Haze

It feels somehow fitting that after surviving a day that felt like it was running away with me, I should find myself inhaling smoke as I grasp at the alarm buzzing at the top of my twelve-foot ceiling.

I just wanted some grilled chicken, but nothing's quite that easy today.  Two semi-cooked breasts later, there's a window open, a ladder leading up to the ceiling, a box fan on high, an alarm on the ground, and a cat I've never seen before peeking through the screen door to see what all the commotion is about.

So much commotion, cat.  So much commotion.

Today, I spent eleven hours at work.  It's week two, and school is kicking my butt.  Despite having taught this subject in some form for the last eight years, I've still worked until almost six every day this week.  I'm trying to convince myself that it's just beginning of the year craziness, but honestly, I just need to be okay with pretty good and go home earlier.


Luckily, I've got things outside work to keep me busy and lighten the mood.

There's writing.  (It's Thursday! I'm writing! #selfdiscipline!)

There's Gossip Girl. (2007 slide phones. That's all I'm saying.)

There's Fitz. (The mammal of mass destruction who occasionally nips at me because I'm not petting the right section of his back.)

There's the ever-exhausting search for legitimate male companionship. (Five dates with four guys in six days.  Five dates with one guy in six weeks.  Two dates this weekend with two different guys. And a pie pan that I can't for the life of me get back.)

And there's choir and hanging out with friends and prayer time in the morning and reading in the evening and scooping watermelon with a spoon and laundry and errands and filling my house with smoke all for a little grilled chicken.

Every August is a run for my money.  But not to worry, every month comes to an end.

And there's a payday waiting at the finish line.