Monday, August 1, 2011

Alas Poor Naptime! I Knew Him Horatio.

Morning Readers,

     Today's post will have to be a little short, mainly because I'm standing up. Because I don't work out, I've got about enough stamina in my legs as a chicken with osteoporosis, and the need to collapse on the floor should be hitting me anytime now. Why don't I sit down to write? On a normal day, that would be a stupendous option, enlightened, magical. Today it means being clung to tighter than Rose hugged that door in Titanic. Let me paraphrase:

     "Jack, Jack! The babies are clinging to me, Jack. If they don't let go, I fear my arms will be confined to my sides and I'll be typing with the unrefined tip of my nose, forced to compose something even worse than that nude drawing you #2 penciled of me..."

     Gone the way of the Dodo, morning naptime has been forever lost, and will be missed more than the gilded days I used to be able to wear a size four without the aid of Crisco or the fire department. This means no more "morning writing time", no more "sit by myself, sipping coffee, wondering if the squirrel will fall off the bird feeder, while dawn's breaking, time".
     In the time it's taken to write this, I've broken-up ten fights, doled out two snacks, thrown together an impromptu dance party comprised of my version of Olivia Newton John doing her best to interpret Taste of Honey's "Boogie Oogie Oogie, and intervened as a foot (not my own) was about to become the next victim of a vicious bite.


     The cup that is my luck runneth over. Therefore, I'll either be typing in the dark before dawn, or in the dark after sunset. Either or, I may as well buy the rights to -at this point, Google tells me it's available.
Until Next Time, Readers!