Sunday Morning

Nothing is better than waking up on NFL opening day. It's the closest I'll ever get to Christmas. Usually I wake up by my own means and as soon as I remember that the NFL starts that day I become giddy and arise.

This morning, though, I was awoken by a phone call to my newly purchased home phone. Which is odd since I haven't initiated any kind of phone service yet. I picked up and heard my landlord (a 90-year-old South African woman) say, "hello?" Then before I could say something else, I heard a third person start saying something. Then the landlord started chatting back and I realized that I had not been an intended participant in the call. Naturally, I eavesdropped. After a minute or two, though, my mischievous excitement turned into sheer boredom, as they discussed the new recipe for custard that she had discovered. I hung up. A few minutes later, another call. Eavesdropped. Hideous boredom. Then a third call. I'm bored just writing about the third call (she was upset with the air-conditioner guy for not doing a good job on the repair in one of the apartments). So this is a new, mundane wrinkle in my existence.

Anyway, a couple simple Sunday rules will apply today, namely that there will be no showering or getting remotely dressed, and that I'll eat only snack food. And not three meals-- a constant flow of eating. And that applies to everyone else, too. I'm happy to invite people over, as long as they understand that they have to watch in their underwear and eat snack food with me. (Some people are thinking, "Whoa, man...that underwear shit's not cool." These are the same people who were not cool at day camp when they were 9, but they were really good at archery so they had this swagger about them every time their group had archery, but no one else thought it was cool. In fact, because of these people, it became kind of uncool to be good at archery.)

Finally, I got another call this morning from a woman named "Lara." Logically, I said "Hi, Lara." At this, she became uppity and explained that it was pronounced "Laura." Yet, it was spelled, "Lara."

If you want it pronounced "Laura," why the fuck would you spell it "Lara?"

Worst is the fact that she was actually uppity about it.

This reminds me of a guy I worked with when I was a waiter in college who I loathed, named Kniq. He couldn't just be Nick.



Anonymous said...

Watch out...the landlady will be listening in on your calls.

Anonymous said...

i was the boy scout camp commissioner over archery, aquatics, and the rifle range - as well as high adventure.

Anonymous said...

I know a girl named Mishell.