As noted last weekend (if we’re friends on FB, as noted last weekend; if not, then it’s news to youse!), I went back to the broken-into storage unit today to (a) see if I could clean up enough of the mouse mischief to (b) determine if anything was actually stolen.
If mentions of mouse poop are not your thing, feel free to skip this entry…
I started my usual walking-update post on FB this evening. For those of you not on FB or not friended/following me there, today’s info was:
Distance? 1.6-mile loop, flat.
Time? 31 minutes.
And then I emailed my manager and direct supervisor and said I wouldn’t be in today–woke up sweating like I’d already taken my walk and feeling like last night’s dinner was contemplating a…return appearance, let’s say.
I think it was my body’s way of enabling a mental-health day. Because last night’s coaching call dredged up rather more than I was expecting.
I’m tired of talking.
Okay, if you know me, you know I never get tired of talking (although I also love listening…). But there is at least one thing I’m tired of talking about.
The first thing you should know is that I rarely remember my dreams. No idea why–I assume I dream with the same general frequency as other humans–but unless I happen to wake up at the right time, my sleep might as well have been as empty as a TV turned to a dead channel.
I think I stole that simile from Neil Gaiman. Or is it a metaphor? I dunno, but I never metaphor I didn’t like.
I don’t know why this popped into my head yesterday, but…handwriting. I like writing by hand, I like writing in cursive, and I have no idea why. Okay, maybe I have a couple of ideas…
Back when things were going to hell on a buttered slide (the handbasket was neither big enough nor fast enough), I spent a lot of time trying to find new homes for most of my cats.
Oh, you robo-calls. You spammy, scammy robo-calls.
How I loathe you.