Connie, may the Inquisition in your DH's skull go well.

Barb, the morning in your house sounds vaguely like the morning in my house. Only the dog goes back to bed after being fed, usually in the spot I've had to vacate to feed her. My sympathies.

I had my first Facebook notification of the death of someone in my high school class (no hair pats necessary, we weren't close friends although we did spend lots of time together in the same group of friends and I haven't spoken to him in 20+ years) and it was sort of unseemly in that there seemed to be a bit of a race to be the one to break the news to the group. Also, I asked for an address to which to send a note, and the person who posted just told me to send an email to his mother. It doesn't feel right to send my sympathies that way.

Ma for the swift excommunication of the skull lutherans.

I like the way Brenda said this so much, I'm not going to bother trying to say it for myself. Much ~ma.

Also, getting better as well as not getting killed ~ma for Barb's kids.

Sparky, I see what you mean. I don't have any solutions for it, though.

Turkey nuggets with stuffing and cranberry on a stick sound like a perfect breakfast to me. Too bad we aren't likely to have any.

Connie, all my digits are crossed for your hubby. Begone, Lutherans!

~ma for you and your hubby, Connie.

Today cancelled due to migraine. Typical.

sedig the ma~~~ to your husband Connie

~ma for Mr. Connie.

I hope everything goes well at the de-lutheraning, Connie, and he has a quick recovery.

I'm hoping that today will be a day without the nagging dull headache I've had all week. It's not a bad headache; it's just keeping my brane from working.

Lots of surgery-and-Lutheran-shunning~ma to your husband, Connie, and lots and lots of coping~ma to you.

And, Sparky, yeah. An emailed sympathy note would have Miss Manners reaching for her smelling salts.

Ugh. Matilda was up last night from 12:30 to about 4, the last hour and a half howling, then whimpering, then grunting with increasingly exhausted rage at not being allowed into our bed. Hec just bundled her and Emmett out the door, surely late, full of what I think for our coffee maker is roughly a quadruple latte but still staggering and barely functional.

It's got to get easier at some point. It's just got to.

An emailed sympathy note would have Miss Manners reaching for her smelling salts.

I found the obituary and will follow the "in lieu of" instructions for a donation to the Hospice that cared for him rather than using email.

It's got to get easier at some point. It's just got to.

May it happen sooner, rather than later. Is there a chance of getting her into her own room soon so she can scream her adorable little head off with a wall and a door between you and her?

Is there a chance of getting her into her own room soon so she can scream her adorable little head off with a wall and a door between you and her?

None at all. We could maybe turn the computer nook, the only other remotely bedroom-like space (a cold, drafty, leaky-in-the-rain space at that) in the apartment, into a bed nook, but from the nook to our bedroom door is a straight, doorless shot right down our bowling-alley central hallway. The only other room with a door is Emmett's, which generally contains Emmett, who's now an official teenager and unenthused about sharing a room with a 3-year-old girl still in nighttime pullups, even if she's a sister he adores during the day.