It's a quarter past midnight and I should be sawing logs and talking in my sleep by now but I've got a fecking cold and every time I lay down all the snot slimes down my throat and the next thing you know I'm coughing up hairballs until I see stars.
Dave's funny. He almost never talks in his sleep but whenever he does it cracks me up. Tonight, while I was trying to keep my mucous from running downhill, he said something about the colour of the curtains doing something or other to the countertop. I couldn't exactly make out what he was saying, because his sleep talking is actually more like sleep mumbling.
I leaned close to his ear and asked, loudly, "What did you say?"
"I dunno," he muttered groggily. "I'm sleeping."
I wasn't about to let him off that easy. After all, he was talking curtains. And countertops. Countertops! What – suddenly I was in bed with Mike Holmes and the Property Brothers?
"Tell me what you said," I demanded.
Dave said something that sounded kinda like, "Whaaa?" Then he rolled over and began to snore.
Feck that, I thought. I grabbed my Vicks Vaporub and came downstairs where I have since opened my laptop and decided to – lawd have mercy – do a blog post. I just realized I haven't posted since the beginning of March. Bloggy friend JoJo sent me a Facebook message the other day to find out if I was dead.
No, no. Not dead. Just a little lackadaisical. You know how it is with blogging ... you don't post for a while, then you feel guilty, so guilty you can't even go to your blog, can't even bear to look at it, and your poor blog is like an abandoned orphan, lost in the vast internet hinterland, singing "TOMORROW, TOMORROW, I LOVE YA, TOMORROW" in its sweet, adorably off-key little voice.
Sigh. I really detest that musical.