So am I an early bird or a night owl?

   It's one in the morning and I can't sleep.  We just went to bed forty-five minutes ago, and I wasn't really tired then, but figured I'd be when I slipped beneath the beconning sheets.  Except they weren't beconning.  They had no appeal at all.  So I lay there with Jon's arm over me, trying to move just enough to get him to roll over, but not enough to wake him up.  There's a fine balance.  Eventually, he rolled over.  And Sox came to my pillow and still sleep alluded me.  (I think the fact that I don't write is apparent in my spelling--it's atrocious!)

   I kept thinking, "Go type.  Then you'll sleep.  Go post something on LJ, ya bad journal keeper.  Go write!"  So finally I listened to the voice in my head.  You know, maybe it was the muse speaking.  I haven't been listening lately, so I think I've forgotten the sound of her voice.  And the muse is definitely a she.

   Anyway, I couldn't sleep, so here I am.  And I have nothing to say.  I'm not really tired, but I don't want to complain about something or someone while in here.  And I don't really have anything interesting to say.

   I guess I could talk about Mark Twain.  Now there's an interesting writer.  What's the first book that comes to mind when you think of him?  For me, it's Huckleberry Finn, followed closely by Tom Sawyer.  Never do I think The Innocent's Abroad.  But we have that book, and we haven't been to the library in a long time (I owe for three lost books, and Jon has a fine for books that we've had for over a month and a half now).  And I'm undeniably a bookworm.  I gotta have a book to read, or I go crazy.  And you know, you get tired of reading the same old books over and over and over.  So I picked up The Innocent's Abroad, thinking it would be about some misplaced or misguided children.  Boy was I wrong!  It's about some American's who've decided to see the world on a crusise who have nothing but time on their side, and who can go wherever they want.

   But it's not the plot that has me rivited (I've not been able to read it for a couple of days).  It's the prose.  He writes beautifully, and if it's not beautiful, it's at least crisp.  He has literally taken my breath away with certain passages.  And though I like Huck and Tom, and Twain's short stories, I've never credited him with the genius that he truly has.  The Innocent's Abroad is truly beautiful.  The story drags a little, but the writing is beautiful.

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We got new sheets!

   Okay, so most normal people wouldn't rejoice over new sheets, but I'm a little weird. (Hee hee, ha ha ha, titter, chuckle, cough)  Scuse me, let me regain control of myself.  I crack myself up.

   Though I didn't fall asleep til about two this morning, Jill let us sleep in til eight and I woke up refreshed.  But now I'm tired.  We cleared out our garage, and though Jon did most of the heavy stuff, I still worked hard.  And the heat!  Oh my word, it's been awful.  We saw earlier that it was 100, but that's not including the heat index.  Ginny's gonna die when she comes down.  Jon said he thinks she'll just stay mostly indoors.  I don't blame her.

   I don't really have a lot to say, other than it was a pretty productive day.  I guess I should tell about my flat and Jon's puncture.  Yesterday, I hit a log because I couldn't swerve to miss it because a car was coming and tore my tire.  Today, we were driving the church's truck and had to go to the dump three times just to get rid of all the junk from our garage.  On our second trip, we caught either a staple or a nail in our tire.  So it's our week to ruin tires!

   Anyway, I can tell I'm really tired.  I can't type without having to retype everything I write because of typos or because what I type doesn't make sense.  Gotta go get some zzz's!