Waking Up

How I wake up on the weekends is vastly different week to week. And I guess I found the contrast important enough to write about.

 

This Sunday:

Last night I had fallen asleep on the couch to  Firefly with a half-eaten jar of salsa next to me, sans chips. What a sad way to spend a Saturday, you say? Well, fuck you. I happen to like Firefly. And salsa. And think about it, I didn’t have to deal with annoying bar people or an awkward date. I didn’t have a hangover, didn’t lose my dignity, didn’t get arrested, didn’t cry, didn’t tell anyone to go fuck themselves. So I see last night as a win. Today I woke up on the couch to my Roku screen saver bouncing across my TV and my dog snoring at my feet. Not bad at all, me. Not bad at all.

 

Last Saturday:

The phone went off at 9am. For the normal people of the world this is a decent time to be up on a Saturday. For me, however, any time before noon is ridiculous early. You know how people say you will regret what you did last night in the morning. Well, I say not if you sleep until 12pm. Problem solved.  

 

Anyways, I peeled my eyes open far enough to read, ‘Are you up???’. It was from my friend down the street whom I will call Carrie (you’ll find out why later). I put my phone down and rolled back over, intent on sleeping a few more hours. But something about the three question marks bothered me. One was normal. Two meant ‘I have something exciting to say’. But three? Three is a dangerous number of question marks. It could mean anything from ‘I’m stranded on the side of the road’ to ‘I’m being attacked by a bear’. I decided I better call back. I know how to deal with bears.

 

Me: What’s up? Are you okay?

Carrie: (whispering) No.

Me: Why are you whispering?

Carrie: I am in my closet.

 

Okay. Let’s get one thing straight. When someone tells me they are in a closet, I immediately picture this:

 

You might not remember this scene from Carrie, but I sure as hell do. Everyone acts like the pig’s blood was the frightening part of that movie. Everyone is wrong. Oh yeah, you are completely willing to eat the ass of a pig and drool over its bacon-y goodness but you find the blood that helped that ass grow into your bacon frightening? Blood is not scary, you silly people. But having a deranged religious fanatic of a mother lock you in a closet, now that’s scary.

 

As I pictured that scene, I tried not to laugh. This was serious stuff, me. Maybe she was in there because an axe murderer had broken into her house and she was about to be killed. I could end up being that girl in the movie that comes in and confronts the monster and goes crazy and saves the day. This could be my moment.

 

Me: Why are you in your closet?

Carrie: There is a boy in my bed.

Me: Okay. Is that a bad thing?

Carrie: He won’t leave.

Me: Did you sleep with this boy?

Carrie: No! I slept on the couch. He came over with a bunch of other people and then went in my bedroom and passed out. They left when I went to go get cigarettes and left him here with me. Alone!

Me: Is he cute?

Carrie: (sniff) No! He has a very big belly and hair all over his body.

Me: Hair is sexy. I like hairy men.

Carrie: (sniff sniff) Not like this. He is too big to have this much hair. It scares me. It’s creepy!

Me: Creepy? Having a hairy body does not mean you stalk children. It means you’re Italian. Wait! Are you crying?

Carrie: Yeeees!

Me: Okay okay. Stay calm. I will come over and take care of this. But you know how I take care of things. I won’t be nice. Can you handle that?

Carrie: Yes.

Me: I’m bringing a bat and if he gives me any lip, I’ll show him who the real Italian is! How dare he think he can stay in your house! You ask him to leave and he still lays there!! Fuck that! I’m not even going to ask. I’m coming in swinging!

Carrie: Well…

Me: You did ask him to leave, right?

Carrie: Uhm. Not really. I went in the room and I was loud but he didn’t wake up.

Me: (stops looking for the bat I don’t own) Carrie! Go in that bedroom and wake him up and tell him to leave. You have to give the guy a chance to get out before you call your craziest friend to come kill him!

Carrie: (sniff) Okay

Me: Jesus. Just keep me on the phone just in case.

Carrie: (long pause) It’s okay, honey. You will be okay. Just come over. HEY! You! My friend is in trouble and is coming over. You need to leave.

Me: Are you pretending I need help so you have an excuse to get him to leave?

Carrie: Yes. It will be okay. Just come over and we will fix this… Sir, you have to leave.

Me: It will not be okay.

Carrie: What happened? Do you want me to just come get you?

Me: I flew to France last night and had sex with a few prostitutes. I’m think they gave me herpes. So I am pretty sure things will not be okay.

Carrie: (whispers) Quit making me laugh.

Me: Laugh? You find my herpes trip funny?

Carrie: Stop it! He left.

Me: Good. I am going back to sleep.

 

The Sunday Before Last:

I woke up in my bed naked except for my bra. My clothes were strewn from the front door to the bed. My shoes were behind the couch (no idea). There were no signs of anyone but myself and my dog. Last thing I remembered was being at the bar and having a polite conversation about gaming.

 

I picked up my phone and texted Carrie.

 

Me: I am missing half my night. Did I do anything absurd?

Carrie: Nope. You were perfectly normal until you stood up. I had no idea you were drunk until that moment.

Me: Wine on an empty stomach never ends well.

Carrie: You made me carry you to the bathroom and kept asking me why I am so nice to you.

Me: Jesus.

Carrie: Then I just took you home and you went in and I assume went to bed.

Me: Thank god. Was I mean to anyone?

Carrie: Yeah. The guy who was trying to talk to you. You just turned your back on him and ignored him. He was all bummed. He kept saying, ‘Your friend won’t talk to me anymore.’

Me: Sounds about right.

 

Come to think of it, holiday parties are coming up soon. Open bars, happy me, free limo rides. I’m sure my next few Sundays will be noteworthy. I earn a new nickname every time I am at a company party. Last year it was Roadhouse. Why? Here were the texts:

 

Company President (CP): I have decided your new nickname is Roadhouse.

Me: Like as in Patrick Swayze?

CP: Yes.

Me: Oh my god! Did I kick someone in the face?!?!

CP: No. When all the drama was going down you just stood there all cool and calm. Everyone was drunk and crazy and you were drunk and cool. So Roadhouse it is.

Me: I’ll take it.

 

I have also been ‘Onion’ and ‘Killer’ but those are long stories and I my attention span just ran out.

 

- Fin