I really have no right to complain. I have so much that is great in my life. But I am compulstioned. Pretty sure that's not a word, but whatever. Every week I go into denial about it. Every week I dread it as it comes closer and closer. Saturday night I get the jitters about it. Sunday morning I play games in my head with it.
I have 8:30 church. You know that's bad. I hate it. Not church. The 8:30 part.
I don't have any little kids to bathe or dress or feed. I don't have any teenagers that I have to squirt with a squirt bottle to get them out of bed for church. (One of the girls in my class told me today that her dad had squirted her with a squirt gun this very morning because she was ignoring him about getting up. She thought he was outrageous, and I was ever so sympathetic. There was almost hugging involved.)
I don't have morning sickness. I'm not up in the night with little ones. I don't have distractions. There is no excuse. But I still hate it. And I'm not the only one. When I have houseguests, and they ask what time church is, and I tell them, the light just drains right out of their eyes and they always groan a little groan of self pity. So stop being judgey.
I'm not a morning person. Sometimes when I get to church I try and joke with people and say I need coffee in the morning, which I think is full of hilarity since we don't drink coffee but no one ever laughs. Except me in my own head. It's because it's too early to be all dressed up and laugh simultaneously.
Part of the reason that I don't like early church is the long afternoon it affords. I have solved that problem by coming home and putting on a fresh nightgown and gently laying my head on my temperpedic pillow with the satin pillowcase made just for me. Earlier, when I am teaching the girls their church lesson, sometimes my mind wanders a wee bit and thinks, hmmmmm, in 25 minutes I will be on the temperpedic pillow. Then I smile, and they think I'm smiling at them because I love them so much. They smile back. but I imagine they are thinking of their pillows too because my lessons aren't all that special. Until they are over and it is pillow time.
Today, I came home from church and I got myself all situated on my especially for me pillow, and I start hearing fingernails and toenails in the ceiling over the french doors of my bedroom. That would be a scurrying around and scritchity scratchity noise. As you can imagine, my muscles became tense. Real tense. I get out of bed and hobble over to the doors because I have no boot on my broken broken foot, (work with me here, the story is better if you feel sorry for me...I don't know what I will blog about when the boot comes off...) and I open the door and step one foot outside on the deck and look up. There is a screened vent for the roof above those doors. Dust and debris were flying out of that screen like no body's business. It was as if there was a fan in there blowing junk out onto my head.
I shut the door right before or right after my heart attack. I can't recall which. But I think Mr. Fluffy Tail is up to no good in my ceiling. And I don't think he is alone. This pretty much substantiates my previous theory about him kissing femmininas. And I'm pretty sure that you can do the math and imaging what else. My attic has been defiled.
I have 8:30 church. You know that's bad. I hate it. Not church. The 8:30 part.
I don't have any little kids to bathe or dress or feed. I don't have any teenagers that I have to squirt with a squirt bottle to get them out of bed for church. (One of the girls in my class told me today that her dad had squirted her with a squirt gun this very morning because she was ignoring him about getting up. She thought he was outrageous, and I was ever so sympathetic. There was almost hugging involved.)
I don't have morning sickness. I'm not up in the night with little ones. I don't have distractions. There is no excuse. But I still hate it. And I'm not the only one. When I have houseguests, and they ask what time church is, and I tell them, the light just drains right out of their eyes and they always groan a little groan of self pity. So stop being judgey.
I'm not a morning person. Sometimes when I get to church I try and joke with people and say I need coffee in the morning, which I think is full of hilarity since we don't drink coffee but no one ever laughs. Except me in my own head. It's because it's too early to be all dressed up and laugh simultaneously.
Part of the reason that I don't like early church is the long afternoon it affords. I have solved that problem by coming home and putting on a fresh nightgown and gently laying my head on my temperpedic pillow with the satin pillowcase made just for me. Earlier, when I am teaching the girls their church lesson, sometimes my mind wanders a wee bit and thinks, hmmmmm, in 25 minutes I will be on the temperpedic pillow. Then I smile, and they think I'm smiling at them because I love them so much. They smile back. but I imagine they are thinking of their pillows too because my lessons aren't all that special. Until they are over and it is pillow time.
Today, I came home from church and I got myself all situated on my especially for me pillow, and I start hearing fingernails and toenails in the ceiling over the french doors of my bedroom. That would be a scurrying around and scritchity scratchity noise. As you can imagine, my muscles became tense. Real tense. I get out of bed and hobble over to the doors because I have no boot on my broken broken foot, (work with me here, the story is better if you feel sorry for me...I don't know what I will blog about when the boot comes off...) and I open the door and step one foot outside on the deck and look up. There is a screened vent for the roof above those doors. Dust and debris were flying out of that screen like no body's business. It was as if there was a fan in there blowing junk out onto my head.
I shut the door right before or right after my heart attack. I can't recall which. But I think Mr. Fluffy Tail is up to no good in my ceiling. And I don't think he is alone. This pretty much substantiates my previous theory about him kissing femmininas. And I'm pretty sure that you can do the math and imaging what else. My attic has been defiled.
I am so done with wildlife.
5 comments:
8:30 church is bad, but noon is worse for me. That's means no nap for Kylee which means wicked witch of the west during church. So most Sundays my kids get candy for lunch, at church. It makes them happpy, but maybe not their teachers for the next 2 hours. But I'm talking about me here, not them.
I would kill for noon church. But they give it to the young singles. I am not young enough for noon church. Excuse me while I go cry.
This is your sister, Diana. Stop your beefing. Are Church starts at 8:00am. When I direct the opening hymn, I am usually working with about 25 people.
This is for Taryn - I really meant our not are. diana
You made me smile and laugh right out loud again! You have the best blog EVER!!! ... and they are NEVER too long! Come visit me in AZ ... before the end of the year - our church is at 2 o'clock! Wonderful! Fabulous! Marvelous! ... and I am the ONLY one who thinks so. You should hear all the griping and complaining ... but nary a word from me ... just a great big smile as I nod off in the warmth of the afternoon. I don't even mind the little boy behind me kicking the pew. It's a wonderful time of day!
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