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I have a hard time thinking of you as a grown-up, but I bet you’re one I’d gain from knowing better. You always had a wise stillness I admired, and a genuine, shy smile.
You were always sitting in the same chair in the living room, drinking what I convinced myself was the very same Blatz. You usually fired off some smart-ass comment that embarrassed your son.
Another brief stop on the dating experiment train. You rode a motorcycle and had a chip on your shoulder. I didn’t think you even liked hanging out with me until you kissed me.
Guaranteed to make me giggle. Pusher of fun, excess. (Who can argue with that?) When someone complains, you hit them with the best life philosophy I’ve ever heard: “I’m livin’.” Indeed you are.
I need eight hours of sleep to feel rested. Nine, and I’m flying high.
I love sleep. I love dreaming. I have the best dreams — I do a lot of flying. Sometimes, my dreams are my favorite part of the day.
I’m not ashamed or embarrassed. I don’t feel lazy or slothful. I hate when overachievers brag about how they only need a few hours of sleep.
And now, research proves me right! People who don’t get enough sleep get sick. Really sick. And suffer from depression.
The problem is, my schedule does not allow me to get the sleep I need. And it’s slowly driving me insane. I’m dreaming of a time when I can go to bed at 10 p.m. and read a novel until I drift off.
Someday. And all you people who can go to bed at a reasonable hour — don’t take it for granted! Get your sleep. Your body will thank you.
My wedding ring is lost. Correction, my grandmother’s wedding ring, which I have been wearing in lieu of having my own wedding ring for the past 8½ years, is lost.
I was slow to get out of bed this morning. Ed was getting ready for work, and I could hear the kids making a ruckus, but I was tired. I’ve been suffering from a little insomnia lately.
I was distracted last night before bed and left my rings on the bathroom counter, something I’m usually careful not to do because of Simon.
This morning, as I was wrestling with him to get his shoes on, Clare said, “Mommy! Here’s your ring!” My heart instantly sank. I remembered where I had left them.
It wasn’t the wedding ring. It was another ring I was wearing yesterday, and it was all covered in suspiciously Simon-like goo.
I have searched everywhere I can think of. No sign of the ring.
I wouldn’t be surprised if he ate it. I guess I’ll poke around in his diapers, just in case. Do I have to tell the nanny to dig through his poo?
Damn.
It received only an honorable mention, but what is better than Peeps getting their boxing on? If you want to see all the entries in the Pioneer Press Peeps Diorama contest, go here.
Swearing Mary! World’s dirtiest mouth, world’s biggest heart. Creator of my all-time favorite cuss: Jesusfuckingchristonastick*. You had a way of making people feel good about themselves, even when your words were laced with profanity.
*I know it’s just about Easter — sorry God lovers.
My dad’s cousin, you were an honorary uncle. At the time, I didn’t understand when you said there were little Russians dancing on your head the morning after a night of drinking Stoli.
