Nighttime is not for sleeping. It is for eating all the chocolate chips out of trail mix while thinking of every possible outcome for a situation you can’t control.
I want my house to be tidy enough that if someone unexpectedly stops by, it doesn’t look like we’re seven hours in to battling a bear that broke in.
Doing a low-budget but equally spiritually fulfilling version of Eat, Pray, Love entitled Gas Station, CVS, Return A Dress To Macy’s.
A sudden wind kicked up leaves and spun the rooftop weathervane, meaning somewhere in town two witches brought the same spinach dip to coven meeting AGAIN.
Any other ladies having their period during this Friday the 13th Full Moon want to meet up and combine powers? I’ll bring a salad.
1 am: can’t sleep
2 am: can’t sleep
3 am: can’t sleep
4 am: can’t sleep
5 am: can’t sleep
5:57 am: falls into a deep and dreamless sleep, sleep like a tomb, cool and silent and–
6 am: ALARM
Two guys in the airport bar are amazed a margherita pizza has no alcohol in it and they’re the reason you can’t leave bags unattended.
My husband’s coming home from a work trip, so I’m putting dishes in the sink to make it look like I didn’t eat toast on a paper towel for five days.
Eating Triscuits always feels like I’m chewing very small wicker lawn furniture while a family of dolls in beach outfits stares at me in horror.
I want to be wealthy enough to leave notes for the house-sitter like: “If the leopard gets lost in the hedge maze, play Sade and he’ll find his way back.”