I. Need. Sleep.

I've been up since 2 a.m.. The dog likes to tease me into thinking his bladder (or worse) is about to explode. So I jumped up from a very good dream for the sake of my carpet and my bedding and made my way through the dark house to let him out the back door. Halfway there I realized he wasn't following me. Turned around. No dog. One peek back in the bedroom and I see he has nested in the spot where my legs need to go. And on top of that, my husband has rolled over, crowding my side of the bed, has kidnapped my favorite pillow and is sawing logs louder than the Ax Men.

Mercy.

Might as well get up. Fix coffee. Start my Tuesday with baggy eyes and a sour attitude. Sleep deprivation turns me into a witch with a "B". However, there is a well-known remedy that can reverse that. It's called a nap. Of which I plan to overdose on sometime mid-morning.

Crankiness is ugly. Naps are beautiful. Simple fix.

To aggravate the situation, my computer mouse quit working. Now I have to slide my tired fingers across the pad thingy- and it has a mind of its own. I feel like I'm playing Mario Kart. And if you ask any of my kids, they will tell you that my go-cart has never once crossed the finish line without first finding every tree, pot hole and hidden bomb on the course. My fingers knot up like giant drunken tarantula and I mumble bad words. Forgive me.

I need to take out the trash, but it's still dark. You never know when some old-lady-loving psycho who has a fetish for ragged sweaters and grease stained yoga pants will decide to prey in my neighborhood. Or a rabid skunk decide to suddenly share its foaming mouth of disease with me.

I think the trash can wait. And if Mr. Trashman gets here early, then he'll just have twice as much dripping, vile garbage to hoist into his fly-loving truck next week. Sorry. That's how these things work.

I actually started cleaning my closet yesterday. Thought a bit of organization and un-hoardiziation (I made up that lovely word) might do me some good.
I was wrong.
It just made me realize what a loser I am. I couldn't bear to part with my disco outfit, the basket of antlers, or the cute lampshade that doesn't (and probably never will) fit any lamp I own. I kept grass stained sneakers, paint splotched sweatshirts and pajama pants with dangling snaps and threadbare bottoms. What is wrong with me? Four hours of sorting, grunting, sweating and swearing and all I have to show for it is one single trash bag to donate to Goodwill.

Someone once said you can judge a lady by her closet. Good Lord. Am I not more than crumbled vacation brochures, frosted denim fanny packs and a maxi coat? Is my personality reduced to fuzzy house slippers that have lost their fuzz, suitcases full of junk mail and a Christmas sweater with a Garfield Santa? Say it ain't so!

I have no idea how I will ever move. The thought is totally overwhelming. I cringe at thinking of what must be packed, stuffed, carted and gathered. My junk drawer alone will take up a good sized U-haul.

But I'm not the only one in this house that has a problem with releasing meaningless, worthless objects. My husband has saved every tool he has ever owned, found or broken. He has enough paint cans to fill a football field - and you would think rusty nails and screws are worth more than gold. He hangs onto scrap lumber, surplus pipe and fifteen kinds of rope and wire.
I predict that there will be sparks of friction flying when moving time finally gets here. The whole, giant accumulation will hit the fan, folks. And it won't be pretty.

It's 6 a.m. and I'm feeling like a ball of venomous snakes that only had three hours of good sleep.

Stupid dog.....