The Sushi Haunts My Dreams

The first beams of the day's light slid through our bedroom blinds as Ridge pulled me from my fleeting slumber, his small hands pressed upon my cheeks. Ready or not, the day had begun.
"Momma, I'm hungry AGAIN," he whisper with a heavy emphasis on the last word of his declaration. Like a bear in a preparatory binge for winter's hibernation, Ridge has been on an almost never ending eating spree in the last few weeks. I know he'll sprout like corn toward the sun before too long.
"Momma, I need some sausage," he impatiently sighed. "I'm really, really hungry AGAIN."
After the boy complied to my demand for an energizing kiss, I pulled my dragging ass from bed. As soon as my feet hit the floor, nagging aches trickled from my shoulders to my toes. The night's rest provided no rejuvenation, none at all.
Since I started that marathon reproductivity campaign a few years back, this shit has taken a more regular occurrence than my much less rested years of my booty-shaking youth. Now, don't feel too sorry for me, crippled old lady that I am. Most mornings I leap from bed like a Spring chicken. Well, maybe an early Autumn chicken, if there is such a thing, but nonetheless I normally feel better than I deserve considering how I've treated my body. And when I do creek from bed like rusty old doors on a forgotten barn, I figure I did something to encourage it and just chalk it up to the rather fantastic years of beer drinking.
However, on this back-throbbing, knee-knocking morning, I knew it wasn't the good times of yesteryear that painfully plagued my quite sizable rear. Nope, that wasn't it at all.
Now, before you go suspecting Rowdy of spousal abuse and, Lord knows, it's a wonder he hasn't taken up that honored pastime yet, let me tell you that I already know the culprit of this crime. It's sushi!
Yes, you read that correctly. It is mind-numbing, almost-as-good-as-sex sushi. When I say it haunts my dreams, I mean that as literally as it can be taken. Damn that sushi, I tossed and turned all night long as visions of salmon and eel danced in my head. I envisioned ingredients from my favorite rolls merging, thus creating the Elvis or Einstein or whatever icon you happen to worship of Japanese cuisine. Sushi ran through my mind with such vibrant dominance that my body simply didn't recharge as it was suppose to. It was as though I was unsuccessfully seeking shelter from a sushi tsuanami, forceful waves of sticky rice and postachios beating against the helpless levees of my willpower. And I know I will have no peace until my taste buds are satisfied.
Because I live in a region of the country with more cows than people, as you can imagine, we are kind of in short supply of sushi-serving restaurants. Otherwise you can bet your sweet ass that I would have probably eaten $50 worth for lunch. I text messaged almost every person I know to see if they were in Oklahoma City or had any possible reason to go, hoping I could bribe them in bringing some back for me.
So, if ANY of you are going to Oklahoma City for any reason, you can overtake the loving part of my heart generally dominated by my darling children if you will just bring me the freakin' sushi. If you need something from the city, but can't go, please push your need upon me so I can have an excuse to make the journey. I mean, seriously, show your compassion -- GIVE ME THE FISH! As you know, this would typically be where I made some awesomely randy joke about the female anatomy that would make any teenage boy proud, but I just can't. My mind is too sushi-consumed to even do what comes naturally to it.
So, if you have never tried this addictive goodness, DON'T! It will take over your life like a ruthless crack habit. For those of you who have, hook a sister up. GIVE ME THE FISH!

Bedroom Invasion

Rowdy and I have been slowly transitioning Ridge into the twin bed in his room, something we should've done long ago. But, here's the thing: we kinda like him nestled in between us each night, his small feet sandwiched within mine. Sure, at times the cramped bed makes for a grumpy momma and, since I'm already labeled a "hand full," our household community seeks to minimize anything that might trigger extreme wiseassness or bitchiness from yours truly. And any interruptions of in between the sheets activity, albeit siestas or other business I'm far too ladylike to detail here, is at the bloody top of that list. But, still, I didn't mind the kid slumbering in our bed. In fact, he looks like a perfect angel, resting there in fancy sheets he's far too young to properly appreciate, and the tantrums and messes of the day melt into the forgotten. That serene image, without a doubt, has probably restrained me from ringing his darling neck once or twice.
With that said, his father evicted Ridge from our room this week, thus banishing him to the rickety twin that's parked in the corner of his room. Well, actually it's a pretty good quality bed, but in comparison to my beloved Sleep Number knock-off, it might as well be some stained gurney on a shitty Baghdad side road.
While Rowdy's been the ultimate hard ass on this deal, the doe-eyed pleas to come to our bed have plucked my heart strings. So, if my darling boy is having a little trouble one night, I'll lay down in his bed FOR A MINUTE. His days are normally filled with checking dusty cattle in rolling Oklahoma prairies or fighting epic battles with invisible blue monsters, so he's asleep fast. It's hard work being a cowboy and monster slayer.
I snuck in past midnight this evening. Photographing the wedding of Patsy Baird and Frank Sullivan has me burning my midnight oils. On my weary drive home from Elk City, I could feel the restful slumber already. But, now I'm here and far too excited to see what gems my camera captured. I'll likely be up for another hour.
The house was as lifeless as a hallowed cave when I came in and, low and behold, Ridge is in his own bed. If I would have known relocated him to his own bed would be this simple, we'd have done it long ago.