Yesterday I wrote that I would "sleep really well tonight" because I was so worn out by our first day of school and I should have known better not to tempt fate or Mother Nature or the Sandman or whoever the being is who's dropping the ball on my nocturnal life.
I SHOULD HAVE KNOWN BETTER.
Because about half an hour before we went to bed, my husband tried to ensure my night of restful sleep by telling me how much money we don't have. That conversation was the equivalent of chewing about a pound of coffee beans and washing them down with a Red Bull.
Then, when I finally fell asleep, I slept well. For three hours. At which point the garbage truck lumbered onto our quiet sleep and proceeded to do this:
RRR-RRR RRR-RRR RRR-RRR *CRASH!* RRR-RRR RRR-RRR RRR-RRR *CRASH!* *SMASH!* RRR-RRR RRR-RRR
Then it moved on to the next house and repeated the entire process, rrr-rrring, crashing, smashing and slamming. And to the next. And the next. And. The. Next. It sounded like enough garbage was being picked up to cover the entire square footage of, oh, I don't know, UTAH. Maybe Texas?
I did find out something interesting about the way sound travels: When the bedroom windows are open, every sound is magnified ten thousand times in direct correlation to how fervidly it will jar you into a state of jangling alertness. A squirrel farting gently in its treetop nest, then, will sound like nothing more clamorous than the opening of a two-liter bottle of Dr. Pepper. But a garbage truck? It will sound nothing short of apocalyptic. As if the four horsemen were grazing their steeds on your lawn while they waited patiently for the truck's big arms to come down and grasp your bin in a death-grip.
By the time the garbage truck left the neighborhood, every nerve in my pumpkin-shaped body was zinging like the strings of a badly-played zither. I got shakily out of bed, noting in passing that the overnight temperature had plunged to about thirteen degrees, putting on my robe and picking up my library book with weary resignation.
Next week, I plan to SHUT THE WINDOWS on Tuesday night before we turn in, even if we have to marinate in our own sweat while we sleep. The garbage truck is too much for me.
I know it's just hair, but I still might cry. - I was wandering Target last night (a perfectly acceptable Friday night activity) when Annie sent me a text. It was a brief conversation: [image: photo f93ab...
4 days ago