The end of January.
Meaning we are almost 31 days closer to warmer weather.
Not disgustingly hot, sticky, don't-touch-me-or-I'll-cut-your-hand-off-weather.
Rather oh-it's-nice-to-be-outside-without-dressing-like-we're-at-the-North-Pole-weather.
Of course, we're supposed to get another 15 cms of snow tomorrow.
But at this point, I'll cling to the hope of warmer weather in any capacity and/or form that hope chooses to manifest itself.
We broke down yesterday and bought dog beds.
Which are nicer and more comfortable than our living room furniture.
Frankie and Fynn just looked at us and we wrestled the behemoth beds to the upper floor of the house.
You think we're sleeping on those? they inquired, eyebrows twitching all the while.
Oh yeah, we replied.
No more pushing us out of bed, waking us up in the middle of the night as you change positions, growling when one gets too close to the other.
And that's just me and Stephen.
The boys, as I like to call them, are a whole other story.
No more sitting on my legs, leaning against my legs, pushing on my legs, rendering my knees stiff and useless while putting my legs asleep so that when I get up to go pee in the middle of the night I'm staggering around like a shit faced drunk, grabbing furniture, anything, to assist in remaining upright as I walk on legs that are more like drum sticks than legs.
It's the little things.
Not that there wasn't some negotiation about where to put said beds.
Stephen's side of the room is much less cluttered than mine.
Imagine.
I will have to sort through some books this weekend and make a stop to the Owl's Nest Used Book store.
Which will more than likely result in more books coming into the house than leaving it, but whatever.
Frankie's bed needs to be closer to Mummy and that means the teetering piles of books on the floor must be moved.
Last night we get into bed and two sets of deep brown eyes are staring at us.
Staring contest?
Bring it on!
Fynn making the bold move to actually jump on the bed only to be shooed off by Stephen and told to go sleep in the Fynn bed.
Frankie, much less willing to risk the wrath of Daddy just laid on the floor and whined.
I have raised three children.
A chorus of whinny dogs, backed up with an equally large chorus of complaining teenagers isn't enough to even remotely budge my cold, cold heart.
I had the best sleep I've had in three years.
If Stephen hadn't been snoring, it would have been perfect.
That's the next mission.
Find something that will stop the so-loud-it-shifts-the-house-off-it's-foundations-snoring.
I have some ideas.
None of them legal.
All of them ending with my incarcerated for life.
I guess I'll have to keep working on that.
I am going to Newfoundland in June!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
A couple of days ago I received an email confirming my conference abstract for the 2012 Qualitatives, being held in St. John's.
I have ALWAYS wanted to go to Newfoundland.
Of course, I have to write the paper.
This will be a solo journey.
Only a couple of those in my past.
Me, alone in St. John's.
Combing the streets of St. John's looking for Alan Hawco.
AKA Jake Doyle.
As in The Republic of Doyle
At least if I'm arrested for stalking, there will be a reason.
Fynn FINALLY pooped in the yard this morning.
A mountainous mass of steaming hot poo with a stench that rivals that of the nearby dump on a humid day.
Hallelujah!
Title Lyric: Your New Twin Sized Bed by Death Cab for Cutie
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