It’s naptime at the McCanta house. Hubby’s on the couch, mouth open, sweet and softly snoring. Dogs litter the hallway with their long bodies, legs all akimbo. Now and then, I hear the thump, thump of a tail in half-wag, then that silly whimper-scamper that dogs do when they dream. I’m working in my office, sorting through some papers and wishing to heaven for a double shot of something espresso-like, hot and thick like syrup. Something that burns all the way down and keeps me up half the night. But no. Dan and I quit drinking coffee three weeks ago. We did it abruptly. Meanly. Part of my new get-lean-and-tough regimen. My body was mad at me for days. Parts of me are still angry. Like my half-lidded afternoon eyes … oh, and my feet. My feet are mad. They’d rather be on the couch cuddled up with Dan instead of walking back and forth from desk to file cabinet putting away this endless pile of nonsensical papers and bill receipts.
Oh, wait! Is that the ice cream man I hear? YES!!! It’s the ice cream truck — the one that plays Popeye the Sailor Man over and over again until you think your ears are going to bleed. Let the hubby and the doggies sleep. I’ll be the one at the curb getting some chocolate covered Bon Bons. It’s not quite as good as a nice thick coffee something-or-other, but it comes a close second on a lazy Saturday afternoon.
Give me enough Bon Bons (and maybe a little ZZ Top), and I just might make it through the day. Of course, if all else fails, I can always move my hubby over a bit, turn off the ZZ Top, and turn on the Zzzzzs.