Maybe I'm not paying attention

I probably shouldn't admit this, but I didn't notice Judybat had fallen in hole last week. (She's pretty short to begin with, so . . . ) Maybe it's because I was working so hard. Normally, when my dear's seasonal bumps in the road approach, everyone in the house feels it. There's sort of a subtle-yet-seismic shift to the world, like that prickly back-of-the-neck feeling you get before a major thunderstorm.

It's funny how different we are. Judybat sinks into (usually) noticeable funks when she's feeling unfulfilled or like her body chemistry is out of whack. Her emotions would make a wonderful roller coaster, likely one of those high tech modern models with the loop-de-loops and helixes and turns and drops that seem to defy the laws of physics. When she's happy, she's like no one I've ever met. And when she's unhappy, she's like no one I've ever met, only with this unpleasant grimy film over her mood, like the car windows of a chain smoker.

I, on the other hand, prefer to let all my rage and anger and unhappiness sit and stir and marinate in their own nasty juices. And then, I explode. To call it crankiness would be overly polite. I turn into an unhappy two-year-old. And we both know something about unhappy two-year-olds these days. Lots and lots of yelling and stamping of feet. Perhaps I need a time-out too.

Anyway, I'm thankful for you too, Judybat. And I'll always be here, whether you're in a hole or not. Sometimes, I'll even notice the difference.


God, that's so sweet it's disgusting, huh? Here's something to temper the goodness: What's weirder -- that I think Martin Freeman is really quite sexy, or that everytime I see an ad for this movie, my brain reads "Martin Freeman" as "Morgan Freeman," and I have the same discombobulated internal monologue in which I try to figure out which character Morgan is playing?

And isn't "discombobulated" one of the best words in the English language?