My mother has an interesting hobby which she’s only able to practice during the weeks when I’m back home. It starts around 8 a.m., when she’ll murmur something from the kitchen downstairs, vaguely intending to wake up the son who’s in repose only one floor above her. When it fails, she starts murmuring a little louder every 20 minutes, and by 9:20 the noise begins to rouse me. By 11:00 the process has usually worked its magic, and I am stumbling to the bathroom, scratching the section of John Travolta’s torso that has temporarily replaced my own.
After enduring this ritual every day for the last two breaks, I have come to the conclusion that it has nothing to do with actually waking me up. Honestly, if you wanted to wake up your houseguest, wouldn’t you walk up to the bed and rustle him?
I’m going to Washington at 8 a.m. tomorrow, so that pattern will at least stop for the time being. In other news, my incredible efforts of last quarter have once again produced a roster of mediocre grades. One B and two B+s, with one grade still to come in. It’s a lousy time to be Dave.
Song of the day: Neil Diamond, “Holly Holy” (live from Hot August Night)