Gleeful TORTURE

So, I have started waking up consistently. Which, is the goal. To be on a schedule. Unfortunately, I consistently wake up at 3:30 in the morning. Now, you might think it’s because I sleep in “the sardine can” with a husband and three kids that scurry around the bed, completely asleep, like a pile of ants when you mistakably step in one of THEIR beds. And perhaps that is a ginormous contributor, though even when Starling was gone for 4 days and my parents took two of the kids for a slumber party, WHO was WIDE awake and bushy tailed at 3:30 in the morning? Yeah. Me.

I am always completely confused at what actions should be taken when I’m quite capable of mental and physical function that early in the morning. Thus far, I’ve attempted sleep. “Go to sleep. STOP thinking! YOUR STILL THINKING! Fine, then. Think of your alarm going off. That’s always worked to get you to sleep when you had to go to school and work.” Is it better to just get up for the day? Be a productive member of my family? Crank up the vacuum and hock some clutter? I mean, as long as I closed my bedroom door, my WHOLE family would be clueless. Except, of course, Eric, our 22 year old roomie sleeping in Bry’s room. But, I kind of find joy in scaring/annoying/sabotaging him, so that shouldn’t be a factor in my decision making.

OR, is it better to force feed sleep? And stare aimlessly at my ceiling fan and wish I had a doughnut to eat. I just don’t know. When my alarm goes off at 7, I will undoubtedly be the most EXHAUSTED human on planet Earth, staggering through a thick fog of mental incompetence, dizzy as a drunkard on Mardi Gras, and incapable of productivity until at least 10 a.m. (Though that mattereth NOT in the SLIGHTEST, because my children do not WAIT for my ABILITY to function. If left alone with a CORPSE, they would demand it RISE and make them CHOCOLATE MILK). And, if the corpse EVER wanted to be DEAD in PEACE; it would RISE and fulfill the little gremlins’ wishes.

As my choice has lead me to neither sleep NOR productivity… I am BLOGGING. (Though, I can’t be all that certain of the sense I’ll be making at such an outrageous hour). But. That’s never stopped me before.

I promised Eric he would make my blog, though he did beg and plead that he wouldn’t since his dear ole’ uncle reads it. HOWEVER, since I DID promise… I can’t break it.

I MAY have mentioned my enjoyment of treacherous trickery. WELL. Poor ERIC.

We buy 3 gallons of white milk and one gallon of chocolate milk. Every. Week. I already know it would be cheaper to buy a cow, but I barely have time to pump my own self, let alone milk a cow. A goat… maybe. But, I still haven’t tasted goat milk. Anyway- I’m getting completely off the point of this rambling story.

There is another milk jug in my fridge that looks com-PLETELY different, as it holds DIFFERENT milk. Eric was telling me how he poured milk from the “unique” milk jug into his cereal, and it looked different than normal; more watery. But, he ate it anyway.

I then shared with him WHY there is a jug of milk so DIFFERENT than the others in the fridge. “Total protein shake,” I told him. “Pure gold.” He turned solid white. And suddenly felt very ill. And then I told him all the new nicknames I could call him. He looked like he might faint.

“WHY didn’t anyone TELL me you keep BREASTMILK in your FRIDGE??!!” I shrugged. “You didn’t ask.”

“WHY is it not LABELED!?!” He questioned.

“Ugh… it looks COMPLETELY different than all the other jugs in the ENTIRE fridge. That’s all the labeling we need.”

“I’m going to die,” he concluded.

And Starling came home shortly after and I grabbed the milk jug and said, “Starling. Look what Eric drank.”

Without missing a BEAT, Starling eyes widened in shock and he started cackling. Eric, his ghostly pale face taking on a tinge of green, yelled, “I DIDn’t KNOW! You should LABEL or WARN someone about keeping breast milk in a MILK JUG!”

Starling and I couldn't resist. We simultaneously broke out in boisterous singing, "My milk shake brings all the boys to the yard!" complete with dance.

Just so everyone is CLEAR; I do NOT keep breast milk in a jug in my fridge. My parents dropped off the quarter-full skim milk on their way to their cruise. Didn’t want it spoiling and going to waste. Ah… thanks to Eric, it did neither.           

Because I became CERTAIN Eric was going to make good on his “I’m going to DIE.”- I told him I was just lying. But, because I was still laughing and Starling went along with the scandal so seamlessly, Eric is still concerned about the matter. AND, I may have said, “Would it make you FEEL better, if I told you I was LYING?” And alluded to the fact, I was just TELLING him it was a lie… to save his feelings. (I have an addiction to torturing people for my own entertainment. I know it’s not right. I should seek some kind of help. But it is just so FUN)!

I hope I never run for office or have to be in some sort of trial. That last little tid bit, taken out of context could be quite damning! “I have an addiction to torturing people for my own entertainment. I know it’s not right. I should seek some kind of help. But it is just so FUN!” Ohhhh, I should really be asleep right now.

On a positive note, for Eric’s sake, our cabinet man should be returning to put on our countertops and drawer guides tomorrow. I MAY, if some catastrophe stays put and doesn’t decide to infringe on my celebratory dance, no longer have paint splattered BLUE countertops! Not that they aren’t beautifully delightful. They have nothing on the matching wallpaper that will soon be travertined. By soon I mean when Starling HAS a minute. And apparently his minutes are a little wrapped up in making money. And every time I TUG him away from work to slave over a house project… well, it takes a crap load of money to remodel a house. And we’ll never be DONE remodeling houses since Starling and I seem to be ADDICTED to projects and gluttons for punishments. And, of course, taking our marriage on roller coaster rides and dangling it off cliffs to see how strong we truly are. He better watch out. He’s going to be spoon feeding me in a crazy house before it’s all over. Wiping drool from my chin. Washing my straight jacket for me.

But, until then, we’ll find ways to amuse ourselves at the expense of our children and the ones we borrow.