It's 5:32 am. I'm working a graveyard shift listening to the irregular snoring rhythms of those over whom I watch and am trying not to be jealous of their slumber. And, after having spent the last hour reading Kelle Hampton's blog I am feeling all kinds of inspired and inspirational...or at least satirical.
With that, I begin.
I've never really cared for our dogs, Roxy and Winston. They bark a lot. They've never properly house-trained. And they like to get into the garbage.
Roxy has the peculiar trait of pilfering my used dental floss. Not quite sure why, but that is her thing.
The other morning while getting ready I noticed a few strewn-about pieces of tissue and knew the pests had been running amok. I gathered the scattered rubbish, redisposed of it, and continued my morning routine.
Quickly I dressed for school, pulling my nylon knee-highs so I would not be bare-footed in my dress shoes. The day progressed with no real abnormalities. Then, as I was sitting in a staff meeting I crossed my right foot over my left knee, exposing part of my ankle and lower calf. I did a rapid assessment of what I had narrowly caught in my peripheral vision. What was that curious white line in the middle of my leg?
Dental floss. As soon as I recognised the culprit my powers of deduction when whirling into reasoning explanations of how the offending hitchhiker came to be located in such a place. The only thing I could figure was that I had stepped on it while getting ready and had worn it all day.
Perhaps the most curious thing of all was that it had been stowed quietly away for eight hours already, but once the unwelcomed tagalong was found out it became the bane of my existance. I developed a sudden and completely nonsensical itch in that very spot simply because the floss was there.
Cursed dog. Leave the dental floss where it belongs!
Also, another quirk in my albeit very random personality. I do this thing where I try to will nature into changing on my timetable. For instance, I am not a hater of winter. I rather like snow and what most term "bad" weather. Yet, lately, with the push of daffodils, the swelling of buds on trees, and general greening up of things in this rather greenless place, I've begun to look forward to spring.
But not a stormy tempestuous spring. A nice, delicate, gentle spring with gradually warming temperatures, the return of birds' songs, and just the faintest tinge of sharpness in the night's air. So, in order to state my direct opposition to a continued streak of cacaphonous weather I hung all of my heavy winter coats in the very far depths of my closet, signaling the end of my need of their heavy liners, hoods, and general protection.
For a day it all went rather smoothly. Then yesterday I awoke to three inches of snow, and tonight as I stepped out of a friend's house I was met with sideways hail and sleet. Well I don't care what you say, Mother Nature, I'm not pulling those heavy coats out, and you can't make me!
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