In which I have a suspicion.

Rehearsal last night rocked. I love this band. We ate an entire box of chocolates during the dinner break. (“We” being everyone but the bass player who didn’t have any chocolate at all.) Please note we’ll be playing the ballroom at the Best Western with Bambu on NYE and you should be there. I’m even going to buy new shoes for it.

After rehearsal I drove home and promptly fell asleep… which means I woke up at three in the morning. Then I slept from six ’til ten. My sleep schedule is toast.

In the war on domestic disorder, I’ve swept and dusted and tidied the house and carried laundry baskets up and down the damn stairs, and brought in wood and kindling, and started the dishes. (I hate doing the dishes, so I put them all in to soak in scorching hot water and never go back to finish them. Because I HATE them.) I scrubbed the toilet, which makes me wish to live in an all-female commune because the things that men do to toilets leave me shocked and irritated. I finished the dishes. I made enchiladas for dinner and key lime bars for dessert. I made myself a White Russian and drank it. I washed and folded two bushels of clothes. I opened the back door and swept all the leaves back outside where they belong.

It occurs to me that I could not be any more boring if I were clinically dead. (Which I might actually be; haven’t checked.)