Staring at the Ceiling

It's three in the morning and I'm too excited to sleep.

I blame Mom and Auntie for this, as well as for anything I might be compelled to buy from any infomercials between now and 6:00 a.m.

Just like them, I am wired for joy. When I am excited about something, it thrums through my veins, making my limbs restless and keeping my eyes staring open at the ceiling. Christmas, a vacation, anticipation of joy - my own, or someone else's joy that I might be able to witness or share in.

I tried Advil p.m. A glass of wine might work, but we're all out, and the only thing left in the liquor cabinet is a bottle of peach schnapps. I can't quite manage that. So I'm watching re-runs of Cheers, and watching thoughts about my house pass through my brain in tandem...

The girls will have such fun setting up their dolls and stuffed animals on their shelves...Why do the books say that you are supposed to paint a giant "W" on the wall and then fill it in for proper wall painting technique?...I really should have bought that clearance rug at Jordan's furniture when I had the chance...If I paint my bedroom the shade I've chosen called "Blue Bayou," will I inadvertently get a Linda Rondstadt song stuck in my head in a continuous loop for the next decade or so?...What DOES one keep in a garage, really, and just how likely is it that I won't ever accidentally smash my Corolla into the door? I've never had a garage before...I have no good place to display my teapots - will it be too corny to use them as bookends?...Do NOT cry at the closing, do NOT cry at the closing...I should really take it upon myself to learn something about plumbing.

And mixed in there are also thoughts about what it was like to have tea with Elizabeth Berg, how inspiring she is and how she really does look like Diane Keaton. I'm thinking about my middle school play, and trying not to worry about things that will iron themselves out, as they always do. I'm wishing that I hadn't remembered the pint of bananas foster Haggen Daaz ice cream in the freezer. I'm wondering how I'll manage to get a sizable dent in the painting this weekend, and how to manage the picking up of the girls during prouction week next week.

It's too much, and after a day in sixth grade later, I will crash at 8:00 p.m., only to awake at 2:00 and start all over again. And I'll find re-runs of Cheers and Becker - why must the wee small hours of the morning feature so much Ted Freaking Danson? And I'll make lists and try to find some box that needs packing or re-packing, and count the hours until Friday morning's closing, where I will, of course, cry.

Tears of joy, just like Mom and Auntie always do, hearing songs about Home played on a player piano in the background of my mind as I sign sign sign, and finally bring my family home, where the bedrooms will be pink, yellow, blue, and Blue Bayou...where the folks are fine and the world is mine, on Blue Bayou....

La la la...something about fishing boats...and a familiar sunrise through sleepy eyes...