I, on the other hand, still need to get up early, for language classes and other things that I committed myself to when we were leading the "early to bed, early to rise" sort of lifestyle.

I was, as you may remember, having trouble adjusting to all those early mornings-- especially the bits requiring me to think. But I think I was getting the hang of it, especially once I started scheduling those tasks requiring mental activity for somewhat later in the day, and budgeting my time better.

Now, that routine is shot all to hell.

And I'm more tired than I used to be, what with having to live with both his schedule and mine. Unlike me, he sleeps in when I have to get up early, which means I can't even get a damn thing done before it's time for me to leave, and I have even more to do when I get back because I'm not around to pick up after him, and he still seems to think we're living in a fucking hotel. And I can't go to bed early, because he won't be quiet ("I just got home, and I deserve to watch TV with the volume turned all the way up to eleven, and don't you dare say a word about it or I will go beyond my normal surliness"), and he always wakes me up when he does come to bed, provided I've been lucky enough to fall asleep. And if I do get woken prematurely, I absolutely will not be able to get back to sleep. I'm sure it has something to do with hormones.

Yes, I admit that I might have complained when he got up early. I didn't mean it, not really, just that I needed to get used to hearing roosters start to crow while getting out of the shower.

And, to be perfectly honest, I never did get to the point where I sprang out of bed, bright-eyed, mental acuity honed, and annoyingly cheerful.

But I want our old life back.

This one might well kill me.

My friend Mary's been having a hard time of it, lately.

On Monday, just before our Portuguese class started, the workmen painting our school asked her to move her car. They were planning on doing some painting, you see, and didn't want to inadvertantly change the color of her Audi.

So, she moved it a block up the street, parked it, locked it, and started walking back downhill to the school.

Which is when the bus hit the car.

Not her car, but another car which had run a stop sign and turned left, right in the path of the bus, which was going downhill and picking up speed. It was a double bus, too-- two buses in one, held together with an accordian-like tube in the middle.

That bus smashed the front of the other woman's car completely flat; reduced the entire front end to about 6 inches. The other woman was OK. She was wandering around the street afterward, dressed in a manner I can only describe as eccentric: red, knee-high motorcyle boots; a satin skirt with a handkerchief hem, covered in hot pick and royal blue flowers; an adidas track-suit jacket in navy blue, red and green; maroon lipstick. If she was eighteen, she might have pulled it off: alas, she was pushing sixty if she hadn't already arrived.

Mary got involved because, in his effort not to kill this poor, confused woman driving the other car, the bus driver managed to jack-knife the bus in such a way as to miss the car parked in front of Mary's and barely bang into hers.

It was amazing, really. She's got a dent in the front bumper, although she needs to get it checked out. Especially the alignment: that's a lot of bus we're talking about.

So, Monday's class was cancelled. Our teacher went out to help, and Mary got a practical course in Dealing With Portuguese Police.