Morning Report

Cut my hair, tuck in my shirt - I could be Billy's gay lover.

Where does a fella start? Not at the beginning I can't remember much further back than a few days. Let's start with today. Today I was roused by my menstruating hysterical wife at 7 AM. I knew it was coming, though most unwelcome after a fitful hour and a half of sleep I felt head-achy, all hollowed out and ill at ease – I believe the technical term is hungover. I was celebrating actually, unwinding. After at last getting the new site squared away, (there were times when I despaired of ever kicking this bitch in gear – but now the brass ring is bumping me on the head.) Miraculously this very day I somehow managed to land Victoria Alexander to help us cover the fringe, the arthouse and indie, and wow – this woman can write. She's got a humor column called the Devil's Hammer that kicks ass and names names and doesn't apologize for a thing. Definite cause for celebration, I knew I'd never get any sleep anyway and I always feel like celebrating, hell if I don't make a party out of my life who's going to?

I'd promised the Misses I'd arise at 7 and help her move furniture here and there, out of the way and on top of this and that in preparation for the carpet cleaners expected by 9. Ish. I made good my promise, really still a bit intoxicated and thus possessed of temporary clemency from the hangover that was waiting for me like storm clouds on the horizon. Still my plan was to see to the carpet cleaning and perhaps nabbing a nap somewhere between ten and noon. I supposed that the happiness of the previous day might auger a real buffer against a hangover, or even malaise ( or miracle whip - every family is different.)

My wife works as a hairstylist and is constantly bartering her services for things such as carpet cleaning. Thus the expected carpet cleaners were people who either know us or know enough to spread vicious stories about our contentment to live in filth. What happened was that they were supposed to show up two weeks ago – thus knowing they were eventually going to take care of the floor, we've sort of let it go to the dogs (children). But when we moved the sofa there was a nasty unexpected orange juice stain on our white burbor that I would have ordinarily swooped on like a man possessed with Oxyclean. Oxyclean is the best thing that's happened for desperate housewives like myself since oxycontin (just kidding – though I hear it takes the pain out of housework).
The bottom line is that I ended up cleaning the rug so I wouldn't be embarrassed when the rug cleaner came. Even though we are content to live like pigs, we try to keep that on the DL, so there I was cleaning up for the cleaning man. Just about as ironic as Mick Jagger singing "Time is on My Side" Yes it is. Check back in later – off for a kitty nap.
Big Love from Utah