A handsome boy in my underwear, if there's a better reason to jump for joy. . . .

November 22, 2011


Last night I dreamed I was a ghost in Norman Bates' house.

Not even going to touch an interpretation of that.









Sunday Stephen and I were in search of a quiet place to mark and write.

We started at the library.

Not one available seat among the bunch, as they were filled with anxious students, books and papers piled high upon the table top, fingers stopping and starting over the computer keys as hazy ideas refuse to come into sharper relief.

The reality of the end of term looming over them like rain clouds on a sunny day.

We thought of setting up shop somewhere else in the HIL however there wasn't an available spot.

So we did what any self respecting professor would do.

Grabbed two venti Starbucks and left the warm embrace of the library for the chaos and mayhem of my office.

The real question is, though, how come we weren't working at home?









Home has beds that tantalize and tempt us.

Household chores that call to Stephen, mercilessly, until he succumbs to his natural proclivities for cleaning and procrastination.

Ringing phones.

Emails.

We thought that leaving the house would provide us the opportunity to get shit done.

Cause the shit needs to be done.

Now.

As in last week.

And it did.

I made headway towards decreasing the pile of intro to crim proposals.

Stephen worked his way through his own proposal, making changes to methodology, citations, losing a bit of his sanity with each and every key stroke.

Even with the chaos and mayhem of my office, it was still quieter than working at home.

Where we are still under siege as the fight for feline owned territory continues to wage in our home.

Not only are the cats running rampant through our house, bouncing off walls, hiding in silver tea sets, launching themselves at us with reckless abandon, but the dogs aren't being friendly allies.

In fact, our settling in to work at the kitchen table seems to be an invitation for Frankie and Tikka to engage in Operation Attention Seeking.

Even rawhide chew toys and double fist sized tartar busters aren't enough to keep them from pawing, nudging, kissing, in an effort to garner our complete, 100% attention.

Further, Frankie has ownership issues with his rawhides.

Repeated attempts to bury them in all sorts of hidey-holes throughout the house.

Until Stephen informed me that he walked in on Frankie trying to bury his bone in my dirty underwear.

At least someone trying to put something in my underwear.




Title Lyric: Underwear by The Magnetic Fields