The husband was away this past weekend. The girl, too, obviously.
I spent the weekend alone, except for those goddamn cats who are making it their goal in life to get on my very last nerve.
I'm not a good sleeper. I used to be a good sleeper. I'd easily sleep in late - until midday. That stopped even before I had the girl. I wake up a lot during the night and read for a while until I fall asleep. That's why if you drive past my house at 3am [why are you driving past my house at 3am?], there's usually a light on in my bedroom. I'm re-reading something that I know and enjoy, something that will lull me back to sleep. Something entertaining, but I already know how it ends, so I won't stay up until 5:30am to find out what happened, and then get mad when the alarm goes on at 5:40am, and boy, oh, boy, work is going to be an adventure in keeping my shit together.
So, usually, my bedside light is on until way super late.
The hall light is also on, because I don't want to trip over a cat meandering around my bedroom door.
The front porch light - which I forget even exists - is also on, because . . . it just is.
The kitchen light over the sink is on in case I need to refill my water bottle.
The laundry room light in the basement is on so the cats can see what they're doing when they're eating and doing their business.
Fine. I'll stop lying. Here's the truth: When I am home alone, all of the lights on because of monsters. I LOVE scary movies and scary stories and scary everything, until I am by myself in the dark, and then I am cursing myself for being an idiot for remembering every scary part of The Strangers or reminding myself not to say Bloody Mary three times when I am in the bathroom stress peeing.
So every light in my house is a nightlight, and planes can probably use my house as a beacon to guide them to the nearest airport.
Shit. Aliens can probably use those lights, too.
God damn it.