My sorry tale…

Just a little more sleep.My couch, sofa, davenport, divan, chesterfield, or whatever you wish to call it is around six feet long — on a good day. The cushion area measures four feet, eleven inches. I know. I just measured it. I measure five feet, five and one-half inches long — on a good day. Not overly tall, and most of the women in my family are shorter than that by several inches.

I have been sleeping on this velvety blue couch, which I love,  for four sleepless nights. I am a human pretzel. And, no, I wasn’t banished.

If you read the Mount Doom post earlier in the week, you would know that we’ve sustained some water damage in our bedroom and furniture has been shoved to one end while carpet and such has been pulled up at the other end to dry out. It’s not Katrina, and I’m not pretending it is. But it is one helluva bother.

Mr. G, honey has been sleeping in the tech baby’s  room — thank God she is away at school — because, at over six feet tall, he is not going to fit on our couch — no how, no way.

So, I’m feeling a little campish. Our nightly routine looks like this: brushing teeth in the communal washroom; kissing goodnight in front of his luxurious tent yurt; scampering over down to my too-cramped pup tent decked in sweats with a book and a flashlight and my trusty pal, Golden Pup; trying to read myself into a coma before the flashlight battery dies, and then tossing and turning and muttering until 5:30 in the morning. The only thing missing is the s’mores and, frankly, that is the only reason for camping. The. Only. Reason.

Mostly, I’m not up at 5:30 in the morning. As in, n-e-v-e-r. But let me tell you that the last four mornings I have been rising with glee. Why? That is the ungodly hour Mr. G, honey begins his day. We meet at the bottom of the stairs, exchange a high five, and then I’m up those stairs in double-quick time — morning aerobics, check — and snuggling into the cozy nest and leftover body heat that is man. Well, not so much snuggling-in as doing the urban sprawl. I lay sprawled and comatose for the next couple of hours trying to de-pretzel. And then I drag my sorry fanny through the rest of the day, while Golden Pup prances around all sparkly-eyes and wagging-tail, because what’s not to love about roughing it in the woods living room.

Note to self 1: Think twice, next time, about turning guest room into office, sans sofa bed.

Note to self 2: Next time, buy the longest, widest, honkin’ big couch, sofa, davenport, divan, chesterfield, or whatever you can find.

That is my sorry tale.


4 thoughts on “My sorry tale…

  1. Gina, Sarah – Yes, I have a crick in my neck, cricks in my knees, cricks in my….everywhere. I don’t know why I just didn’t throw the mattress down the stairs like we did during the August of the blackout.

    Pushed and shoved and finagled and, sigh, we’re back in the matrimonial bed….in the work zone. Yessss!


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