That is, if I want to show up at the Day Jobette at an hour tomorrow that will not annoy my boss more than usual. He is terribly literal-minded about the word morning. My father refers to such people as “circadists,” though I prefer “diurnalists.” They are bigots, naturally, of the worst sort.
This go-to-bed-before 2:00 fiddle-faddle means that (1) I shall only finish a single load of laundry tonight; (2) I shan’t be writing that brilliant essay here on Peak Oil I’d been planning, unless I wake up at some flukey, larklike hour tomorrow, and (3) I will end up going to bed a second night in a row without watching a Banacek episode.
Clients never consider the human costs when they make these unreasonable demands.
So, here’s an imaginary conversation that never, of course, actually happened:
Attila Girl: “Have you, um . . . have you considered growing your sideburns out just a bit?”
A the H: “I did. In the 1970s.”
Attila Girl: “But you didn’t have gray hair then; I’m sure it was overbearing when it was reddish-brown.”
A the H: “I’m starting to regret having given you that Banacek boxed set.”
Attila Girl: “What on earth do your planned sartorial upgrades have to do with a fictional Polish detective? Please don’t take my DVDs away, however; they’ve added meaning to my life.”
A the H: “When you say things like that, you kind of scare me. And what do you mean about ‘planned . . . upgrades’? Who’s planning them?”
Attila Girl: “Well, I just had these concerns about your well-being . . . but never mind. I love you very much; don’t change a thing. Go read your book. Everything’s fine.”
Five minutes later—
Attila Girl: “How about some turtlenecks for Christmas? I mean, to keep you warm.”
A the H: “I had those once upon a time, too, and I have no desire to go backward. Now can we drop it?”
Some people just don’t want to be helped: it’s getting cold here: it threatened to drop below 60 degrees last night. When faced with that kind of bitterly frigid weather, the least a person can do is grow some facial hair, don a turtleneck, and throw on a cheesy sport jacket.
Self-destructive; that’s what it is. He obviously needs counseling of some sort.
UPDATE: This should have gone up last night, though I fell asleep before I could hit “publish.” Juicily, lavishly, luxuriantly asleep. I would have published it this morning, but I hit “save” when I went to find the bed—and later on I could not figure where WordPress hides drafts, as I slaved away over my morning coffee, attempting to bring you entertainment for which you never quite pay me enough.
Tammy had to explain to me later in the day where the drafts were hiding, and wondered what percentage of the 94 posts I’ve saved as drafts yet left unpublished were cases of my not having come up with a good concluding sentence, which ones required research I found myself unable to complete to my satisfaction, and which ones were simply incoherent ramblings from evenings when I was either drunk or starting to Ambien-out.
(She didn’t specify that she was wondering this, but I could hear what she was thinking.)
Tonight is different. I feel a cold coming on, so I’m drinking fortified orange juice, so I’ll be getting plenty of vitamin C and germ-killer.
You know what else is really, really good for nipping a virus in the bud? Funny you should ask: turns out it’s re-runs of detective shows from the 1970s. Who knew?
; ?>/images/user.png)
; ?>/images/email.png)
; ?>/images/feed.png)
{ 3 comments… read them below or add one }
Don’t ever ask for Barnaby Jones box sets. I’m afraid of the unintended consequences.
I may be a pervert, but Buddy Ebsen is beyond the pale–even for me.
Thanks so much Whatever you are be a good one. ~Abraham Lincoln