I am irritable in a very quiet, passive-aggressive sort of way today. I have forgotten what it feels like to get eight hours of consecutive sleep. The night before last was a nightmare. Baby has his days and nights very much mixed up. Last night wasn't so great, either. We had people stay at the house last night. They didn't get here until late, and then... Well, let's just say it was weird.

Peanut got a swing yesterday. He loves it. It has this music thing that plays very intense classical music. He just sits and rocks and looks around. He is sooooo cute! I love my baby!!!

Why do I have this innate thing built into me that I cannot find words to speak to some people. I had previously thought that I could small-talk to anyone. However, now I know that this is not true. There are some people with whom an awkward silence or a very awkward conversation that doesn't go anywhere seems to be the closest thing to conversation that I can find. Why? I wish that I knew. It isn't that I don't want to be conversational. I just can't be. Can't help it. Oh, well... As weird as this sounds, I just hate wasting time feeling uncomfortable. That's me - as snobby as it sounds. I really don't want to come across stuck-up. And I wouldn't be spending time writing about this if it didn't concern me. But, I just don't feel like working on it. It just seems much easier to zone out and day-dream while feigning interest. I have found that most of the time, others will gladly fill the quiet spaces. The only problem comes when people leave the room and the "conversational ball" must come into my court. Messed up - right? This is just some of the things that you think about when you have several sleep-deprived hours of quiet.

Boy, am I exhausted. I feel as if my whole weekend is gone. Friday evening was fun. Friday night was awful. Saturday morning Hubby tried to let me sleep while he watched Peanut. The neighbor's dog barked all morning. Then, Hubby and I cleaned house to get ready for guests to come. We finally stopped at about 10:30. Before I knew it, my whole evening was gone. I am craving an evening with Hubby that is stress-free and devoted only to the two -well, three - of us. Is that selfish? I don't want left-overs of someone else's time. I want my own time slot. I don't want to try to catch up on sleep during that time. I don't want to think about chores or responsibilities with studying or cleaning. The day is nearly gone now, and we are both so tired.. Maybe next weekend...

I have laundry to do. The work never stops...

Heaven knows what will come next
So emotional, you're so complex
A rollercoaster built to crash
But I still love to have you around...

Everytime that I hear the "Blue Danube," I close my eyes and imagine that I am waltzing. I am in a beautiful ballroom. My dress is a lovely early 20th century ball gown. My hair is done up in a very fetching pompadour - complete with little white rose. My partner is a wonderful dancer - and I ain't so bad myself. He grips one of my lovely gloved hands, and my other hand holds up my skirt. We exchange pleasantries about the weather, but I can tell that he worships the ground that I walk on. Later in the evening, he will ask me - in a desparate manner - for my perfumed lace handkerchief. Just a little something to remember me by - for he must go to fight in the Great War next week. I will demurely let him kiss my ungloved hand - as scandalous as that may be. Then I will press my handkerchief into his hand, and turn to walk away quickly. Of course, I would have carried about twenty handkerchieves...My dance card would be full of dashing young men who desired so romantic a keepsake from the woman who would be to them as Beatrice was to Dante... However there would only be one who could capture my true attention - and my heart... He would be a tall, promising young lawyer with dark hair and captivating hazel eyes. I would reserve the last dance for him. And, perhaps I would let him escort me home. He might even be able to steal a kiss under the gas light that stood in front of my beautiful Victorian domicile. Our romance would include a beautiful spring engagement and a gorgeous wedding on a hot August night. Soon, there would be a picture for the family album of me in a stiff, white shirtwaist and dark blue skirt. He would be standing next to me - his watch fob hanging from his tailored suit vest. And near us would be a baby carriage with a sweet baby boy in it. We would plant rose bushes around our house that our children grow up in. And when I died, he would be the last to leave my grave. He would place the most beautiful bouquet of roses from our bushes on my grave - a symbol of our love. And he would drop a tear - all right, two... And my spirit would be there for only a moment, to caress his silver hair and plant a final kiss on his wrinkled brow...He would feel a gentle breeze and smell the fragrance of gardenias and roses. And he would know that it was my spirit. And we would one day be reunited on streets of gold...

Boy, I should be a cheesy romance story writer! While some of my friends thought that my new name sounds like a great name for a - um, dancer... I feel that it befits a cheesy romance novel writer. Weird, huh?