Get up. Stumble through yoga. Stagger into kitchen. Let dogs out, feed cavy his morning treat. Let dogs in, feed them. Breakfast with French and Spanish.
Make coffee. Trip twice heading down the hall, manage not to spill any coffee, open up Rosetta Stone for Latin. Stare at “hoc, hic, haec” and curse every goddamn part of speech. Startle-jump when phone buzzes, reminding me I’ve a 5K slated for later this morning. Eye Caesar, trying to decide if it’s worth opening him up today.
Feel guilty for even contemplating skipping a day. Startle-jump again when a cold wet nose touches my ankle. Let cat out, muttering imprecations.
Head back to my bedroom without tripping, so the coffee must be sinking in. Brush teeth, mumbling “hoc, hic, haec” and various versions of “Fuck this noise.” Grab running shoes, wonder which of my children is stealing my running socks, decide it doesn’t matter. Maybe the dogs have eaten them. Head back to office, stare at Caesar, daring him to open up and say one. goddamn. thing. Have longing thoughts of traveling back in time and stabbing Caesar before Brutus could.
Open Caesar. Blink. Begin reading aloud, checking each sentence against translation on facing page. Startle-jump again when someone slams a car door across the street. Drop Caesar, begin swearing softly so as not to wake the children. Pet Miss B, who has decided I obviously need help and many snootboops this morning. End up sitting on office floor, dog under my arm, reciting Caesar interspersed with “goddammit, fuck you, alliteration, what does that mean…oh, okay…fuck you anyway…”
I have longing thoughts of adding Korean to my daily language practice, but I’m not sure I’d survive the experience.
And that, my friends, is what a Monday morning is like here a la Chez Saintcrow. It’s like every other morning, except with about ten percent more swears.