I know that you are on the edge of your seat wondering what time it was exactly that the Fiery One called me this morning. You are wondering this because you are concerned about the dark colouring under my eyes, my blotchy yet pasty skin, and the veinaliciousness of the whites of my eyes. He called me at 6:20 am. It’s true. I heard the phone going off in the living room, and knowing that it may well be the Fiery One and that the telephone switches over to the message manager after only three rings, I threw myself from the bed.
Throwing myself from the bed was a bad idea, but I did not have much in the way of options with the way my coordination happens to be upon waking. I landed on one foot, overbalanced, and ended up teetering on one knee and one hand. This actually turned out to be in my favour, because I had nearly forgotten that my baby brother, Fidridge, was sleeping in the living room. I sleep naked, and I don’t think he needs to see his sister flailing about naked at that hour of the morning trying to locate the telephone on the living room floor. I managed to grab a blanket and hold it up so that most of my front was covered (I had no time for wrapping it around me), find the phone, and drag it back into the bedroom with me by the end of the third ring. Fully awake in twenty seconds I most definitely was.
You are still concerned about me, though. But surely your poor appearance can not solely be due to a panicked awakening? you ask. Now you are offering me some Advil Liquigels, and a glass of chocolate milk to ease my suffering and urging me tell you the larger, deeper reason for my pain. It is so nice to have an understanding shoulder to lay my head on. I must give in.
It’s Fidridge. He arrived yesterday after hitching a ride down from Cosmopolis so that he could sell his wares at a folk festival here in Cityville. I met him for a pint at the local pub, which turned into two, because I couldn’t turn down conversation with another friend I ran into, and it was finally a warm, sunny, breezeless day in which to sit out on a patio and watch all the people smiling for all the fine weather. After that, Fidridge thought it would be a good idea to pick up some pizza and some beer so we could go relax in my apartment.
The pizza part was a good idea, but the extra beer part was another bad idea. Granted, I did not come up with it, but I did play along, so I do take some responsibility for my behaviour. Fidridge was insistent that I keep up with him and kept urging me along and telling me I needed to finish my beer. Neither of us was respecting the fact that I had to get up and go to work in a professional office the next morning, which was this morning, and this morning the error of my ways is crystal clear.
It really was excellent to have a good, long sit-down with my baby brother (at 6 feet-5 inches, he’s not so baby), but that sit-down has left me very dehydrated, tired, and less than task-oriented. Would you be so kind as to bring me a glass of water and a pillow? How about a shoulder rub?
Things that have happened today, but not necessarily because it’s Friday the 13th:
At least Friday the 13th is only screwing with my vanity and hasn’t brought about any major calamities – yet. Next thing you know I’ll get one of those huge, raging, pressurized zits or something.
Smart skin is so cool. I want a square of my very own to abuse. (thanks Batty)
My Mom’s Blog by Thoroughly Modern Millie is incredibly endearing. Watch her video post from August 3rd for the full 78-year-old Millie experience.