Get Out Of My House, Dave!

I had one of those occurrences last night that can only happen in Betland, Poderosa Division.

Now, I have to begin by telling you that I had dinner at the folks' house. See, Granny has her ways. Back in the old days it was macaroni and cheese. If ever my mom felt the need to coax me to their house for the evening, all she had to do was offer up a dinner that included her world-famous macaroni and cheese. But the Macaroni and Cheese Days are long gone, so now the carrot, as it were, she dangles under my nose is her equally world-famous hot wings. She knows I'm like Kit in "A League of Their Own" - I can't handle 'em, can't lay off 'em.

With me and my mom's world-famous hot wings, here's how it goes. It's a little something called The Same Thing Happens Every Time. I go to my folks' house, where the smell of hot wings is permeating the entire establishment. We get to the table, I put several hot wings upon my plate, and I begin to eat. I eat three, then I realize, "Shit, why am I doing this? Because you know, when I do, The Same Thing Happens Every Time." And so for the next hour or so I sit staring into space, while my parents sit and stare at me, and there's a feeling in my stomach akin to a feeling one would have after eating three good substantial boulders.

And I don't think it's the hot of the wings, I think it's the grease. I mean, I always take each individual wing lovingly in my hand, pop it into a paper towel, and squeeze any excess grease from its being, but people, it's still a deep fried chicken wing! There's only so much grease that will squeeze out. And so, I'm all greased up, with three boulders in my stomach, knowing I'm an idiot and trying to make that long and difficult decision one has to make from time to time, to puke or not to puke. Last night it was not to puke.

So after I'd stared into space like the catatonic flag girl (10/25/05), and my parents had had enough time to stare at me (even though they'd already stared at me earlier in the day), it was time for me to pack up my three boulders and go home. Which I did, and I padded around The Pod for awhile until it was time for Squeeze Chat.

Now, the #squeezesters are lovely people and they make Thursday worth living, but last night had the added bonus of Mike giving us "or" questions. You know, "Pop Muzik" or "My Sharona?" "In Quintessence" or "Jack and Diane?" "Cruel to Be Kind" or "Tattooed Love Boys?" It's a wonderful game, and some of the questions make you search your soul like you'd never dreamt possible. And so I stayed in #squeeze quite a long time.

I turned in around 2:00, all coffeed up and with the three boulders still resting inside me. And finally I drifted off to that Land of Dreams, but at 3:00, I awoke with a start. Actually, I awoke with a tremor, throughout my body, as if I'd given Hitler the "casual heil" and received that 12,000 volt shock behind a closed door (12/20/05).

I leaned over to get a drink from my mug, then I tried to decide whether or not I was hot, and decided I was only partially hot, so I put one leg out of the covers and left everything else underneath. And then, it happened.

As I was trying to coax myself back to sleep, I heard a rather loud and distinctly male voice coming from the vicinity of the kitchen of the Poderosa. From inside my house!

Needless to say, I jumped completely out of my skin, my soul left my body, I hovered above myself, my hair stood on end (moreso than usual), my three boulders rattled against each other, and all breath, heartbeats, and brain rhythms went into overdrive. In the one-half second that followed, I assured myself that I did indeed lock my bedroom door as I always do, and I put my hand on top of the phone receiver and tried to repeat 3262621, 3262621, 3262621, the number of the police station.

By the time I gripped the phone receiver, I realized just what the man at the other end of my house was saying.

"Congratulations, Skippy, you've got mail!"

Yes, apparently the mystery man who'd broken into my humble home was David Letterman. See, my e-mail notification sound is Dave himself saying, "Congratulations, Skippy, you've got mail!" And I guess when I was #squeezing, and listening to some Hackensaw Boys music for an added enjoyment, I'd turned up the speaker volume louder than it would normally be. And now David Letterman was yelling at me from the dennette, telling me to come look at my mail.

I laughed for a few minutes over this, but it wasn't a warm and cozy chuckle. It was more like the laugh of a hyena who'd just been grazed with a bullet. And I thought, yes, for the second time in one evening, "God, I'm an idiot."

And now I know how Dave himself must feel, having strange persons invade his humble home.

Betland's Olympic Update:
* On deck for Friday Chill: Well, let's just say how fortuitous it was for me to rent "La Dolce Vita" the day before my New Set arrived. Marcello in all his glory. Don't call me, I won't answer.
* Happy New Year's to all. Remember to say, "Rabbit, rabbit," and I've found it always helps if you greet the new year warmly and offer it a cookie.