I didn’t sleep much last night. I’d love to have you all think that’s solely because I stayed up far too late watching those Chilean miners being rescued. (Which I did and OH MY GOD THE SON of that first miner had me bawling so hard I started coughing and dripping snot into poor Mildred’s cone while frantically petting her on my lap as if that would make the giant ferris wheel turn faster.) But in all honesty, I have to admit there were a few other factors.
First, there’s the issue of my sugar intake over the past several days. I should not be left alone with a birthday cake. Ever. And especially not when it’s raining outside and the only other food in the house is a giant mound of raw collard greens. Cake wins every time – breakfast, lunch and dinner. I’m practically my own vibrator over here thanks to the sugar shakes.
So I decided to mix it up yesterday and grab some lunch at Panera. Yes it’s a chain. Yes there are nine-gazillion adorable local pizza parlors I could chose to patronize. But none of them have free refills and cushy booths in the windows that I can hog for three hours while filling page after page of my legal pad with incomprehensible scrawl. Plus they don’t sell beer. (Which is only a good thing when I’m attempting to get something done. Which I was. Ergo it was a good thing. This time.) And I really like those things in a lunch place. So zip it, Judgey McJudgerson. I eat at Panera and I don’t care (overly) who knows it!
I was really on fire yesterday, pumped about what I was working on. I also ate a salad with super salty feta cheese. Both of these things make me drink lots of fluid. I usually only fret about excessive beverage consumption when alcohol is involved (and by “worry” I really mean “pretend not to notice I drank the entire pitcher all by myself”), but I really should have paid more attention. In hindsight, five tall glasses of highly caffeinated iced tea at 2pm in the afternoon may not have been my best decision ever. Nor was my decision to accept the complimentary chocolate chip cookie having already consumed a heavy slice of breakfast cake a mere six hours earlier.
Even after I sprinted the mile home, spending the entire time trying to keep the fronds from the two giant stalks of brussel sprouts I’d snagged at the Farmer’s Market from smacking me in the face, my toes tapped incessantly as the stimulants rocked my system. I chased the cats around the apartment until Rocco returned from work.
Then we went to dinner (salmon with raisins on top? seriously?) and that new Ben Affleck movie thing. The second we got back upstairs, we flipped on the TV to see how many miners they’d pulled from the bowels of the Earth. None. It was even less climactic than watching a web video of five guys humping an ottoman.
Two miners, a box of tissues, and half an episode of Law & Order later, I finally dozed off. I spent the entire night chasing heavily armed nuns with duffel bags filled full of those thick ball point pens that incorporate four different colored inks, each with their own clicky thing at the top. You know, these things? Smack some wheels and a pulley on that thing and it looks disturbingly similar to the tiny capsule the Chilean government used to pull those miners out, am I right? But the real-life miner capsule didn’t randomly explode orange bunnies into the cab of the nun car like it did in my dream. Which is probably a good thing.
You know what’s not a good thing? Being ripped from your dreams by a cone-kitty licking the tip of your nose because she’s particularly fond of raisin and salmon flavored burps and that’s the only part of your face she can access from inside her cone of shame.
So I’m tired.
This calls for a nap. Or maybe I’ll just sit here and eat another slice of cake while watching the live feed of the rescue site in Chile. Because I can’t seem to quite either of them.