Murder on screen, detergent in hand—multitasking queen

I was sound asleep this morning when Cowboy called—he’d lost his car keys and needed Raven to come pick him up.

Well, for once, Raven had actually gone to work on time.

So I climbed out of bed, woke Badger up, and told her I was headed down to the backyard—if I didn’t make it back up.

Cowboy fussed at me for waking her up, but it was 2:15 in the morning. A lot can happen at that hour.

There I was in nothing but a T-shirt that barely covered my assets, undies that did, and sneakers. I mean, hey—I refused to put britches on. That’s how I sleep.

I stumbled down the driveway and into the backyard toward a dark RV. I pounded on Heron’s window and scared the living daylights out of him.

He staggered to the door, I handed him the phone, and I’ll be doggone—Cowboy was talking to him. Cowboy looked down, and there were the car keys. On the floor.

Woke three of us up for nothing.

I don’t care if I end up without insurance and without medication for two years—Cowboy needs to retire.

He can’t keep working the hours he works. It’s dangerous for him to be driving home in the early hours of the morning.

And it’s more than a little worrisome that he couldn’t find a giant set of car keys that was literally at his feet.

Cowboy pulled in our drive at 2:25 a.m.; it was probably closer to 3 a.m. before we dozed off to sleep.

I didn't manage to creep back out of bed until 8:30 a.m. Badger said that she was getting ready to go poke me to see if I was dead.

She'd been up since the crack of dawn, bumbling all over the house, and neither me nor Cowboy stopped snoring.

Yeah, two days of hiking and being yanked out of a sound sleep at the vampire hour makes this old gal sleep sound.

The morning wore on, as mornings are wont to do.

Cowboy and Badger headed out for her therapy appointment.

The zoo and I stayed home, watching Wednesday, folding laundry, and cramming more into the washer.

I had a lot of laundry. Every time I go to do a load, someone else needs the machine.

Eventually, Cowboy and Badger got home, bearing bad news, doughnuts, and a coffee for me.

Badger’s therapist is moving to K, which makes continuing sessions a lot harder.

She was upset, which I understand. She’s seen this therapist for about a year and has built up a trust with her.

She spent most of the afternoon holed up in her room with the cats, all disappointed and a bit mad, until Cowboy told her he could keep taking her.

Let’s just tell the truth as it is. Cowboy is 65—that’s not old by any means—but he works second shift, and most of the time he doesn’t get home until 1–2 a.m.

Driving on the interstate isn’t the same as driving to JC.

The time she’d have to go, in order for Cowboy to make it home, take care of his chickens, and get his before-work nap in, would land them squarely in rush hour traffic.

A sleepy Cowboy on the interstate in bumper-to-bumper traffic—well, that’s terrifying to think about.

Navigating in K is not simple or easy. It’s not like going to JC or M.

K is huge and complex.

We’re not trying to deprive her of care or be mean. We’re trying to be realistic.

Once she knew that she'd get to keep her therapist, she gradually eased her way out of her room—but she waited until well after Cowboy went to work.

Let’s try to speed things up, because the rest of the day was super boring.

Cowboy went to work, Badger and I watched TV, and took micro-mini walks. 

Oh, yeah—Badger wanted out of the house but didn’t feel up to a long walk yet. Two days of hiking got us. 

Mostly, we watched TV.

Life is rather on the boring side around here, especially once Heron goes back to work.

After a two-day hike, though, I don't think I'll complain too much about boredom.

I'll just enjoy not being on the move.

Tomorrow should be exactly the same as today, minus the therapy appointment.

My fat little legs are still hurting, so that's OK with me.

Now I'll get off of here and start putting laundry up.

Hopefully it will be done before midnight, but I don't want to face it tomorrow—yeah, yeah, I should have been doing it as it came out.

But come on, supernatural murder—and it was supposed to be true crime?

You'd better believe that laundry was happy in baskets on my bed.

Let’s go, finish up that show about The Biggest Loser, and start sticking laundry where it belongs. No, not where the sun don’t shine—more like the dark abyss of my closet.