Because there is no sort of grace to be found in the morning.

Waking up in The Household leaves very much to be desired. Such as sleep, perhaps. I very much desire to go back to sleep when it's time to wake up. But alas, the alarm goes off and, well, there will be no going back to sleep.

And there's a very good chance that that is because we don't have AN alarm. We have THREE alarms. All of them about 37 seconds apart. 6:04 a.m. 6:05 a.m. 6:05:37 a.m. It sort of makes me feel like there's an air raid in our bedroom every morning.

I have an alarm. Just one. My petite cell phone politely tells me, "Yes, hello. Please wake up, Gentle Sleeping One. 'Tis time." And then HE has TWO alarms (because one alarm? NO. Not enough). And they scream and yell and holler and DON'T STOP. And then we have this obnoxious habit of hitting snooze (each time one of THREE alarms goes off) for a good half hour. And I completely understand this makes no sense at all, whatsoever, because what really takes place is that every five minutes, we're slapping three different alarms at 37-second intervals, and spend most of that half hour of "snooze time" being jerked awake by not one, but THREE ALARMS.

Also, I'm not one for mornings. I'd rather put hot pokers into my eyes. The bed is comfortable, and pillow-y, and warm, and there's cats in it. I don't WANT to get out and I don't WANT to open my eyes and, dammit, I don't WANT to do anything nearly resembling existence. Let me sleep. Boo.

But I get up anyway, and I stumble (and whine, pout, kick, etc.) into the bathroom, and I turn on the light and immediately regret my decision to function as a human being. Meanwhile, The Fiance continues to "snooze."

After my shower (more pouting, kicking, screaming, etc.) I eventually make it before the mirror to attempt to not only function as a human being, but also look like one. I stand in my underwear because, getting dressed? Far too much work. And that's when he walks into the bathroom. Looking much like a lost puppy, who maybe also got ran over. Or lost his mother. Or was recently neutered.

"Kritta," he whines.

I continue to apply mascara.


Mascara. La, la, la.

"Kritta-a-a. I'm tired."

I shoot him a look that says, "I am tired, and awake, and showered, and in my underwear, and applying make-up. YOU just crawled out of bed."

And that's the extent of our morning conversation prior to 7 a.m. Until he steps into the shower.

"Kritta." By this time the shower is running and I can smell his soap.



"Kritta. I need a nap."

Lather, rinse, repeat. Every morning.