On this day after Valentine's Day day

I'm keeping a theme going in this post and the last.  Didja notice?  I did, so let's all humor me and say you did, too.

I want to share how my day went yesterday.  (Because it was that amazing.)  (Just wait until you read more.)

I was rudely woken up a few minutes before 6, by choice but still...rude, so that I could whip up some waffles for the wee ones.  Silly girl the elder still thinks that this is an acceptable wakening time.  So one day, I gave up my warm bed solitude and made waffles and cut them into hearts because dedication to my Valentines.  And I just finally splurged for the $1 set of heart-shaped cookies cutters.  I may have also cut a cooked slice of bacon into an arrow to pierce said heart waffles.  I heart breakfast food.  And I heart silly girl the elder.

I also snapped at silly boy the husband when he laughed cause I made two cups of coffee yesterday morning before 7 a.m.  Don't laugh at me before the sun sheds its beautiful rays upon my smiling face.  Or at least wait until I'm smiling before you begin laughing.  Fair is fair.

Then I scrapped all plans on doing anything to my appearance to indicate that yesterday was anything other than a Saturday.  So yoga pants and my favorite gray sweatshirt (complete with mysterious spot, I found later in the day), sketchy ponytail, and no make-up.  There you go, Valentine.  That's what I look like, and by now, you've figured that out.  So, let's celebrate reality a little.

'Cause truth be told, we're really not into the forced holiday happenings of Valentine's Day.  Cool if you are; I think it can be really sweet.  But romance has never been something that I've spent much effort on in my life.  The boy gave me flannel sheets for reason I-don't-know, and I give him props for that.  I set out on a crusade to celebrate my loves with fattening, cream and butter laden foods interspersed throughout the day. 

Those sheets might be going back to the store.  I can't decide if flannel sheets as well as a down comforter and my sweatshirts that I sleep in for 9 months of the year might be considered overkill in a house that dips as low as 68 degrees at night.  Then again, since I've hit my 30s, my circulation has already started what I'm perceiving to be a downward spiral.  Maybe the boy just doesn't want my cold feet on him unexpectedly anymore.  Nothin' says lovin' like cold feet on a cold night.  I'll lift a heart-shaped cookie (we had those too) for cheers to that.