“What time did you set the alarm for? O’dark hundred, or normal dark-thirty?”
Mumble.
Insert thwacking of pillow over husband’s head here. “What time?”
“6:30.”
“You’re sure? Not 4:00 a.m. like this morning? Or yesterday?”
“No. Yes. I’m sure. Whatever.”
It’s been the month from H-E-double-toothpicks. Being married to a chef ain’t easy (google “chef widow” here). And since we are in Lancaster, Pee-Ay, there is apparently an abundance of farmer’s wanting breakfast parties – starting no later than 5:00 a.m. WTH? Is there a farmer/vampire hybrid exclusive to Lancaster? However, husband’s boss is delighted with this, as is our car payments, so… we owe, we owe, etc.
It’s not always this crazy. It’s just that this month has been intense. And with all my better-half’s attempts at being quiet at o’dark hundred, it doesn’t really work. Talking to his toothbrush or punching the alarm clock gives my perception of this a nice, consistent feel. So I’ve learned to wake up at 4:00, 3:30, whatever, then sort of go back to sleep (pending alternative cat issues) and re-enter the land of zombies later that morning. However, sleeping three hours at a time hasn’t really cut it. And, as we’ve both found out the hard way, tired doesn’t work for us. It really doesn’t. Luckily, pasta does and Chef husband’s an easy guy about that. He’s a pasta-saurus.
So I continue to read my Kindle, eventually behind closed eyes. I soon turn out the light. It’s about 11:00 p.m.
I curl up next to my husband, and after what feels like a few blissful hours moments, am blinded by search lights and a SWAT squad. I sit bolt upright in our bed. “Is this a bust? Are you smoking weed?”
“No.”
“Aliens?”
“Possibly.”
“Illegal immigrants? Wait - are you sure I know who all your children are?”
“Yes. And maybe.”
ALL the lights are on in our bedroom (as well as several search lights coming through our window, to my sleep deprived brain, until I realize our neighbor across the street drives a large truck, and apparently has a paper route.)
I awake to see four of our cats leaping off our bed, in mid-air, in conjunction with my husband - who is standing in the middle of the room, wielding a towel like a Ninja sword. Ninja staff. Ninja something. I google it quickly on the iPad – back to Ninja towel.
“Put the covers over your head, and go back to bed.”
Hmmm. Husband is thankfully not into weird stuff. So, this is a tad alarming. I, of course, don’t put the covers over my head and finally look around the room – leaping cats and all. It’s making for an interesting circus.
Dark wings are now frantically flapping over my head, while a cat (or two) leaps and it dodges toward my husband’s Ninja towel.
“Please tell me that’s a bird.”
“Nope.”
“A bat?” Hope springs eternal he’ll say it’s a drone. Or, one of his aliens.
“Put your head under the covers, okay?”
I do so dutifully and immediately. This is the first (and last time, thus far) I have ever responded as requested by my husband without putting up a fight. No argument here. Just get rid of the freakin’ bat.
“Ahh!”
“Are you bit? Is it dead? Both?”
“No… hang on…”
The sound of four cats hissing. Not to be desired.
The sound of the front door opening and slamming at four o’clock. Well, at least it wasn’t because of a quarrel.
“So?” I ask – full alert, and upright, having risen above the cover compound.
“I set it free – barely. You know, you wouldn’t think for as fat as these cats are, they’d leap a couple feet in the air. Surprised it didn’t give the poor thing a heart attack.”
I look at Lucy – the fattest, and most pleased with herself. “They’re not fat, they’re fluffy. And loyal. Good cat!”
“Meow!”
“No, I’m not feeding you. Wait until breakfast.”
“Mph-feh.”
“I’m ignoring that.”
An hour later, the real alarm rings – for Chef. He performs the usual ritual of slapping the alarm clock about and screaming at the toothbrush. Along with slamming of closet doors, coffee mug cabinet, and door to the garage.
Thirty-minutes later, I drift to sleep.
Eee. Eee. Eee!
WTF?
Oh. The alarm. Again.
