I slept eleven hours last night.

Sometimes you just need that, you know? A periodic crash occasions itself a few times a year, and I usually wake feeling a bit drugged but much better.

I could have slept longer, though. I think fourteen hours would have done it.

Last night I came home, changed into pajamas (I don't understand people who sit around at home dressed to the nines. I wear nice clothes all day, and when I want to relax, I want to do it comfortably -- and nothing says comfort better than a warm fuzzy pair of sweats and my favorite red GCC hoodie), fed the cat, reheated dinner, and watched a couple of episodes of Boston Legal. Business as usual.

Afterward I felt the need to wash dishes...and I couldn't even muster the energy to put away the ones sitting clean in the drying rack. I tried. I stashed two of my Tupperware dishes in their designated cupboards. But my arms didn't want to work. My eyes didn't want to stay open. My spine didn't want to hold itself upright.

I went to bed.

It felt lovely. Today I have that funny pressured feeling behind my eyes that you get when exhaustion hasn't quite left you, or you've slept a little too much, but I tell you, I could do it again tonight and wake up happy tomorrow.

Maybe I will.

In the meantime I walked into a fabulously clean and organized office this morning, thanks to Boss-Man's afternoon away yesterday, during which I overhauled everything. I have so much more room now. Part of it involved admitting I had far too many organizing gizmos cluttering all the flat surfaces, doing the opposite of their intended functions. These I carried up to the supply closet. I also got rid of the typewriter (finally) which I never use because I hate the time-waste of the typewriter.

* * * Tangential remark: * * * Although Indiana, in its desperate clinging to an old-fashioned era that passed away sometime with the advent of modern automobiles, requires ALL of its forms in typewriter format, I have foiled it. I reproduced its forms on the computer, which I learned how to do by playing around with the Michigan forms. I even computerized our oversized mailing labels, which do not comply with any of the sizes recognized by Avery. I HATE THE TYPEWRITER. I don't hate the Idea of a typewriter, but I cannot tolerate the minutes it flushes down the toilet during my workday, when, particularly just before the mail goes out, Time is Of The Essence and any second wasted costs me irreplaceable time. * * * End tangential remark. * * *

I found better shelving for my office supplies, got rid of some unnecessary units, and, in general, streamlined anything I could get my hands on and move myself.

So things seem a little better. Now if I could only work up the energy to tackle the dishes tonight. Whenever I walk into the kitchen they clamor at me.