Woke Up, Fell Out Of Bed...

(I didn't really fall out of bed, I just was thinking about the Beatles.)

I did wake up late today - usually I am up by 6:15, snuggled on the couch with the computer on my lap and Frida wrapped around the back of my neck, Charles slurping sipping his tea across from me in his chair.

But today, I woke up at 7:30.  And I didn't get a restful sleep.  I woke up from a nightmare about my glasses being broken by a mean sister (religious, not sibling).  The sister in the dream is really  somebody that I know, and she really is a sister, and not the kind of person who would deliberately break someone's glasses.  Don't ask ME what this means, ask Dr. Freud.  It could have been the curry that I ate for dinner last night.  My jaw hurt from clenching my teeth, and I was out of sorts when I woke up.  I was running late, and I had a million whole bunch of things to check off of my list.

Anyway, I got up at 7:30 and after I drove Charles into town and came back, I set about making banana/berry muffins to drop by the Thibodeau house (see my previous post), because I'm Catholic, and that's what we do when someone dies.  We cook, we bake, we drop off.

Then I came home and rescheduled my foot doctor appointment because Miguel needed my car to get to the university.  I had to make a foot doctor appointment in the first place because the ball of my right foot feels like someone is taking a red hot sharp object and poking it into it.  I called an orthopedist here in town and they said that they usually refer foot problems to a podiatrist.  I told them I preferred to see the orthopedist because he is an M.D. (I am kind of a snob that way).  So I go to the orthopedist, girding my loins because I had done some research and was convinced that what was wrong with my foot was a Morton's Neuroma, which would require a cortisone shot in the ball of my foot, which, I had heard, would hurt like HE-double hockey sticks.  I even took Charles with me to hold my hand.  However, the orthopedist told me that I don't have a Morton's Neuroma, what I actually have is Metatarsalgia (which means "A pain in the ball of the foot that feels like a red hot sharp object is poking into it"), and recommended that I see the local podiatrist for a thing to put in my shoe.  So much for medical snobbery.

I made the appointment for today, but rescheduled it for Tuesday because I don't have the car.  Now, I am waiting for my bread dough to rise.

I was planning a different day today, a day of running around out in the valley, seeing the podiatrist, paying bills, doing errands,  but it turned into a day of doing a good deed (maybe two, if you count letting Miguel take my car), and baking bread.

Instead of being frustrated by this, I am actually grateful.  I have a few minutes to sit, write, and wait for the bread to rise, when instead, I could have been out driving from place to place, getting things done that can wait until tomorrow.  Or even Tuesday.

Wait for the bread to rise: that's my new motto.

This is bread that I baked a few months ago.  I am still waiting for today's bread to rise.