Over Dude It
Yesterday was all too much: too much rain, too much wind, too much bud-buttered toast for breakfast.
Jen and I started ouir semi-annual stoner shopping day around 10:30; by noon, we’d already gotten drenched to the skin, demonstrating a deficiency in good judgment characterized by insufficient sense to come in out of the pouring rain; I’d managed to fall splat on my back while walking through the woods, bruising my ribs very painfully, and we were well into the hour and a half it took us to get it together to get out of one set of wet clothes into a soon-to-be-wet set for a bus trip downtown.
Once in the retail core, I found myself entirely incapable of making even the simplest of monetary transactions, not to mention the most mundane of decisions—like whether to turn right or left a the corner (it all seemed ultra-important)—so Jen and I set out instead on what turned out to be an epic visit to the central library, in which every corridor, shared public space, and staircase was fraught with deep meaning.
The dream machine was turned up to 11, and I had a complete out-of-body experience, in, of all places, the Fairmount Hotel, where we tried unsuccessfully to pull it together long enough to have a beer.
Somehow, following our journey through the stacks, we managed a bus ride to Mimi’s school where we exhibited unusually incompetent parenting skills in extracting her from after-school care.
And then, the most surreal sight of all. As we arrived home in the monsoon, relatively dry thanks to the beneficence of another Giddens School parent, who took mercy on us and gave us a ride in her car, we spied, through the driving rain, Digger, the Black Labroador we are watching for our neighbors, perched on the roof of our house, howling into the gale-force wind.
After that, sopping up the two inches of water in our basement was nothing.
Jen and I started ouir semi-annual stoner shopping day around 10:30; by noon, we’d already gotten drenched to the skin, demonstrating a deficiency in good judgment characterized by insufficient sense to come in out of the pouring rain; I’d managed to fall splat on my back while walking through the woods, bruising my ribs very painfully, and we were well into the hour and a half it took us to get it together to get out of one set of wet clothes into a soon-to-be-wet set for a bus trip downtown.
Once in the retail core, I found myself entirely incapable of making even the simplest of monetary transactions, not to mention the most mundane of decisions—like whether to turn right or left a the corner (it all seemed ultra-important)—so Jen and I set out instead on what turned out to be an epic visit to the central library, in which every corridor, shared public space, and staircase was fraught with deep meaning.
The dream machine was turned up to 11, and I had a complete out-of-body experience, in, of all places, the Fairmount Hotel, where we tried unsuccessfully to pull it together long enough to have a beer.
Somehow, following our journey through the stacks, we managed a bus ride to Mimi’s school where we exhibited unusually incompetent parenting skills in extracting her from after-school care.
And then, the most surreal sight of all. As we arrived home in the monsoon, relatively dry thanks to the beneficence of another Giddens School parent, who took mercy on us and gave us a ride in her car, we spied, through the driving rain, Digger, the Black Labroador we are watching for our neighbors, perched on the roof of our house, howling into the gale-force wind.
After that, sopping up the two inches of water in our basement was nothing.
posted by Professor Dave at 9:46 AM
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