Last night was a total wash in terms of getting restful sleep. Dang.
For some reason the sleep train didn't come around until 3:30. Ugh. Then at 5:00 all of a sudden I was awake, and could hear the dalmatian pacing back and forth (hardwood floors, long nails on the doggie) over and over and over. Which tends to mean either (1) "I have to poop now and have already done so somewhere in the house" or (2) "I am in pain now." Or both.
So I got out of bed and found out it was both. Herded the dogs out the door to the backyard, cleaned the poop, got a Tramadol for the dalmatian, shoved it in peanut butter, gave her the drugs.
Then I heard what sounded like our outside garbage cans being knocked over, and because we live in Northside and not Mayberry, I immediately figured it was a criminal and not a raccoon
So because I was sleep-addled, I just stood in the middle of the living room all terrified and paralyzed with indecision. Wake Tim up? Call 911? Cry?
I went in the bedroom and peered out the window towards the driveway where the garbage cans are. Nothing. I was still freaked out, so I crept back out to the living room, and grabbed my cell phone in case we needed to call the police. Then I realized I shouldn't leave my laptop in the living room. Then I realized I shouldn't leave my purse in the living room (I really shouldn't do that any way, but that's not the point).
So I lugged all that into the bedroom, turned on the bedside light so that the roving gang of trash-can-knocking-over criminals would know we were awake and On To Their Scheme, and then sat awake all bug-eyed and freaked out until about 5:45. (Tim was dead to the world throughout all of this.)
But I did eventually fall asleep, until Tim's alarm went off at 9:00. After he hit snooze a couple of times, I made that grumbly sound that translates to "Oh my fucking god it is a weekend so why do you have the alarm set you need to stop hitting snooze or I will END YOU." Then he fell back asleep until about 10-ish, when the dogs woke us up again.
I got up and grumbled about my lack of sleep so much that Tim sent me back to bed. (Seriously. "You are going to be weepy and irritable ALL DAY. Go back to bed." "But I'll lose half the day!" "That half the day will SUCK for you if you stay awake. GO BACK TO BED.")
So I fell back asleep at 11:00 and slept until about 1:00, and dreamed that the black-and-tan coonhound died (instead of the dalmatian, and in the dream I lamented that injustice) and then dreamed that another of my uncles died.
I think the sum total of what I slept was close to 8 hours, but that sort of patchwork, 2-hours-at-a-time sleep pattern is lousy. Dang.
Maybe pumpkin ice cream will make me feel better.