I'm Finished For The Day ... Finally

3:30 a.m.

Seriously: What the hell ... ???!??

I was tired last night. I went to bed reasonably early, just after 10:00.

But the little voice inside my head had other things in mind: "Dude ... it doesn't matter what time you hit the sack, five hours is all I'm going to give you. It's all you need."

*sigh*

And it was right. Five hours was all I got.

I thought about reasoning with the voice. After all, I had a drawing to submit for a challenge, a podcast to co-host, lots of chores to accomplish, a haircut to get under my belt as well as a blog posting to submit. That little voice, though ... it didn't give two hoots or a holler what I needed to do.

So here I am, finishing up the final item on my list, finishing up that blog post and getting ready to submit it.

Yes, I'm tired. Dog tired. My stomach muscles hurt from all the physical work I've done, I feel my eyes beginning to droop (actually, they've been doing so for the last couple hours) and when I went to get my haircut? I submitted a coupon to the kind lady who serviced me just to be informed the coupon was for a different establishment than the one I was in. I apologized for the oversight ... but she gave me the discount anywho.

So, shortly after this piece goes live? This guy is hitting the hay, rockin' Saturday night notwithstanding.

But it probably doesn't make any difference. I'll be up at some ungodly hour on Sunday morning ...

.......... Ruprecht ( STOP )

Role Playing

Not an actual photo of the woman I do work for ...
... but close.

I do yardwork and various other chores at the home of a little old lady I met long ago when I first refinished the deck in her backyard. Ever since that first encounter, she's retained me to do all sorts of odd jobs: painting, plumbing, etc. I'm there once a week, minimum.

She's older than dirt, just this side of 90. But she's still feisty as all get out. She'll throw it right back at me if I don't give her answers she's expecting. In other words, we get along just fine.

Today, though, I got the upper hand on her.

One of the things needing attention was putting an old, broken down washing machine out on her curb so a disposal company can come pick it next Monday ...

"So ... these dudes coming out to pick up the old washer - they won't get it if it's by your garage out front? It needs to be right there on the curb, which is no more than 30 feet from the garage?"

"That's what they said" she told me.

"How come you didn't use your wily charms to convince them you can't be bothered with such trivialities ..."

"They simply won't pick it up unless it's out by the curb."

I sighed. "It's a hop, skip and a jump! Besides, they have to pull up into the driveway anyway in order to get it. How difficult can it be?"

"Besides ... my 'wily charms' stopped being wily and charming a long time ago ..."

"Oh, bullshit" I chided her. "If that doesn't work for you, why not use your cranky old lady voice and tell them you don't have the wherewithal, the strength or the patience to deal with it? Trust me ... I've seen you cranky before. You have that down pat."

She glared at me.

"What? You know I'm truth speaking here. Don't tell me otherwise ..."

"I can't do that" she confessed.

"Again ... bullshit. You do cranky just fine. Matter of fact, if you pulled out your dictionary and looked up the word 'cranky' I'm positive there would be a picture of you right there beside the definition ..."

That's when she tried to hit me, all the while smiling at me.

Cranky old woman ...

.......... Ruprecht ( STOP )