Home, Sweet...Wait

I'm at my mom's at last, and will be for the next few days, at least. Here, I get my own room and an actual bed - score. I spent last night on baby brother's sofa, and it was not what I would call conducive to sleep. Neither was the hissy fit pitched at 7am this morning (5am California Time) by his fiancee's 3-year-old daughter, who is a pampered, spoiled little princess. Oy. She can be charming when she wants to be, which is when she's getting her way or about to connive her way into it. The second one of them attempts to restrain her wishes, that changes, and faster than we like to think the weather does here in Texas, which let me tell you, is pretty damned fast. I once went into class on a bright, shiny, sunny and fair spring morning for which I had dressed in a sleeveless shirt and my hair in braids, and when I got out 45 minutes later, the temperature had dropped a full 50 degrees (no, I'm not kidding), and it was hailing. HAILING. As in, hard little rocks pelting from the sky with considerable force.

But I digress. That was a pretty unbearable situation, so I'm happy as heck to be here at Mom's, even if it means getting up at the buttcrack of dawn and accompanying her to her office for the day. A bed, people. A real, sheets, blankets and pillows bed.

Awesome.

Even if it does come with a litany of all the things that are wrong with me as a human being.

Did I mention how much fun Chez Doyle is, even without the paternal unit? Again, oy.

Okay, must go try on funeral wear now. My mother never gets rid of anything, so God bless her little heart, even though she probably won't be able to fit into a size 10 again before her 85th birthday, she has Ann Taylor in that size hanging in the closet. In black, grey and navy. Oo-rah.

Peace out,
Katie