Tuesday, June 14, 2011

"Don't pander to me, kid. One tiny crack in the hull and our blood boils in thirteen seconds. Solar flare might crop up, cook us in our seats."

I awoke this morning in that swirling place where the fog of fatigue meets the flurry of thought.

I should put that CD player in C's room. Even though he's never in there.
Man alive! What time is it? (6:30 a.m.)
Is C awake? "Good morning baby!"
We really need some darkening shades in here!
Is it really only Tuesday?
What boxes should I unpack today?
Mental list of Stuff To Do Today: water trees at old house, pick up dog food, feed dogs,
pick up tortillas, pick up garage door opener. . . . what else?
Oh yes. Pick up a j-o-b for my husband.

The weather vane of my life has been dialed over to "Chaos" for far too long. And boy am I ready for the winds to die back down . . .

It is far too early for anything other than tornado-ish thought, with the broken up bits and pieces flying and spinning startingly into view (there's a house! there's a cow!), never settling, then moving suddenly, swiftly into an unreachable distance.

And then there's my early riser boy, who is at this very moment, a hurricane all on his own, getting into his dad's nightstand and driving his mother bonkers by grabbing things He's Not Supposed To.

It's going to be a Tuesday. That much is sure.

[Title quote is from "Star Trek"]

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