Don't you hate it when you get up in the morning and the first thing you hear as you stumble to the coffee pot is drip drip drip? Not from the coffee pot, but somewhere over the couch? We haven't had rain here in over a week, but it's raining from one of the recessed lights in my family room. This house wins the award for leakiest ever, and it's the youngest by far. Our 1857 Brooklyn townhouse had far fewer moisture issues.
While I wait to call the plumber, who came last week and "fixed" the minor drip, now major, I just want to kvetch about how poorly I slept last night. I should have stayed up to watch the endless all-star game; it would have been a better use of my time. I've been a poor sleeper since adolescence. A good night's sleep is one of the few things I truly yearn for, although I'm dangerous when I get one. Honestly, if you can give me a suggestion for how to catch a few more z's that I've yet to consider, and it proves successful, I will send you a prize.
Here's a book recommendation: Netherland by Joseph O'Neill. I love it when a book has the perfect title. Now it's on to Breath by Tim Winton. I owe it to my Aussie blood to keep up with the latest literature.