My husband has been traveling too much.
When he travels, I get really tired. The trouble is, so does he. That puts us at risk for conflict, because each of us thinks the other should feel sorry for... well, I don't know how to put it succinctly and grammatically, but I think he should feel sorry for me, and he thinks I should feel sorry for him.
He's in Las Vegas on the 20th floor of some schmantzy hotel with a fabulous view of the strip.
I am here, being woken up by small dogs who bark at me to serve them their food and let them out in the morning.
It's warm, unseasonably warm, and I slept fine without the bed warmer. The sun is shining and I should be light of heart.
I need to buy tickets to the high school musical in which Jon is playing his trumpet. I also need to run errands: the drugstore and the Dollar Store. I need to scoop poop out of the backyard, wash the kitchen floor, vacuum the better part of the downstairs, do two loads of laundry, walk the dogs and figure out what to make for supper. Of course there are always dishes to be washed, and I haven't made the beds yet. I should change my sheets, but I'll wait until right before Shawn gets home so they're fresh for him. A couple nights of sleeping in less-than-fresh sheets is no big deal for me. I wash my face and feet before I go to bed, but I shower in the morning (well, at any rate, I shower before I go out for the day).
If I went out and got a massage and a pedicure, it might be easier for me to feel sorry for Shawn when he gets home.
But I probably won't do that.
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