psalmishness

Ungh. I only dragged myself out of bed this morning because I couldn't sleep through Simon pummeling my shoulder with one clawless paw. (How do those little paws pack such a punch? He hits hard. I told him that battering your mother isn't very nice and we may have to go to counseling. He just started using both paws.) Once I finally fed him, he followed me around the house looking more than usually self-satisfied. I had slept too ill, was too tired and had too bad of a headache to be annoyed with him; rather, I was annoyed with the poor sleep, tiredness and headache. I didn't do anything fun last night deserving of such fuzzy wakefulness; on the contrary, I tamely graded essays all evening with mellow reruns of Star Trek: The Next Generation murmuring in the background, read a quiet chapter of a book, and snuggled down peaceably among the pillows of my bed. I mean, come on. Headache? Sleeplessness? Why? (Sometimes virtue being its own reward is sort of a grim compensation, like angel food cake on your birthday. Yeah, I guess there's sugar in it, but really?)

So I hunched my shoulders and clutched my coffee mug like a sippy cup and channeled the spirit of one of the toddlers from my days at the Center. Raziel was two: adorable, very smart and articulate, petrifyingly shy, particular, sensitive and stubborn, and not in the least bit a morning person. If The Meg Formerly Known as Boss or I greeted him too cheerfully when his mother brought him to the classroom at 8:00 a.m., his round-cheeked little face would contort itself into a Picassonian expression of pure sourness which, had it only been published, would have elicited the awe of every Grinch and every Grouch the world over; he would draw his body together like a turtle and emit, under powerfully downturned eyebrows, one staccato grunt that contained a world of communication: "Ngh."

We had a rough time of it not bursting out laughing at him, of course, and frequently we'd keep wishing him a good morning for the instant replay of his dour reaction. You could just see in his face, before he turned his head away, the prototype of the thought wishing us warmly to hell.

So when Dad wished me a good morning, I screwed up my face, closed my eyes against the mean sunlight and muttered, "Ngh."

And of course, his reaction to me mirrored mine to Raziel. Which drew a laugh from me, I will admit. (Self-irony is a salvific gift for which I dearly thank God.)

The day has only improved from there. Traffic intensified my headache as I drove to work; assistants in the Erie Court systems have beautifully reinforced the trademark Erie rudeness; and, while I love that Conor has shared the spotlight of lead vocals with other members of The Mystic Valley Band, I'm disgruntled (if "disgruntled" is negative, I don't see how "gruntled" could be positive; the word sounds as cheerful as my good morning) because not all of the tracks on Outer South bear his voice. I love his voice. And yes, the other band members are talented; but their songs lack the strength and soul of Conor's. Harumph. It's still a great album, perfect for driving on a sunny summer day, overarchingly lighthearted, fast-paced and fun, an enjoyable listen. It's just not all Conor, which is like reading a collection of Joyce Carol Oates stories and finding them sporadically interrupted by stories by O. Henry.

Oh well; enough with the grump. At least the sun shines, brightly if coolly, the leaves have almost reached their full maturity, everything has grown vibrant with green, the morning smelled of all the newness the world ever remembered, I don't have to work at the bookstore tonight, not living alone has done wonders for my wellbeing even with the occasional domestic tension, I am possessed of the most charming, intelligent, sweet and inscrutable cat God ever graced with golden owl eyes and an inky light-absorptive coat, love suffuses everything, life is lovely and pregnant with a multitude of adventures, God is good and it's almost summer.

Hallelu Yah.