Thursday, November 21, 2013

The night of the Justin Timberlake concert

It's a cold night in Tulsa, Oklahoma---too cold.  I'd rather stay in than visit Arnie's.  I come into the house and let the excited dogs out of their crates, say "Outside," and watch them race toward the back door.  They won't be out long.  In five minutes or less Henry will be barking to get back in.  In fact, I hear them now, the thumps of dog paws on the staircase.

Why do we have two Christmas trees up?  And before Thanksgiving no less?

I sit and type.  So much of my life I sit and type.  The ding of an iPhone in the dining room prompts me to retrieve the infernal device.  Henry barks, as if on cue, once, then again with impatience as if to say, "Hey, you son of a bitch.  Let me in.  Didn't you hear me the first time?"

It's Steve on the phone, sending me a text about taking the girls to see JT.  I text him, "I just dropped them off.  I'm back home bringing sexy back to my living room."

I rub my eyes and adjust my glasses.  Bifocals.  Not so handy when your head is hanging at a tilt, one eye looking through the top of the lens, the other through the bottom straining to see the words.

The iPhone beeps again.  Crap.  It's so much easier to type on this actual keyboard than it is on the little virtual keyboard.  Why can't everyone just use email?

Hey, if you know me: send me an email.  I hate typing on the little phone. I hate its beeps.  I hate its patented curvy corners.  I'm not 26 years old---I don't really want to text for any reason.  If you want to text, send a message to my daughter.

I pause for a moment to read the other tabs on my browser.  They read:

"bad reaction to waxing - Goo..."
"Blogger: Devin Venable - Crea..."
"Are You Allergic to Waxing? - Y..."
"facial waxing and allergic reac..."
"bifocals - Google Search"

That was me Googling bifocals.  I wasn't sure if there was a hyphen between the Bi and the Focals.

"Shut up Beatrice." I say, hoping to silence her gruff barking.  She quiets down.

The sink is full of dishes and I don't feel inspired to clean them up.  A little voice inside says, "Go to bed," but I know that I'm on the hook to pick the ladies up from Justin Timberlake in a few hours.  Man oh man.  I could just go to bed now, if only I could.  I'd better make some coffee.

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