| October 28, 1999
Our *houseguest* woke me up in the middle of the night again.
Evidently 4 a.m. is his favorite time to work out a little ... grab a snack, bathe, tidy up his living space, rearrange his &*@#!! furniture ...
...which would be tolerable, were it not for the fact that *my* day begins at 5 a.m., and that last hour of snooze-time is as precious to me as a couple of unbroken molars and a bag of Sugar Babies. (AND were it not for the fact that tonight is the Bruce Springstone concert, which starts at 8 p.m. and -- according to everything I've read -- lasts for approximately a bazillion and a half hours, not including those final fourteen encores. So it's likely to be tomorrow, technically, before I see my beloved lumpy pillow again.)
But hey: what are you gonna do? Throw a hissy fit over sixty measly extra minutes of sleep?
Otherwise, he's been the perfect guest. He eats everything we put in front of him without complaint, he cleans up after himself, he doesn't make snotty comments about David's guitar playing, and -- as far as I can tell -- he hasn't tried on our clothes while we were at work.
Plus he's sort of cute. If you go for small rodent-like creatures with enormous testicles.
So when our little guest started making those clankety clank clank noises again from the kitchen at 4 a.m., I didn't come overly unglued ... even though it meant I was beginning an absurdly long day about an hour earlier than planned. I simply did what I always do when I can't sleep: I burrowed down into the blankets, buried my head under the lumpy pillow, aligned my solar plexus with David's ... and started listing state capitals in my head.
By Topeka, I was sound asleep again. (And thanking God that Bailey's owners come back from their out-of-town trip this weekend ... and that they don't own a PARROT.)
And yeah, you heard me correctly ... we're going to see *The Boss* tonight, at the Oakland Coliseum. David bought us tickets a few weeks ago. We're in the nosebleed section again, just like the Elvis Costello concert, but it's the attitude -- not the altitude -- that counts. Right?
blurb #1 will go HERE: yep ... this is another one of those
*abbreviated* journal entries.
self-important blurb #2 -- probably having something to do with small rodent-like creatures:
it could be worse. i could be going to see bob dylan.
special *howdy* to:
bailey the hamster. it's been real, dude.
here's where i'll ask
a *relevant* question:
amazingly profound thought of the day: "When you reach the end of the road, there's only one thing to do: build more road." ~ dumb postcard on the bulletin board above my desk at work ~