Tomorrow is Another Day...

Splosh, glup, glup glup...

I actually googled how to verbally describe the sound of pouring wine. Apparently that's it.

I'm pretending someone is here with me, because I said I'd try not drink wine alone. But tonight is a two or three glass night. I can just tell already after only two or three sips.

I haven't been sleeping very good the past few nights. I tried an OTC sleeping pill two nights ago and it was probably the worst night of sleep I've had in a while. So last night I pulled out Albert's stash of drugs and took one of the sleeping pills they prescribed for him, but he didn't actually use because he liked laying awake with Jesus all night.

Sleep was marginally better but I still didn't feel very rested in the morning. And yes, that's even while wearing my CPAP machine.

So tonight I pull out the big guns: Cabernet Sauvignon.  We'll see how that goes.

But all-in-all today was a pretty shitty day.

It was a beautiful sunny day and we reached a high of minus 20 or so. Which actually almost felt balmy after that past few days.

The power steering went in Jade's car the other day so I gave her the Grannymobile for the week because I have Bruce, my sexy F350, who has just been sitting in the driveway for three months.

During this cold spell, I have stood in my warm kitchen and pressed the remote start button for the truck each day and he fires right up and I let him run for 10 minutes, or whatever the length of time is that the remote start leaves him running.

Even though he is sitting out there (and I haven't even bothered to plug him in) he fires right up every time.  Until today. When I actually needed to use him. AND it is 15 degrees warmer than it has been.

I had a few things to do this afternoon, so in the morning I thought I'd fire him up and get him ready for the day. I pressed the button. He honked at me. I said, "What the.." I pressed the button again. He honked again.

So, I got bundled up and went outside to physically insert the key and start him. Click. He was dead. D.E.D. dead.  (A phrase which A & I referenced regularly and I think originated in the movie "The Warriors," one of the first movies we saw together somewhere around 1980. We also often repeated "Warriors... come out to play-ee-ay" while envisioning hearing beer bottles clinking together, from the same movie - I guess it impacted us, though I really don't remember the script or plot, which isn't surprising.)

So, I did what any grieving spouse does when they can't just yell, "Albert! I need you." I cried. Dropped an f-bomb. And called JimE.  Oh my goodness. I am grateful for JimE.  Then I cried again.

So now that I've acknowledged gratefulness, let's get back to bitching shall we..

I was supposed to be at my art class (not a paint party, but a class where I actually learn things) at the Artist's Co-op at 1 pm. JimE could have had the truck going by then, but I was pretty much a basket case so I texted my friend and art buddy, Michelle, and bailed for today. And I cried again.

Then I spent the rest of the afternoon sitting in the living room window napping in the sun, working on my artwork for tomorrow (it's February, so it's the Opus Art Prompt-of-the-Day daily practice challenge where you are given a prompt each day and challenged to churn out a piece of art) and crying.

I really did fall asleep in the window and didn't see/hear JimE drive up until he walked in the back door. 

So in short, today sucked.

But tomorrow is another day...