Comfort.

I've taken to bed with regularity these days. It's the only way I can bribe myself into doing work. (And by work I mean the daily grading, reading, writing that I do at home in the evenings after I put in my hours at the office and in the classroom.) The logic goes: if I make myself as comfortable as possible by preheating the bed with my electric blanket (thanks again, SMH!) and climbing in after I've had a long, hot soak in the tub and dressed myself in flannel jammies, then I can endure any torture I imagine my work will bring. This is my new anti-procrastination tactic.

Tonight it worked. I got a chunk of stuff done. Yay. Monday night, I got too comfortable and fell asleep before I got much of anything done. Damn.

Problem now is I need to clean the house, shop and cook for the ceilidh I'm throwing Friday after my reading. I can't do that from my preheated bed. Damn.

I need a wife. Naw. I need a P.A. Sid's ready for the job, so she says, but I can't afford her.

Oh well. Guess I'll just keep doing it all myself. I am looking forward to having a house full of people. Dancing, drinking, partying like it's Paddy's Day!

And I might have actually figured out what I'm going to wear for the reading. . . .