Move over zombies. Another author starts her day.
Mumble.
Insert thwacking of pillow over husband’s head here. “What time?”
“6:30.”
“You’re sure? Not 4:00 a.m. like this morning? Or yesterday?”
“No. Yes. I’m sure. Whatever.”
It’s been the month from H-E-double-toothpicks. Being married to a chef ain’t easy (google “chef widow” here). And since we are in Lancaster, Pee-Ay, there is apparently an abundance of farmer’s wanting breakfast parties – starting no later than 5:00 a.m. WTH? Is there a farmer/vampire hybrid exclusive to Lancaster? However, husband’s boss is delighted with this, as is our car payments, so… we owe, we owe, etc.
It’s not always this crazy. It’s just that this month has been intense. And with all my better-half’s attempts at being quiet at o’dark hundred, it doesn’t really work. Talking to his toothbrush or punching the alarm clock gives my perception of this a nice, consistent feel. So I’ve learned to wake up at 4:00, 3:30, whatever, then sort of go back to sleep (pending alternative cat issues) and re-enter the land of zombies later that morning. However, sleeping three hours at a time hasn’t really cut it. And, as we’ve both found out the hard way, tired doesn’t work for us. It really doesn’t. Luckily, pasta does and Chef husband’s an easy guy about that. He’s a pasta-saurus.
So I continue to read my Kindle, eventually behind closed eyes. I soon turn out the light. It’s about 11:00 p.m.
I curl up next to my husband, and after what feels like a few blissful hours moments, am blinded by search lights and a SWAT squad. I sit bolt upright in our bed. “Is this a bust? Are you smoking weed?”
“No.”
“Aliens?”
“Possibly.”
“Illegal immigrants? Wait - are you sure I know who all your children are?”
“Yes. And maybe.”
ALL the lights are on in our bedroom (as well as several search lights coming through our window, to my sleep deprived brain, until I realize our neighbor across the street drives a large truck, and apparently has a paper route.)
I awake to see four of our cats leaping off our bed, in mid-air, in conjunction with my husband - who is standing in the middle of the room, wielding a towel like a Ninja sword. Ninja staff. Ninja something. I google it quickly on the iPad – back to Ninja towel.
“Put the covers over your head, and go back to bed.”
Hmmm. Husband is thankfully not into weird stuff. So, this is a tad alarming. I, of course, don’t put the covers over my head and finally look around the room – leaping cats and all. It’s making for an interesting circus.
Dark wings are now frantically flapping over my head, while a cat (or two) leaps and it dodges toward my husband’s Ninja towel.
“Please tell me that’s a bird.”
“Nope.”
“A bat?” Hope springs eternal he’ll say it’s a drone. Or, one of his aliens.
“Put your head under the covers, okay?”
I do so dutifully and immediately. This is the first (and last time, thus far) I have ever responded as requested by my husband without putting up a fight. No argument here. Just get rid of the freakin’ bat.
“Ahh!”
“Are you bit? Is it dead? Both?”
“No… hang on…”
The sound of four cats hissing. Not to be desired.
The sound of the front door opening and slamming at four o’clock. Well, at least it wasn’t because of a quarrel.
“So?” I ask – full alert, and upright, having risen above the cover compound.
“I set it free – barely. You know, you wouldn’t think for as fat as these cats are, they’d leap a couple feet in the air. Surprised it didn’t give the poor thing a heart attack.”
I look at Lucy – the fattest, and most pleased with herself. “They’re not fat, they’re fluffy. And loyal. Good cat!”
“Meow!”
“No, I’m not feeding you. Wait until breakfast.”
“Mph-feh.”
“I’m ignoring that.”
An hour later, the real alarm rings – for Chef. He performs the usual ritual of slapping the alarm clock about and screaming at the toothbrush. Along with slamming of closet doors, coffee mug cabinet, and door to the garage.
Thirty-minutes later, I drift to sleep.
Eee. Eee. Eee!
WTF?
Oh. The alarm. Again.
Move over zombies. Another author starts her day.
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