Meanwhile, back at the ranch...

I woke up this morning and noticed that the world had not ended, and neither had I, so I realized that, at some point, I was going to have to get up.  This is not an unusual situation for me.  Not a morning person.  Not even an early afternoon person, now that the forces of the Universe have so perversely stolen an hour of my life, again.  The dogs haven't caught the drift yet, either, and are happy to hit their snooze alarms and join me in late arising.  After letting out dogs/brushing/flushing/thyroid pilling,  I slouched to the kitchen to grind/brew my Sumatra, cook up some whole wheat pancakes, smear them with lemon curd, mound them with whipped cream and sprinkle them with toasted slivered almonds, and plopped myself in front of the boob tube to inhale the whole thing.  It was so late, the dogs did not appear for their tiny morsel.  They were too busy exploring every inch of the backyard to see who visited us overnight.  I am now mulling the possibility of some laundry, much of it necessitated by Punkin's obsessive stealing of any article of clothing I mistakenly left on the bed and depositing said article on the back pseudo-lawn.  I am currently out of shelf-bra cammies that I wear to tame my runaway girls that have a tendency to get caught under my arms in my sleep.  Aging gracefully is an art, you know.  So, now I have been online, cyber-lurked in my kid's lives via Facebook, checked my bank balance (which got a little plumped with yesterday's $$$ for teaching two classes of fourth graders an art lesson, which explains why I REALLY did not want to get up today), and have promised myself that I can do some frivolous shopping, once the laundry is folded.  That may be next Wednesday at the rate I am going.  And for those not in the know, the title of this post refers to the plethora of westerns that filled my young life.  Johnny Mack Brown was my fave.  There, I have dated myself sufficiently for today.

The annual rant is on...

I hate this time change rigamarole.  Okay, I like the extra hour in the fall, but only because I feel so assaulted by its loss in the spring.  As I grow old, adjusting to change gets to feel like recovering from a hit up the side of my head.  There are all these clocks that need changing, everywhere.  I keep looking up at the wall clock over my computer and mentally subtracting that hour I added last night.  What time is it, REALLY?  So this year, I went on strike.  Not that the powers that make up this stuff are going to notice, but I slept in till noon, which was really only 11 AM, because I stayed up till 1 AM, which was really midnight.  The dogs were getting restless for their normal feeding time, which is usually 11 AM, but today was noon.  It is 2:30 PM now, really 1:30 PM, so it probably is not so shameful that I am still in my PJs, streaming some Rachmaninoff on ITunes and playing computer games, with a cup of coffee which I usually stop drinking at 1 PM.  Oh, hell, I think I'll just go shopping.  And I better hurry, because it is bleeping Sunday, and everything is closing an hour sooner than it should.