Tired in Tennessee? Exhausted in the East? Weary in…okay, I’m bored with alliteration. Mostly because I couldn’t come up with a geographically accurate word to go with that last one.
So Bean and I are home alone tonight (with a state-of-the-art security system set to “Creepsters Beware” that may or may not include a jar of marbles by the backdoor, so no funny business, wads-of-jerk, I’ve seen Macaulay Culkin in action). Fact is, the house is just far too big and quiet without my two men. As in, there are no snoring sound waves wafting through the house to lull me to sleep. I’ll get the occasional hiccup from Bean, but it just doesn’t measure up to the chainsaw I sleep next to every night, or his offspring (chainsawlet?) that sleeps down the hall. (Ever heard a six-year-old snore? It’s ridiculously cute and strangely disturbing all at the same time.)
Hubs is gonna kill me when he finds out I called him and his nighttime noises out. (So it’s a good thing he doesn’t read my blog.) Side note: why are snorers as a whole also deniers? Just because you’re unconscious (ugh, I can never spell that word correctly on my first try) during said offense doesn’t mean it didn’t happen. Embrace your nasal imperfections and rip-roar away.
Just a heads up , it’s getting late and I’m really tired (as in, loopy), but afraid of the dark, so I’m blogging (read: you should leave now before getting in too deep and wasting any more of your precious time). I’m at a dangerous cross-section between irrelevant and stoopid (that’s with two o‘s, and not with a u), so Buyer Beware, and all that jazz. (That is, in case you haven’t noticed, because I did just blog about sinuses.)
Okay, and to be fair (and, let’s face it, honest. After all, I do have my journalistic integrity to consider), Hubs only snores every now and then. And it’s really not all that disturbing. It’s not like an eight on the Richter scale or anything like that.
(I’m not entirely sure why I blog parenthetically. More so tonight than usual – think of it as my boy T.S. Eliot-style, via J. Alfred Prufrock. Minus the poetic genius and/or literary acclaim and/or occasional words that rhyme.)
Another side note (because this blog has such a clear and present direction), Leap Year is a mind-numbingly cute movie. Perfect for a girls’ night in. Although I think I enjoyed it more than Bean. (After all, she did fall asleep in the middle of it.)
So to recap: half my heart three hours away, sinus malfunctions, and a cute actor with an Irish accent (nice). Well, honey, if I keep at it long enough, we just might tip-toe the line into delirious, and I’ll start blogging about my feelings (gasp!). AND use no less than eighty-three parentheses! Are you getting excited? Are those heart palpitations I’m hearing? (I told you I’m loopy.)
All right, all right, I know enough to quit when I’m ahead of the game. Since you’ve stuck with me this far (you glutton for punishment, you!), I’ll let you off the hook, before this starts resembling one of my eighth grade Dear Diary entries. (Oh my gaw! I so wish my mom would let me shop at The Gap!) (Sorry, didn’t cut you off soon enough.)
On that note…Must. Stop. Blogging!