After falling asleep at 10:30 last night, several hours after what I consider my allotted bedtime due to my night owl little girl child, I proceeded to endure one of those nights.
My outside dog barked. At what? a felonious leaf blowing cross the yard that looked like it might slam up against our door, come in, and take the heathens and I hostage? The realization that some cracked vet cut off his tail and his wing nuts and he had no say in the matter? Or just because he could.
And lets not forget the howling noise he emits when a fire engine roared down a nearby street at about one this morning. Harvey Wallbanger, Giant Schnauzer extraordinarily stupid, outdid the siren with his own moose like mating call. I think they are meeting for drinks from the toilet later on.
About the time my eyes closed and I resumed my dream of me and Hugh Jackman (he was rubbing my feet in a very nice way!) my children began talking in their sleep. It always starts with a cry for me, which I normally ignore, choosing sleep over their nocturnal needs of my offspring, and then escalates into a full fledged argument at the top of their lungs. Last night, Bug was trying to convince me that his birthday was this weekend and that I'd better have his bloody Toy Story birthday party ready to go.
To which I oh so sweetly replied that if he wanted to live to see six he should shut his trap and let me get some sleep.
Again, when my eyes closed and I went in search of Hugh to rub me again--my feet that is--I heard the slurp slurp noise that could only be one thing.
A flank sucking pu. .er . .cat named Drambuie Sky.
Who proceeded to greet my tossing him across the room with great indignity and came right back to wash his crotch in my face.
And last, but certainly not least, the inside dog who can't hold his liquid. Bojangles. who bounced from my bed to my middle child's bed, his nails clicking on the floor as he went around and around our house, walking on me, the cat, the kids (which I would have been okay with except they started talking again), back to me, to stare into my face while I'm trying to ignore him. Then he passed gas, a noxious cloud of odor right after he turned around to leave the bed for another sojourn into the house.
In other words, his butt was in my face, necessitating me gagging, coughing, and giving up on sleep at about three this morning.
As I write this, facing a full day of work followed by the evening shift as a single parent while the Man sleeps, I am considering dropping my children off at some hospital to find new parents to torture, the dog may end of at the pound, and the flank sucking pu . . .er. . . cat may become a side show attraction.
Oh what a fan-freaking-tastic night!
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