Insomnia Vent To The Universe

I went to bed already tonight.
I've been really sick,
like,
in bed-only-rising-to-shower kinda sick
with a cold that makes me sound like a seal when I speak.
But I'm feeling better,
so today (it was Monday nite when I started this),
I ran up to Denver to see Dani and the Ninja Baby,
and to fetch Nana whose returning from her BYU trip.
Really,
I just wanted to see the Ninja Baby.


Anyway,
I was beat by dinner time,
and was in bed for the night
by 8pm.
But Mr. W wasn't ready to go to sleep,
and like always,
just about the time he's ready to turn off the TV--
the theme from "Hawaii 5-0" cues up at the end,
and
I wake up.
I try to talk myself into going back to sleep
but my brain starts churning
and won't shut down,
so here I am
three hours later
still alone with my thoughts.

Does anyone else do this?

I've been surfing online--
AOL
MSN
People
and the biggest time-sucker of 'em all:
Facebook.

Mr W and I watched
"The Social Network" via PPV over the weekend.
It was interesting,
well-written,
but not Oscar-worthy in my opinion.
When I was surfing Facebook tonight,
I looked and found Eduardo Savoren's name and bio
on the FB page--
yup it's there but listed in a past-tense way.
Which,
I'm betting just burns him up.
Unless of course,
his settlement was in the zillions of dollars,
then I bet he's just happy as a clam somewhere
in the world, eating bons-bons and watching Oprah.

When I was still laying in bed,
trying to talk myself into going back to sleep,
a wave of panic swept over me
as I realized we're moving at the end of May,
and I thought a recent post by Crash,
and how she had all this random stuff left over
from a drawer in her house after moving,
and how I have those kinda drawers
that I'm gonna have to go through and pack.
Ugh.
I hate packing.
I love tossing stuff out--
in fact,
I love EMPTY drawers altogether.
And roomy closets and cabinets too.
But with a large family,
it seems we fill every space there is to fill
and then some.
So just the thought of packing drawers
washed dread over me so much,
I couldn't rest and thus,
here I sit.

Nana is moving to Provo for the summer
before her mission.
I have mixed feelings about this--
she's finally out of the rotten teenager stage,
and I like her alot.
We spend alot of time together,
and once she leaves at the end of March,
(yikes, it IS March!)
I'm going to miss her guts.
It's probably going to do wonders for my relationship
with the almost 16 year old though.
So that's a good thing, right?

It's March 1st.
I don't like March.
I'm in a May-kinda mind...
where Summer is just around the bend
with hiking and camping,
sandals are pulled to the front of the closet,
and sweaters are pushed to the back.
I'm thinking tulips and daffodils,
the smell of green grass and new leaves
dancing in the air,
and pink nail polish.

March puts me off--
with the heater running and
the forecast calling for snow
again this weekend.
Sure, there's the lame holiday of
St. Patrick's Day
and hey! I'm even Irish,
but really,
if you don't plan on getting snockered
and eating corn beef and cabbage
in a bright green shirt,
what's the point?

One sucky  good thing about March--
the Caboose turns ten.
Double-digits, peeps.
Ugh.
She likes skinny jeans and lip gloss now,
and knows music like a teenager--
n' because she's the youngest,
she's more confident than the rest of us all combined.
Ever notice that with the youngest in families?
I tell her to stop growing up on me,
that I need her to stay little.
Shrugging her shoulders,
she says,
"Can't help it, Momzaaaaa."
See? March sucks for so many reasons.

IN a totally vain direction,
I'm thinking of dyeing my hair.
I think it's called "peer pressure"--
all the cool kids are doing it.
I like my hair color, I do,
but the gray on the sides bums me out these days.
Whereas before,
I have boasted about my gray hairs as "earned and fought for"--
now,
I'm thinking I'd just as soon hide my candle under a bushel
or something like that.
I won't be going BYU blonde...lol.
That's an inside joke with me and my girls--
everytime we go to BYU's Women's Conference,
we people watch,
and it seems like entire families of women
pass around a bottle of Clairol's Blonde No.145
in the dorm rooms or hotel rooms the night before,
sharing the bottle like a BYU mint brownie--
Thus, BYU Blonde.
Try not to think about that,
the next time you're there.

No, and I don't wanna look like a calico cat either--
you know those dye-jobs that scream for attention:
"I couldn't decide if I wanted to go blonde or redhead,
low lights or high lights--so I went with the Combo-meal 
of all of them. And some ranch dressing on the side with a Sprite."
And usually, with that kinda dye-job,
comes the
"I-stuck-my-finger-in-an-electrical-outlet,
and-my-hair-now-stands-on-end-from-the-crown-of-my-head-,
and-out-the-back--and-none-of-my-friends-will-tell-me-I-look- 
like-the-bride-of-Frankenstein-caught-in-a-windstorm."--
haircut.

Clearly, I have issues with women and weird haircuts.
My own mother,
who had a gorgeous head of auburn hair--
I mean, the kind of auburn women yearn for--
colored her hair every shade of the rainbow.
Platinum Blonde,
Streaked, Highlighted, Weaved and Poked thru a plastic cap.
Carrot top Red.
Elvis Presley Blue-Black
and every color in between.

So maybe that's where I get my
dye-job phobias and prejudices??
There was the 1987 and 2008 fiascos.
I dunno,
but I'm reconsidering the whole deal and covering these
grey tresses up with a Sharpie if I have to,
unless I come to my senses and focus my attention elsewhere,
like cute summer sandals and pink nail polish.
Or write my own book.

Is it just me,
or is everyone on the planet writing their own books
these days?
The saying goes that "everyone has a story to tell."
But seriously,
I've been to the Pikes Peak Library( to whom I owe a huge overdue fee, dang it.)
Barnes and Noble,
Borders
heck, I've even been to the British Museum
at Trafalgar Square,
where books literally line the walls--
is there anything left to say that hasn't already been,
you know,
said?
I even looked inward and asked the question:
Is there a book in me? And if so, what would it be about?
A large dull sound of nothing answered,
so I took that as a big fat "no" from the Universe.
Okay then,
I must have other talents, I tell myself.
Other, yet-to-be-discovered-talents.
Perhaps they involve
watercolors
or
landscaping,
or better--
learning how to love March and letting go of my children as they
trot off to college and skinny jeans and lip gloss.
Perhaps my talent will involve
just sitting still and being a quiet observer of
the seasons and BYU Blondes
with a Sharpie in one hand
and a Sprite in the other.

But honestly,
I don't see a book in my future.
Just crammed closets and junk drawers,
tearful goodbyes,
insomniac nights,
and Hawaii 5-0 as background music.
Lights out.