My last entry mentioned that I had hit my head. With a door. All by myself. As the hours went by, a mark appeared on my forehead. My son looked at it for a while.
“Mom, what do you call that thing at the end of a sentence? That thing for when you really mean it?”
“An exclamation point?”
“Yeah. You must have really meant it when you slammed the door on your head, cuz you have an exclamation point there now.”
Sure as hell, perfect exclamation point just below the hairline.
Everything seemed normal. And there are many other factors at work (lack of sleep, I’m getting older, other people are being unclear). But I just feel like I’m mentally running through chocolate pudding ever since the hit.
Friday night, I was checking into a motel room. I signed what I had to sign, then walked away. It’s a few minutes later when I say to my friend “I think I just signed something saying I wouldn’t let a dog smoke in the room.” Turned out to be two separate agreements. And for the record, no dogs smoked in room 14 while I was in charge.
Monday morning, I’m driving around town. I look up to see a sign prohibiting left turns at the intersection where I want to turn left. As I get closer, I realize that they are only prohibited at certain times. These times are printed in 24 hour format. I start to mentally calculate these times, realize I will never get the math done in time to make the turn (if it’s not prohibited), and go 10 blocks out of my way.
Today, there is a flyer under my front door. “Rudolph’s Release”, I read off this green piece of paper. Cool. About damn time that reindeer got out from under the thumb of his obese oppressor. Jolly bastard. The flyer tells me about the “gently used” Christmas decorations available. I read it again. “Rudolph’s Resale”. I will be going, to see if I can score a cheap front door wreath. But I still maintain that my event was way cooler.