"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"]