HOW I AM "CREEPED OUT" VERY LATE AT NIGHT

1. Get a phone call from our daughter, Her Excellency of Mousehole. I am sure someone is dead. "Hello," I say in a breathless, Ican'tstandtohearthebadnews kind of voice.

"I'm bored," she says. At which point I want to put my hand through the phone and strangle her.

"Do you know what time it is?" I say, in a voice faint with relief.

"You're up," she says. "You're always up."

"Well, yes, I'm up," I said, ignoring the reference to my always being up, "but I'm going to bed in a minute, I might NOT have been up."

"But you are, so what's the big deal?"

At which point I seriously contemplate getting in the car, driving to her apartment FORTY MILES AWAY and strangling her.

2. I have a little ceramic bird that I got from Aunt Dorothy, It chirps when it is touched or picked up. The batteries were dead and I thought the grandkids would be amused with it, so I had Phil put new ones in it.

That was several days ago and all the grandkids that have been here were amused.

Last night I was up alone--very late. Did I mention I was alone? Phil had long gone to bed. The house is quiet and did I mention the bird only chirps WHEN IT IS TOUCHED OR PICKED UP? The bird chirps. Both cats are in plain sight, snoozing. So, who was upstairs, touching or picking up the bird?

It took me forever to get enough courage to go upstairs. the bird was alone. Sitting there as if nothing unusual had happened. I fled upstairs to the bedroom and locked the door. It's funny, isn't it, how an inanimate object can spook you like that. It is funny. Isn't it? And it did chirp all by it's self. Didn't it? All by itself?

TODAY'S LIST: WHY I AM TIRED

1. I stay up too late, getting my fix of back episodes of "House."
2. I stay up too late, reading blogs.
3. I stay up too late, trying to find interesting things to eat, even though I said I wouldn't eat after 7:00 because Oprah says it's THE rule. Oprah doesn't know everything. Does she? I usually don't eat it, I just look for it. I DON'T EAT IT PAM, I PROMISE.
4. I stay up too late, worrying about things like, is it spelled "to" or "too." The Grammar Nazi's should tell me so I can go to bed--after watching "House," of course.
5. I'm taking YET another round of antibiotics.
6. I'm worrying.
7. I'm old.
8. And perhaps moldy.
9. I'm dying. Aren't we all? Don't panic. I'm pretty sure we are.
10. I think I should blog every day and then when I can't I have the stupor's and who can go to bed with the stupors? I usually go to bed with Phil but maybe the stupors are more interesting and maybe they snore less.
11. I have too much to do and not enough a) time b) ambition c) talent d) motivation e) energy--because I stay up to late.
12. I think perhaps the Epstein Bar Syndrome has reared it's ugly head. Again. That would also explain the stupors.

The end. The bitter, total end of life as we know it, as only people who stay up too late can really understand.

EVERYONE'S IN BED

Everyone is in bed, even the neighbors, I think.

I finally learned how to download pictures from my camera. Bentley showed me. My camera needs some updating as it seems to be weird, three flashes, is that normal? By the time the camera actually takes the picture the subject is gone. I got ghost pictures of the dogs . I shouldn't have deleted them. There may have been a message from beyond the grave--imagine scary music playing in the background.

I have two photographer's sites I check every day and several others I check in on occasionally. I am so used to looking at their excellent work that I have forgotten how difficult it is to take a really good photo. Thanks Michael and Justin. You give me something to shoot for.

The house is quiet. The thoughts, rumbling around inside my head are not. How do you quiet those? They are like ears. You can shut your eyes, but you can't shut your ears. You can not talk but the brain-talk does not shut off. I think I need to learn to meditate.

"Oooommm." It's not working. "Oooommmm"

Maybe I should shut the computer off first. I'll try that.

THE TOILET FLUSHED

It's late and I should be in bed but I've been reading other people's blogs, some so beautiful it amazes me. Some with photo's of things I would walk right by, not seeing the gift. Some funny, some thoughful. I wish I could give back to the world like these blogs do. I wish I had something profound to say. But, it's late and I am not profound, I am fuzzy headed from this head cold and worn to a frayed stump from the constant cough. I need to crawl into the waiting bed, which will warm and snuggle me in the room with the winter breath from the open window. So, here is a story I wrote for my Personal History group. I've belonged for a year now and have probably and even fifty stories written. I thought I had a bad memory, I was wrong. I am grateful.

THE TOILET FLUSHED

It was late. We were in the family room but on our way to bed when we heard the toilet flush.

The sense of foreboding settled like ash after a volcanic eruption. “The toilet flushed!” we whispered in unison.

Trent’s arm hairs stood like quills on a startled porcupine. One long leg stepped out and the next thing I knew he was in the bathroom. I heard the door lock.

Taylor, not to be outdone for speed, plastered himself against the basement door, arms flat, fingers splayed. He sucked all unnecessary mass from his body, becoming one with the door. He looked like a Bobble-head cartoon.

I was left. A lone woman to face my garment clad husband who suddenly appeared at the top of the stairs.

“Where are the boys?” he said.

“Um, I’m not sure,” I was careful not to look at the ashen-faced twelve-year-old who was inches away. “One of them might be in the bathroom.”

“What have you been doing?”

“Nothing.”

“Nothing? It’s 2:00 am and you have kept the boys up, doing nothing?”

I never kept the boys up. Trent, at age sixteen always had something interesting to say, thereby keeping me up. I often told him, “Quit being interesting. I need to go to bed.” That encouraged him to say more interesting things. Taylor was a twelve-year-old willing participant; two interesting boys were too much temptation.

“Well?” he said.

I shrugged.

His nostrils flared. Too late I realized shrugging implied casual indifference.

“I suggest you find them and then I suggest you get them in bed. Now,” he said. His words were slow, crisp.

I nodded.

“And you need to get in bed too.”

I nodded again. “I know.”

“I know you know. Just do it.”

“I will.”

He rubbed one hand over his face, tired. Tired of having a wife who was always up late. Tired of trying to deal with uncommunicative teen-age boys. Tired of being the disciplinarian. Just plain tired.

“I’ll find the boys and get them to bed,” I said in a semi-whisper.

“Thank you.” He sighed, “and please, just come to bed.”

“I will.”

A slight smile came and went so quick I thought I imagined it. He nodded and then was gone. The stairs creaked, the bedroom door clicked shut.

Taylor’s indrawn breath sounded like a dozen cans of soda opening at once. His head looked regular size again as his body pinked and plumped to normal proportions.

Trent peered around the corner on a telescoping neck, then glided in. We stood in reverenced silence.

And then it happened. Someone snorted.

When disaster is averted, laughter—or a changing of the underwear—usually follows. That night it was laughter.

“Come on, boys, let’s get to bed,” I said when I could finally breathe. I put my arms around them and they came willingly. There was a feeling of peace and goodwill in the house.To this day, the words, “The toilet flushed,” bring panic, followed by euphoria. And laughter. Always there is laughter.