I was lying in bed last night and my brain was spinning so hard that it started trying to do math. Math, for the love of Pete! I am sick. Sick in the head.
In my defense, I was trying to work out how many square feet of womanage will be in my apartment on Thursday when two of my wife's sisters come to visit.
Here are some other random things that happened on my unscheduled day off:
--- Just to make it all official like, I went to the doctor. He gave me a bottle of amoxicillin and sent me on my way. I may or may not need the amoxicillin -- something about how quickly he prescribed it reminded me of the doctors in "Catch 22" who would paint your teeth purple.
--- When I got home from the doctor, the first thing my wife asked was: "What did he say about giving you something for sleep?"
It had been her suggestion that I ask my doctor to prescribe sleeping pills, to help me get enough sleep. And, I suspect, by extension, to help her get enough sleep.
"Uhm, he says I don't need 'em," I said.
"You didn't even ask, did you?"
No. No, I did not. I am a Manly Man with a Manly Brain That Is Not Broken. I don't need no stinking sleeping pills. Judy Garland took sleeping pills. Clang, clang, clang goes the trolley, bitches. I am not that bad off -- far from it.
--- While I was walking back from the market with various items for lunch, I spotted a guy on a bicycle in the middle of the street. As he pedaled by, he screamed out to no one: "I don't deserve this! I'm an American citizen!"
--- I dreamt that Rachel and I were being attacked by a dude who looked a lot John Astin in his character as Buddy, on "Night Court." He was trying to attack us with a frying pan. I pushed Rachel into a stairwell and then stood at the stairwell entrance, so that the guy would only have a single angle of attack. My tactic worked and when he tried to swing, the frying pan he got caught up against a wall and I threw a jab that dropped him to the floor. But then he started trying to scramble under my legs and get up the stairs to my wife. I caught him again and started punching anything I could in the dark of the stairwell and then I heard my wife shouting, "What the hell are you doing?!" and I woke up to see that my wife was gripping my fist and that I had punched her in the hip.
"Oh, shit!" I yelped. "There was a guy and he was coming after you and I was hitting him and..."
"Did you get him good?"
"Well, uhm, yeah."
"Good for you, honey," she said, kissing me on the cheek and going back to bed.
I'm pretty sure this was reported a year ago, but Pierce Brosnan seems to have finally been informed that he is Bond no more. Who would you choose to take his place?
The rugby team I mentioned in a post a few days ago now faces eviction from the pitch they've held for 25 years. And the team president has uttered one of the most implausible phrases I've ever heard from a rugby player: "... all the other guys in the club who don't drink, like myself."
Why do I take joy in Madonna's falling from a horse?
"Isn't she from Detroit?" my coworker asked. "What was we she doing on a horse, anyway?"
Indeed. I despise her that she has somehow become a member of the English aristocracy. I expect her to start lobbying for the return of fox hunting soon.
I like this picture (found here).