This morning, after I jarred myself out of sleep, I ran into the kitchen, looking similarly like Wilkie Collins' Woman in White (I have included a picture for your point of reference, though note: I am neither young nor as romantically attired), only in a pastel patterned flannel nightgown, not yards of what is most likely muslin, but kind of looks like cheesecloth, I found I had slept through all human activities that normally would have broken my sweet slumbers
My husband has risen, showered, dressed and banged about in all of his usual ways and I did not hear any of it. My "remaining" son at home did not wake me with his usual pounding down the stairs in fast and furious steps and the crisp clip of the bathroom door closing did nothing to invade my slumbers. My "remaining" daughter at home "claims" she knocked upon my door to "remind me" that I needed to get going so as not to impede her progress to go to her job. Clementine, the dog, who feels the need to bark at all manner of things as they pass by our front window, (very similarly to what she is doing right now as I type); also did nothing to interrupt my reverie of sleep. I missed it all.
Which is to say, I have now raised my daughter's interior alarms to a three, think fire department here, and have 15 minutes to put on the kettle,( for two imprecise teaspoons of loose leaf Earl Grey), dredge boneless short ribs and brown, rough cut onions, celery, carrots, garlic, deglaze the pan with red wine and chicken stock and request "remaining daughter" to retrieve three cans of diced canned tomatoes and to open them with the hand can opener that does leak some of the dishwater form the handle from the last time it was washed (which is pointed out by said daughter), throw it all into the slow cooker, which I have remembered to plug in, which in the past may or may not have happened. (Forgot to note that "remaining daughter" was perturbed that her new dress she has donned for the office will now smell of browned beef.)
I then pour the water over the Earl Grey, run to my room, throw on the pile of clothes that are in front of my dresser and run back out to the kitchen, "remaining" daughter's comment is: " I did not recognize you without your red fleece" while stinging, is true.
I have taken, since loosing my job back in September, in an attempt to cut down on the quantity of laundry to be done, to wearing what my family likes to call "a onesie". This is; either a pair of blue sweat pants that have been worn for painting various things over the years or blue jeans, a turtle neck and a red fleece, that zips up the front, and was a gift from my dear friend Barbara several Christmas ago. If the red fleece is in need of a wash, then it is a grey sweatshirt from the daughter's (that has departed the home for marriage) Alma mater.
I do inspect the "outfit" it every day to make sure there are no obvious reasons why I should find a replacement article in my ensemble, but as I am no longer leaving the house, except to drive or retrieve, my standards are not as precise as they once were. The few friends that I continue to see in my malaise of unemployment are such good companions they either do not notice or are to kind to care.