It was such a lovely day I thought it a pity to get up. - W. Somerset Maugham
This morning at around 7:30, just as I was yesterday, I was awoken by the sound of a kid screaming at his mother as it was being ushered off to school, or daycare, or kiddie prison, or whatever.
Yes, I did just use “it” as the pronoun to refer to the child, as the child is young enough that gender is rather indeterminate based solely on the sound of its voice. I suspect, however, that it was a boy, so from this point on I’ll refer to the child with the male pronoun.
Unlike yesterday’s, this morning’s screaming wasn’t about anything in particular, it was merely a function of the fact that young children seem to be incapable of understanding that most people can hear you even when you’re not shouting at the top of your lungs.
Yesterday, though, the child, who apparently has foregone developing a sense of the appropriate volume level for conversational speaking in favor of a strong sense of melodrama, was bemoaning the fact that, in her rush to make him someone else’s problem for the day, his mother had caused him some sort of injury.
From what I could gather lying there, faced with no choice but to hear this exchange, the child had broken free from his mother’s grasp, stopped where he was, and begun shouting, “You scratched my wrist!”
This was, apparently, the most traumatic thing that had ever happened to him, as he felt the need to restate the nature of his injury several times, at an ever-increasing volume.
I recall a time when I was very young, perhaps the same age as the loud-mouthed drama queen hollering outside my window, when I had fallen on some concrete steps and hit my head, causing a minor cut to appear. Having only a vague understanding of anatomy, I was initially convinced that this injury meant certain death for me, as it was inevitable that my brain would fall out. After all, my head was “split open.”
As far as I can tell, my brain did not fall out, though I suppose that’s open to debate.
In any case, I can only assume that the little drama queen was equipped with a similarly flawed view of human anatomy, as, in response to his mother’s less than solicitous reaction to his injury, which I couldn’t hear, but would assume that, in tone, if not in so many words, consisted of saying, “Quit your crying and get in the goddamn car, you little pansy, so that I can get rid of you for the day and finally get some damn peace and quiet,” he began, with a suitably theatric, teary flair, to cry out, “You want me to die, don’t you?”
He repeated this several times as well, and I found myself lying there suppressing the urge to yell that I wouldn’t be utterly opposed to events ending in that manner.
Yes, I know, I’m a horrible person, but how well would you respond to being awoken at 7:30 in the morning by some pre-school-aged melodramatic hypochondriac screaming outside your window?
In any case, this morning was less dramatic, though no less loud. Still, it didn’t last as long, and it would have been easy for me to drift blissfully back to sleep if my cell phone hadn’t begun ringing.
The cell phone was on my dining room table, and as it had taken me a while to realize that it was even ringing at all, by the time I got to it and pressed “Talk” I was too late.
I didn’t recognize the number on the Caller ID, though, so I assumed it was a wrong number, particularly since whoever it was didn’t leave a message.
Still, in case it was something important and the person called back I brought the phone with me to the bedroom. As I was beginning to doze it rang, I answered, and, as suspected found that it was a wrong number.
But by this time I was fully awake, so I got up, cleaned my contacts, did some Web surfing, and then went for my morning walk a bit earlier than usual.
Because it was earlier, I encountered unfamiliar people, and though I have to say that most of the women (all married) were hotter than the ones I usually encounter, they were a lot less friendly, as I didn’t get a single “good morning” from any of them. It almost made me miss my “regulars.” Almost.
Speaking of hot, yet unfriendly women, as I’ve mentioned before, at my job there are certain areas to which access is restricted, many of which I have access to. In order to keep that access, though, the company requires undergoing a “revalidation” process, which basically consists of going to a 45 minute class in which a facilities person talks about how the heating, cooling, the fire suppression, and the electrical systems in the building work and, finally, which is really the only reason anyone has to take the class, the rules and regulations for accessing the restricted areas.
I’d taken the class two years ago, and, apparently, can look forward to having to take it again in two years.
In any case, mixed in with the twenty or so guys who were at the class when I took it this past Friday was one woman. And while in a sausage fest such as that any woman would stand out anyway, this one was actually really damned hot.
She also looked really damned young. And really damned bitchy. And really damned resentful about having to be in a room taking a boring-ass class while surrounded by a bunch of nerds in whose company she’d ordinarily never be caught dead.
Later, when I returned to work I mentioned the hot, young, bitchy-looking girl I’d seen in the class to Chris.
On this particular Friday we were having yet another “Beer Bash” out on the front lawn in the afternoon, which is basically just what it sounds like: a party with beer.
This one was different from most, as they were also holding volleyball and bocce ball tournaments in addition to just having music, snacks, and of course, beer.
I usually go out just to see what kind of snacks they have and to see who from the group I work in has come in on his or her day off to drink free beer provided by the company, and this time was no exception.
Chris, however, had actually gone out to participate in the volleyball tournament (the team he was on representing our group came in fifth place, which is to say they totally lost), and afterwards he said, “You think that chick you saw was hot? You should have seen the chick who was out there,” and proceeded to describe the same girl I’d told him about, though he was able to provide some more information about her than I was able to glean from merely seeing her.
It turns out that she’s an intern, which isn’t terribly surprising considering just how young she looked.
He seems to think he has some sort of “hook up” with her, as his roommate (If you can actually call Jamie that. What do you call the woman whose basement you live in?) knows the person that the girl is working for. I shrugged at this information as it was really no concern of mine. After all, the girl was far too young for an old coot like me, and it’s a safe bet that I wouldn’t be her type. Outside of movies, girls like that are never interested in guys like me.
And by “girls like that” I mean human.
I’m kidding, of course. I’m sure there are lots of great women who would be interested in me, and one day, if I just hang in there and keep my eyes open and my chin up I’m sure to find the right one.
God, when I say it that sounds even dumber and more hollow than it has coming from the other people who have been telling me that for the last decade…
Anyway, this morning after I got back from my walk I made myself a protein shake, did some more Web surfing, then said, “The hell with it,” and went back to bed until around 1:00.
I got up, did not much of anything for about an hour and a half, then watched “30 Minute Meals” and went for another walk.
It’s even hotter today that it was yesterday, so once again I was soaked with sweat by the time I got home.
I then began writing this, and, with time taken out to make another meal that required very little in the way of chewing, as my gums are still pretty tender, and to watch “The Simpsons,” ultimately made it to where you now find me.
And where is that? Wrapping up this entry, that’s where.
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