Ahh, the pitter-patter. . .

June 16, 2009

I was awakened this morning by something scarier than hoardes of zombies (which is how I greeted Monday).

My roommate was marching back and forth (also to and fro) muttering, growling, and heaping abuse upon the unsuspecting head of the universe.

This is normal morning behavior for me, but it’s a little unusual for her, and contained enough potential amusement to open an eye and “unnnnnggghhh” in her direction. I figured if it was interesting enough, I’d open the other eye, and possibly start using words.

“THE. CHILDREN. BLEW. THE. POWER.” she enunciated carefully, a perfect storm of her irritation and long understanding of my diminished capacity in the pre-noon hours.


We are hosting two interns in the front bedroom of our apartment. They’re not infants–rumor has it that they may even be legal adults–but my roommate and I are 28, and thus the inters are identified, between us, as “the children.” Children, apparently, who felt the entirely rational desire to dry their hair this morning.

This blows the power often enough to be annoying, but is not incendiary incitement unless we can’t get downstairs to pop the fuse box. The people in the downstairs apartment leave their back door unlocked to accommodate this.

“Wait.” My brain started to my peel the covers off my still-slumbering consciousness and poke at it. “If the children blew the power, J would be downstairs handling it–or at least chucking said children over the balcony to help them do so. The fact that she’s here means. . . ”

“Go away,” consciousness grumbled back. “Anyway, we saw Gina move out Friday. Rob’s getting his own pitter-patter of little feet for the summer.”

*Oh.* Little feet that would, entirely logically, assume they *should* lock their back door in New York City.

She saw the dawning comprehension in my eye, and decided it was safe to go on. “We went down there. No one’s answering the door, and Rob’s not answering his phone. And I need to be in the shower, like, right now.”

“Go get in the shower,” I ordered my roommate. “I will put on clothing and go deal with waking the dead, the neighborhood, and Rob’s household, in that order.”

“Don’t kill Rob,” she ordered back.

Silly J. . . I’d NEVER get blood on my Red Wings pajamas!

. . . speaking silly J’s, she has now emerged, and I must get ready for work. The saga shall continue at a later (and holier) hour.



  1. While I’m sorry to hear about your morning mayhem, I must say it makes for a good read the way you tell it. Can’t wait to hear what happens.

  2. You’re at work already????
    I’m still drying my hair over here!

  3. 😀
    Great post about a sucky time. ❤

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