I have really tried to be good this year so that the fat man will give me a break for Christmas. I figure that since I’m closer to the North Pole, I might rack up some quality points with Santa.
Here’s what I want for Christmas: (other than peace, love, harmony, a million dollars, unlimited flights back to Alabama, Kathy Ireland, etc. . . ) I want a break. Yes, a break. That’s all I want.
Recently, I’ve been plagued by stupidity on a magnitude of the tenth power.
Take, for instance, last Saturday morning. It was my first morning in a month of Saturdays to sleep in. La la. So in my tiny hovel of an apartment, otherwise known as the Andalusia Star News New York City Bureau, I was dead to the world at dark thirty (anything before six am).
The day before, my demon-possessed alarm clock failed to go off. I hate that. Luckily, the sound of the garbage truck hauling off the trash woke me up. For those of you who don’t know, New York City doesn’t have civilized “Hobos” like Andalusia. We just chuck our trash bags out on the street, it’s lovely, really. The mob runs garbage collection in the city–so you see all these souped-up garbage trucks equipped with neon lights, western murals. . .once I even saw a low-rider garbage truck. And when they collect the garbage, it sounds like they just drove their truck off the Empire State Building. Man.
But this was Saturday. I was asleep. I think I was probably happy. But then the unthinkable happened. My alarm clock sounded the alert to get up. And what did I do? I got up, of course.
In my early-morning stupor, I took a shower with my head against the tiles. I tied my tie. I shined my shoes. I put on my hat and coat and went out into the blizzard that is New York City in December. I walked the mile to the subway.
Then I began to really get into a good mood. There were no crowds. The usual hustle and bustle of Grand Central Station was non-existent. “Wow,” I thought, “I must have picked just the right time to jump on the train.”
Downtown was deserted. I walked briskly into work. The security guard said, “putting in the extra hours?” Puzzled, I looked at my watch–and realized that due to the absence of crowds, I was actually early. Hot dog.
Of course, you’ve probably realized by now what I did not do last Saturday morning. In fact, I had been sitting at my desk a full hour before I screamed in horror and launched into a stream of profanity that would have even impressed a New Yorker (don’t worry, nobody was in the office to hear me). So I figured out what the heck and worked the rest of the day to catch up. Gross, ain’t it? Well, Sunday morning was even worse, if you can believe that. I carefully turned off the alarm clock Saturday night and gave it a dubious look before I drifted off to sleep.
You’re not going to believe this, but at 5:30 am, the dang thing once again raised a ruckus. It buzzed, it beeped, and the radio came on with “Rush” hollering about taxes. But never fear gentle reader, I was prepared. I had pasted a big note over the time that said, “THIS IS SUNDAY, DO NOT GET UP,” (we forgetful people need to help ourselves any way we can).
But then, calamity struck. You see, like most New York City apartments, mine is heated by steam. Steam heat is hot–especially when the unit is older than the state of Arizona and refuses to turn off. As a result of this heat, I get dehydrated and need to have a drink by my bedside table.
Saturday night, I had carefully placed a large glass of cranberry juice on my nightstand–I had run out of bottled water and I dared not drink the rust-laden sludge that comes out of the kitchen sink. So all night, bright red cranberry juice glistened next to my white sheets, white comforter, white walls, and white pajamas. I’ll bet you can guess where this story is going, too.
So when at 5:30 am, my alarm clock sounded and I switched it off, I realized I was thirsty. Ever so carefully, I sipped some cranberry juice and placed the glass back on the nightstand.
There was only one problem, my nightstand had decided to move about a foot. Thus, I placed my brimming glass of glistening cranberry juice into thin air. I watched it in horror for that nanosecond before gravity pulled it down.
Having a glass of cranberry juice hit one’s floor at 5:30 in the morning is pretty bad–but just wait–the plot thickens.
Because my apartment is too hot, I have the window cracked. Naturally, the cold air stays on the floor unless I strategically move it upwards. I perform this task with a floor fan that happens to be pointed straight up.
You’ve probably guessed by now that the floor fan and the bedside table were acting as a team. In fact, I think they were in cahoots with the alarm clock. In any event, they are all communists.
The red cranberry juice plummeted into the floor fan and with a sickening “Thflipttt,” splattered upon every surface in sight. The walls were red. The floor was red. The ceiling was red. Shoot, even I was red. Do you see now why I think that those red commies are out to get me? This is a warning, no doubt.
But I got even. I unplugged the dang alarm clock and gave it a burial at sea in the East River along with the pinko fan and the fascist bedside table.
And Andalusia, believe me when I swear I could hear the clock’s annoying buzz-buzz-buzz as it sank beneath the putrid waves.