My family is at a cottage this week. Last night was the first in 8 years that I have been alone overnight in my own home. It was wierd. Weird? How do you spell that?
I fell asleep on the couch watching The Aviator, and woke up at 12:30 a.m. — drool on my shoulder and contact lenses freeze dried to my eyes — wondering why nobody reminded me to go to bed. You take couple stuff for granted. Thankfully, Dracula spared me a repeat visit, although I woke up a couple of times with the cat on my head. Puddy is lonely too.
Work was fine, and I avoided going home by coercing Diana to go shopping in Westboro for a bean bag chair. I want one for the living room to replace the leather recliner. It occurred to me recently that I am happiest when I spend time close to the floor. Maybe I was Japanese in another life, or someone’s foot stool. That might explain my disdain for bare feet.
We didn’t find a bean bag, but Jon joined us for Pho and yummy rice wraps off Somerset.
Know where to find a good teardrop bean bag chair in Ottawa? Lemme know. I’m free tomorrow night too.
