Who needs sleep?

Well, you're never gonna get it. Who needs sleep? Tell me what's that for. Who needs sleep? Be happy with what you're getting; there's a guy who's been awake since the Second World War.
(Blogger has made it impossible for me to figure out how to italicize that...)

This song comes to mind, as it is 2:43 A.M. and I can't sleep. Granted, I purposely stayed awake initially in order to finish the book I was reading (The Blind Assasin by Margaret Atwood...lovely writing with an intense winding story...highly recommended). That was an hour and a half ago. I tried to sleep, but it's hot and I'm awake with rigorous thought.

Pat goes back to work tomorrow and I have to make like I'm accomplishing things instead of being a lazy housewife. I need to shop, clean, do some initial research for my alt plan paper before the idea wanes, organize the wedding gifts we left piled in a heap in our basement before the honeymoon, take my dress and his suit to the cleaners, do the rest of the laundry, and mainly, continue to play hostess to my houseguests who now have houseguests of their own (don't ask). I love them very dearly, but my house is not currently my own and I am not happy about it. I am typing this in bed next to my sleeping husband because I can't go upstairs, as my living room is a bedroom, not to mention a closet, for my guests. And frankly, they are not clean guests. Suitcases lay open with clothes pouring out of them like so many petals of a blooming flower, just not nearly as pretty. Sleeping bags and other accoutrements do not get rolled and stored during the day. And there is just nameless *stuff* everywhere. It is not as though I am neat as a pin when alone, but when it's just us, it's my stuff. And I'm not uncomfortable around my own stuff strewn about my house, because if I want to pick it up, I can. Coming home from a two-week vacation, I desperately want a clean house, but I can't even make it so. Maybe the kitchen, but even the fridge is full of things that don't belong to me, therefore I don't feel like I can throw out.

If ever any family member would happen to read this, please let me emphasize: I love my new family, more than words can say. I am just a bitchy woman who likes things just so sometimes. And when someone asks you if they've overstayed their welcome, you can't possibly say yes...ever. Not to mention the fact that I do like to be helpful, welcoming, and loving to as many as possible. I just didn't expect to have seven people in my house when I returned from my honeymoon. It is only four now, but still, that is more than usual.

Despite this, I love being married. He's good people, my husband, and goes out of his way to make me as comfortable, safe, and happy as possible. We went tubing down the Cannon River today. I use the term tubing loosely, as the river is so low, it was mostly floating and often portaging, as the river got so low we couldn't even float in some places. At one point, I was trying to forge through the low part instead of getting out of my tube and walking, and I hit a rock hard with my tube and the current was just strong enough to flip me, causing me to lose my tube. Husband rescued me and gave me his tube, then walked a good fifty yards on the hard, rocky river bottom until my original tube could be recovered. My hero :-) Despite the low river, it was a pretty good time. I think it would have been a really good time with more water, but c'est la vie.

It is three in the morning now, and I feel like I should try to sleep again. I have many things to say about my honeymoon, and pictures to boot, not to mention other things going on in my life, but crazy ramblings are all that I am suited for at this late (early?) hour. I leave you with this quotation from Margaret Atwood, that should speak to bloggers everywhere...

"The only way you can write the truth is to assume that what you set down will never be read. Not by any other person, and not even by yourself at some later date. Otherwise you begin excusing yourself. You must see the writing as emerging like a long scroll of ink from the index finger of your right hand; you must see your left hand erasing it. Impossible, of course."