It's my birthday. Aside from the obvious, I know it because I felt about a thousand years old when I got up this morning. Before I got up, the cats (include the new Cleo, more on her later) had dumped the trash over in search of chicken bones and commenced to running around at 4:30am. Then, while I was in the shower, one of them discovered a packet of catnip and they proceeded to spread it over the hall runner and get stoned out of their teeny tiny furry minds. Tigger was just rolling around on the pile of scattered catnip, his eyes as big as saucers.
Eventually Jakki had to get up as well and we both stomped around herding cats and righting upset trash bins. If you know what's good for you, you really don't want to get Jakki up in those wee small hours of the morning. Believe me, at 5:30am I could have SOOOO gone back to bed. Then 6:00am arrived with my sister's traditional Beatle's Birthday call. It was nice, and it's good to hear happy tidings after a monring like that.
So here I sit at my computer at work at 3:15pm daydreaming of a soft, warm bed. Today on this eleventh day of January, two thousand and six, I'm chronologically 31 years old-- but I feel just as young as the hills around me. *snore*