Three weeks to go

Today I woke to a morning worn thin by repetition. I lay staring at the clock as it clicked steadily towards 6:15 and barely even had the energy to fight with the sleeping Lad for the covers which we both try to roll ourselves in like human burritos. (His superior mass is effective in trapping blankets underneath him, but I have the advantages of rarely-trimmed toenails and a truly vicious temper when half-asleep and cold.) Now, at the office, I’m avoiding my paperwork and thinking wistfully of the past ten days spent in the apartment with the Lad, basking in the steam heat like dollar-dog buns at the A’s stadium.

My memories of our New Year’s party are pleasantly boozy, but the extreme stickiness of our floors the next day suggests that fun was had. I know I broke at least one glass and I seem to remember that Michele was wearing a tablecloth, so doesn’t that spell F-U-N? For my few readers from outside the CH fold, pictures are here, so you can judge for yourself.