Officially entering my "frozen burrito wrapped in three blankets" era

Fall finally crept its way into Tennessee.
It was in the 40s when I went out to feed my little stray.
I came scurrying back inside, shivering, to wrap myself up in my fuzzy blanket.

It never made it out of the 50s today.
Badger said, “Now this is what October is supposed to feel like.”
Maybe so, but now I kind of wish I hadn't complained about summer holding on so long.

Cowboy isn't handling third shift so well.
It seems like things have changed, and he's having a difficult time adjusting.
He's the type who has a hard time leaving things undone when he sees something that needs doing, or leaving something alone when he thinks it hasn't been done right.
He'll take it upon himself to get it done, and I think that's making things harder for him.

He comes home from work and goes to bed in the bedroom until his alarm sounds about five hours later.
He wakes up, comes into the living room, eats breakfast, and takes his medication.
For some reason, one of his medications requires him to stay upright for an hour after taking it, so he naps in his recliner for several more hours.

If he didn't have to feed and water the chickens and gather the eggs, he'd probably sleep right until the time to go back to work at 6:30 a.m.
Badger and I keep getting on to him about selling them to make his life easier.
He tells us that those chickens are the only thing getting him out of his recliner some days.
If it wasn't for having to take care of them, he'd just sleep.

He'll be 67 next month, and in a perfect world, he'd already be retired and, well, I can't say playing golf or walking the beach.
That's not my Cowboy.
He'd probably be out there welding or something.
Instead, he's still doing work that thirty-something men whine and complain about having to do.
And he's doing it on third shift.

Most of the day, he snoozed in the recliner while Badger and I stayed quiet in my bedroom.
She has her LEGO sets, I have my Kindle, and we keep the TV going in the background.
Mostly just to have another human with us, I think.
The good thing about cooking and design shows is that you really don't miss all that much if you don't pay close attention.
They're basically all the same.

Cowboy did wake up, oh, sometime pretty late this evening.
He tried to fix my ceiling fan.
These days I need my fan, which is really freaky seeing that I've spent most of my life freezing to death.
There was a little accident with the chain breaking off up in the fan.

He worked and worked and worked and thought he had it fixed.
So he goes to sit down, and I come into the living room and say, “Huh, the fan won't cut off.”
He says, “Yes, it will. I just cut it off.”
I say, “Well, it's still going, and I've yanked the chain several times.”
So he ambles over, yanks the chain, yanks the chain, yanks it one more time, and nope, it doesn't cut off.
Very grouchily, he goes, “Well, get ready. We need to go buy a fan.”

That's how we ended up with an unexpected trip to Walmart to buy a new ceiling fan.
We all disagree, but I'd almost swear the broken fan was put in when Badger was a baby.
I sure don't remember having one put in recently.
Cowboy and Badger say it wasn't that old, but I still think that fan had been there forever.

We bought the fan, got home, and Cowboy put the new fan up while Badger and I cooked supper.
Cowboy never puts the little glass globe on, so we just have a bare light bulb.
We were afraid it would have that candelabra-type bulb.
We'd made the mistake of getting one of those in the kitchen and bedroom.
We both hate those, but the box didn't really specify what kind of bulb it took, and we weren't going to return the fan once it was unpacked.
Luckily, this one takes a normal bulb.

Fan in and working, supper eaten, Cowboy is stretched out in the recliner with his noisy Facebook Reels.
I'm going to head into the bedroom with Badger to watch my own TV.

Tomorrow is church for Cowboy, of course, and then we're supposed to go to the bookstore when he gets home.
We'll see.

Then Monday is the dentist and my Mom's birthday.
I've not laid flowers on her grave in forever.
Mom is an hour up the road, and Cowboy doesn't particularly enjoy making that drive.
It's all twisty and curvy and more towards the mountains.
I'm more of a mountain girl, born and raised, than Cowboy is.

Which, by the way, he and his family have always laughed and called me a hillbilly.
That might be true, but at least my hometown has police, fire and ambulance services, lots of doctors, dentists, optometrists, and a hospital.
Multiple schools, multiple churches.
Lots of funeral homes, a giant library.
Stores, restaurants, a big old park.
Festivals and parades.
Coming from that down to here, to what feels like a dead, stagnant town, was a big shock.
We may be hillbillies, but by George, we're cultured hillbillies living in a lively, vibrant town.

And that's my rant of the day.
I'm off of here.