I’m tired, and crabby, and I’m tired of being tired and crabby, and my mother and I had a fight today, and god, I sound like a teenager. When I said I wasn’t going to be twelve this year, I guess I was being too literal. Instead I’ve turned from a thirty-four-year-old into a whiny fourteen-year-old. As if I didn’t spend enough time as an angsty teenager. Ah, well, at least this slip into immaturity includes a glass of merlot…care to share?

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I have presents – nothing hugely expensive, but I think they’re cool nevertheless – for a bunch of friends, but they’re probably not going out til after the holiday, because I’m so disorganized, unmotivated, stressed. Mostly disorganized and stressed.

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My dogs have taken it upon themselves to be as comforting as possible. As a result, I am followed everwhere, even to the bathroom. Ah, you think this is normal? It is, but right now it’s MORE clinginess, not them being a little attached. It’s difficult to explain.

Right now, though, they’re both sprawled on the bed, where I’m sitting as I type this. Cleo looks so soft and cuddly in sleop, like a teddy bear in white and black, and Zorro sleeps with his tongue out, so that he can taste the air, or something. It’s very cute.

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The weather people are predicting a chance of SNOW flurries on Friday. Yay for any kind of snow on Christmas Eve.

And yay for sleep.
G’night.