It's not quite 9 a.m. and it really feels like there is more sleep to be had. Chuck's still strapped in a sleep mask, which gives him the look of Super Sleeper. You could make an action figure out of his resting face.
I have a text message from Brother Pista who is responding to a curiosity that I discovered on Saturday night: My mom joined Facebook simply so she can watch a video of my niece Mel dancing Gangham Style while she was on vacation -- which Brother P posted on his page. My mom also refuses to accept friendship from anyone who didn't personally shoot through her birth canal. (Subsequently, she has two friends). Sometime in the late hours of Saturday night, she changed her school to my alma mater and her current city to Duluth.
I texted my brother to ask what he thought this was about, does she know I'm me and she's she, and he has responded that she also changed her address to my basement. Chuck speculates that she is masking her identity to avoid "cyber crimes." Brother Pista and I believe that this kind of paranoia smacks of Pa Pista.
I check in with how all of my Instagram and Facebook friends spent Saturday night, scrolling, scrolling. The results are equally entertaining and exhausting. Sometimes having fun looks so hard.
Back to sleep. I dream that an old friend's teenage son says to me: "I've found that the overwhelming majority of my mother's friends prefer the outdoors." Meanwhile, I'm in some sort of loop where the same elementary school keeps getting robbed by the same band of heavies and I keep escaping unscathed.
The cats break down the door and are prancing around on the bed. My new mantra for Hal has become a half-assed "Don't step on the baby" that he seems to both understand and ignore. I agree to get out of bed, a decision coaxed along by my bladder, and find myself stuck. I'm on my back and wrapped in a 6-foot C shaped body pillow I call The Seahorse and am unable to hoist myself into an upright position.
Chuck watches me flail and grunt and asks if I need help just as I finally roll into a position of mobility.
"I was beached!" I gasp.
Some people say you can get the smell of gasoline out of your clothes by adding Coke to the wash. I'm reluctant to dump Coke in the washing machine.
I will, instead, try multiple washings following by air drying in nature. If that doesn't work, I will consider soaking the jeans in a witch's brew that includes baking soda.
There are a few ways to get rid of expired medications:
1. Take them to the police station;
2. Dissolve them in water and throw in the garbage;
3. Take to your local hazardous waste dump site.
I hit exhaustion near the check out at Target, but that's not my destination. I'm headed paces beyond for a pre-check out trip to the bathroom. I'm draped over the cart like I've just crossed an ultra marathon finish line in the desert. Chuck responds to my "Which toilet paper won't leave us ankle deep in our feces" text with "Charmin Basic" but the basket is currently filled with something called Charmin Ultra.
I'm, like, winded.
Toilet paper is at least 50 yards the opposite direction.
I propel myself backward with the promise of sewage-free living.
Ma Pista asks if I had fun last night at the "Best Duluth Day" birthday party. Seems she saw on Facebook that I would be attending this event. (Except the event isn't until the end of the month and it's not "Best" Duluth Day).
"That's not until the end of the month," I tell her.
"YOU'RE GOING TO THE BEST DULUTH DAY BIRTHDAY PARTY AT THE END OF THE MONTH?" she's mentally measuring my girth.
"It's not like a contractual obligation," I tell her. "I can still opt out."
Anyway, she's not sure how she changed her alma mater and current residence but she thinks it's all pretty funny.
The "It's (Insert Day of Week) and I'm Boring" is a series that Jodi and I do to pay homage to the beauty of old-school blogging.