Snail's Pace

Today I’m writing about yesterday, which ranks up there with the top ten or one hundred most unmemorable days of my life. I’m remembering it now because it was so incredibly boring and kind of sad. No one died, got injured, or fell ill, but I could hardly pick my feet up off the floor and was feeling as limp as a wet dishrag. I scuffled throughout the house all day long wearing too big sweats and slippers on the wrong feet. I tried to comb a few cowlicks down on the back my crown but I gave up. I was just so lovely!

The smell of garlic and homemade Italian sauce wafting through the house woke me at 9am as Michael, the robust Italian husband, was busily frying meatballs, pork, and sausage for a two-month supply of pasta dinners. This is the only thing he can cook well, except for breakfast meals. I prefer to stay away while he’s in the kitchen because I can’t stand seeing the sauce splatters and mess. He’ll never learn to “clean as you go” like I do. This led to a lot of work in the kitchen for me throughout the day and I just didn’t have it in me, but I did the best I could do. That Emeril cookware is so darn heavy. Sigh… There was no “kicking it up a notch” for me and no “Emeril essence” on my agenda…

Walking by the family room sofa with a basket of laundry on my hip, I couldn’t help myself but to grab a few minutes in front of the TV show “Meet the Press” (boring) with the basket of soiled laundry sitting beside me. I eventually made it to the washing machine and discovered a damp load in there and a dryer full of wrinkled permanent press. “Ohhhhh….groan.” Do I have to do this? Agony.

It was a glorious day outside but I just gazed through the window watching people walk their dogs and seeing the birds sitting pretty, ready for a photo shoot. By 3pm, I hadn’t even slipped the battery into my camera. A lizard scurried across the porch and I considered running for the camera like I usually do, but thought, “Naaaaa.”

Diagnosis: Night after night, all week long, I defiantly ignored my 10pm bedtime and crashed by 11:30 instead. Five hours of sleep doesn’t cut it for me, and suddenly, on Sunday morning, I was as energetic as a drug induced snail. Seriously lackluster. I wonder if there is a hormonal change that takes place when you are over fifty that makes one turn into a night owl for the first time in your life?

Bella: I’m bored. m-m-Mommy is a drag.

Even Chloe and Bella’s googly eyes became droopy and sad looking, following me from room to room and from chair to sofa. Toward evening hours, Michael took Chloe for a nice walk in the neighborhood and I threw the hula hoop in the yard until Bella couldn’t pound her short and meaty legs anymore. We really need to exercise them or they’ll keep us awake at night and that’s not something I needed, for sure!

Chloe: You are making me tired.

Toward the end of the day, after slopping around the house for eight hours, I wanted to redeem myself in some big way. I desperately wanted to accomplish something noteworthy other than wiping kitchen countertops and folding bath towels at record slow pace. I looked at those comfy slippers that always wind up on the wrong feet. This has been a problem for two years and I thought, “Now it’s time to do something about this.” With a little “harruummph”, I hoisted myself from the chair and pulled open the kitchen junk drawer and found the perfect tool for the job. A permanent marker.

Whoaaa! I’m glad I finally took care of THAT! The day was saved. I did something I've thought about doing for a few years.


After a good, long sleep last night, I was back to chasing the scum of sparrowdom on the parking lot today. This will be a temporary and unusally horrible week at work consisting of a few ten-hour days, as the work is building to a blow-up, burn-out point. If I can post every night, I’ll be happy. If I can’t, I’ll be so bummed, but I need to hit the sack on time.

This is good for a smile: check out Susan at Lake Life. In Florida, she found a baby Osprey in a nest and had fun with toads. Sweet.