumped the Atlantic, but the coffee here is packaged in vacuum packs that would do Fort Knox proud... great for freshness, but not the thing you want to be dealing with when the day has started so badly.)
Typing this out, I'm thinking of the various friends who say they won't keep a journal because their lives are boring. I'm feeling much better having typed this out, although I fear it's beyond boring and gone to tedious. Still, trying to create something even just a creatively vented moment from them has been theraputic.
Here's to a better day, eh?
Thanks for stoppin'.