Doing My Best Hermit Imitation

I'm not a morning person. I never have been and unless an apocalyptic event occurs, I doubt I will magically transform into a little Miss Suzy Sunshine shooting beams of happiness out of my arse first thing in the morning.

My family know this about me. They may not like it, but they accept it. Fric and Frac know to keep it quiet and mellow until ambrosia from the Gods of Java is running through my veins. I'm just not human first thing in the morning.

My darling husband, however, seems to have forgotten this charming fact of my personality now that he sleeps in a different bed, some 300 odd kilometers away from me on a semi-regular basis.

He has taken to phoning me first thing in the morning. And by first thing, I mean at 6:45 am, thirty minutes before my lovely alarm clock takes to abusing me with it's shrill screeching. At first, it was cute. Lovely even. My man calling me to wish me well before he walked onto a job site and surrounded himself with the testosterone riddled apes he works with. He wanted to fortify himself with the loveliness that is me.

First thing in the morning.

He must have lost his marbles in a poker game gone wrong. Talk about having rocks for brains.

The charm quickly wore off. Somewhere around the third straight morning in a row. Three days of sleep deprivation for a woman who is single handedly raising his children, maintaining his family relations, paying his bills and not getting any um, marital returns er, cake, in the mean time.

For the love of our children and for the sake of all the stupid people who annoy me daily that I must deal with the general public, I need my rest. Almost as much as I need my coffee. Which is still being brewed manually since my darling Fric shattered my coffee pot and I can't find a replacement carafe to fit my ridiculously overpriced coffee maker.

(Side note: Why in the world did I pay almost two hundred dollars for a lovely, magical coffee system with out checking to see if replacement carafes are available? Whyyyyyyy?)

This morning, at 6:47 a.m. the phone rang. Shocking, I know. I can't even pretend any more to love him at that time of day. Fumbling to find the phone I now keep hidden under my pillow (as I'm way too lazy to actually get out of bed to answer it) I groped to answer it before the ringing woke my children and forced me to unnecessarily rise from my bed and actually start parenting.

"Stop calling me this early in the morning or I will be forced to divorce you, sell your children to some travelling freak show and spend the rest of my years stalking you in perverse ways."

"Ah, my lovely. Good to know you slept well."

"Boo. This has to stop. I'm seriously questioning if I love you enough to survive these early morning phone calls." Oh, how the softness of my pillow taunted me, mocking my awakeness.

"Aw, did someone wake up on the wrong side of the bed this morning?" he asked me in an annoying sing song version of Pee Wee Herman.

"That's it, I'm changing our telephone number. And I'm not telling you what it is."

"You're cute when you're grouchy. Are you nekkid?" That's my husband. Annoying and perverted. This is what happens when you marry the first guy who knocks you up.

"Shut up," I groaned. "What do you want? Or are you just tormenting me because you are evil?"

"Actually, I had to call you this early. It may be my only chance to talk to you today; work is nuts around here. Somebody blah, blah, blah." I admit it. I tuned him out. I was starting to drift back to the land of Nod, the place of warm comforters, soft pillows and no shrill early morning phone calls from out of town husbands.

"You're not listening to me," he complained.

"No shit, Sherlock. You woke me up. On a SUNDAY morning. The one day of the week I am supposed to be allowed to sleep in. The holiest day of the week." Yawn.

"Oh right. I could apologize from waking you up from your humble sleep while I'm out here busting my hump trying to earn enough money to feed you and pay for your internet, but if you want to be like that-"

"I only want to be like that before the hours of 9 a.m. and after 11 p.m. on a Sunday. All other hours I will be the sweet Stepford wife you married."

"Sarcasm on you is sexy. Especially with that husky morning voice you've got going on. Are you nekkid?"

"Boo," I warned. I was quickly morphing into a cranky, uncaffeinated shrew.

"I just wanted to know if you were planning on posting anything anytime soon on your blog. The boys are starting to complain about the lack of new material."

"You woke me up on a Sunday morning before even God himself has gotten out of bed, to ask me that?" I screeched.


"I hate you."

"I love you too. Now get off your arse and get blogging. We're bored up here."

He was saying something else, but I accidentally, cough, cough, pressed the disconnect button. What can I say? I can't be held accountable for my actions before 7 a.m. on a weekend.

My apologies to everyone and to the boys stuck working with my husband. I live to entertain you and I promise to do better. Once this week has passed, the verdict has been delivered and the anniversary has passed.

It's hard to be creative when I'm busy hiding in the pantry, rocking back and forth, waiting for this week to end.

Bear with me for a few more days and I'll be back in brilliant form. Well, I suppose the brilliancy will depend on just how low you pin your expectations, but still, hang in there.