I slept for 12 straight hours last night.

You can go ahead and be jealous, I understand how much of a gift that was. Truthfully, though, I’ll let you behind my great and powerful curtain and let you in on a secret—it wasn’t as glamorous as it sounds. I had just gotten finished with some sort of stomach gnome issue and had just canceled on an event I was excited to go downtown for—it included Bethenny Frankel and cocktails—but I just wasn’t feeling 100% (I was at a good 42%) and didn’t want to risk it. I had just finished a giant PMS-y blow up at my children for things like homework and not brushing their teeth enough and wanting too many breakfasts and never putting their laundry away and being afraid of the shower. And they were all in my room and I was just done. So I left them all complaining and whining in my bedroom and found the perfect relax-y spot on my family room couch.

And the next thing I knew it was morning. And I was in my bed.

12 hours unaccounted for.

(Which is interesting because this morning I woke up with immensely sore heels, the kind I got while I was attempting to train for the half marathon that I never ran—due to said sore heels. So, maybe I was sleep-running? Mystery!)

I obviously needed those surprise hours; I’m probably fighting something other than my children and PMS. But now I will be cursing all of the work I didn’t get done during those 12 hours. That’s always the way with people who only know how to multi-task, right? It’s always the way with people like us—the ones who burn the candles at both ends.

We stay up late into the 1ams working on our laptops while catching up on Game of Thrones (and just trying to beat one more level in Candy Crush) and drinking tea.

We wake up early during the 6ams working on our laptops while catching up on the news and the weather and drinking coffee.

It’s cyclical, really. We overdo it to get it all done. And then we get sick because we have overdone it. And then we get mad while we are recovering because we are forced to not overdo it.

Welcome to my head, folks. It’s a messy, messy place. Just like my kitchen right now.

See what I did there?

Anyway, let’s talk about something more interesting.

Want to talk about Gatsby?

Oh, you must know Gatsby.

So, yes. I saw The Great Gatsby in 3D on Saturday night along with the rest of the Toronto nosebleeds. We were early, over 30 minutes, and yet forced to sit in the third row. You know, the row that all the way at the front of the theater—the row you pray that you never have to sit in? That one. I had expected this one to be a dud. I had read a few reviews—and had seen the sad, sad little 49% on Rotten Tomatoes.

And yet. I sat with my mouth agape throughout the entire movie, trying desperately to soak it all in.

I loved it, you guys.

I’m the 49%, I guess. And I’ll own it.

It was such a beautiful film to look at—the costumes, the scenery were perfect. It was appropriately cast for me—even Tobey Maguire.

I loved the book when I read it at least a dozen times in high school.

I still have my copy, complete with notes in the margin and underlines.

Now look, I get it. It’s not for everyone. I have read all the “Why I Hate The Great Gatsby” articles—the characters are flat and completely unlikable, the writing is crappy and superficial, the plot is boring and uneventful, the timelines are inconsistent. These readers aren’t alone, of course. The Great Gatsby, when it was published in 1925, didn’t sell very well. Fitzgerald made just $2,000. People didn’t really care about it, not until years later, during World War II, when it had a bit of a revival and then stayed revived, for, um, ever. So, I get it. It’s not for everyone.

I mean, you guys, I didn’t really like The Hunger Games, I REALLY didn’t like The Girl With the Dragon Tattoo, and I couldn’t even make it through The English Patient no matter how many times I tried to read it. Hint: it was many. And, I watched Life of Pi over the weekend, and I am struggling with this one, because while I found it a beautiful film visually (and it was, it really was) it was only sort of okay for me—not life-changing like it was for many, many people. I liked it; I didn’t love it.

So. Different strokes. It’s not just an 80s tv show.

And this is why I get that the movie adaptation isn’t everyone’s cup of Baz Luhrmann tea.

But it was mine.

Good god, it was mine.

I loved it. Even if the rest of you didn’t.

I’m pretty excited to tell you about this little conversation I had with some lovely lovely ladies about telling kids when you are sad, and balancing (or not) everything, and yurts, and trampolines.

I’d love it if you checked out the conversation here. And here. And here.