Monday Night Madness
I love having a day off where I feel like I might have actually accomplished something, even though my accomplishments aren't all that extraordinarily, er, pioneering. But today I stayed home, scrubbed the house from top to bottom, caught up with my sadly flagging correspondence, banged out a lengthy, smolderingly sensual review for Papa's new movie to send to him, and even managed to find time to goof off a bit online at some of my usual message board haunts. Ate a salad. Curled up in bed under the heavy comforter and read my dog-eared copy of Dave Marsh's Rocklists. My room is freezing. But in a good way, if you know what I mean. A soothing chill. I love the dim glow of the single low-watt bulb over my bed on a cool rainy November night. I love this new place of mine.
It's Monday night. Which means Mike is over playing video games with Joe downstairs. I'm wearing black sweatpants and a black Sugar Hill Gang T-shirt. I have make-up smeared slightly under my eyes from rubbing at them and forgetting that I was wearing any.
I'm suddenly reminded of the time in the fall of 2001 (two months after September 11) when I saw The Cold perform at the Howlin' Wolf in New Orleans. I was front row center, and Vance had been passing me flirty looks from the stage all night and was I beaming to myself, thinking, "Aw yeah, that's right, uh-huh, I'm hot..." and then when I got back to my hotel after the show I looked in the bathroom mirror and noticed that my make-up hadn't held up in the slightest in the sweltering New Orleans nightclub heat and my face resembled Tammy Faye on a crying jag -- after begin punched repeatedly in the puss. I nearly collapsed on the bathroom floor with laughter, imagining that all those coy looks directed toward me from Vance were really just him thinking, "Oh my word, what is wrong with that poor woman in the front row?"
Mike and Joe are downstairs in front of the TV yelling at an old wrestling match from the early 1980's that Joe bought on DVD. Apparently Roddy Piper is pounding the snot out of some old no-name jobber. Joe says he thinks he sees Joyce DeWitt in the audience.
I just washed my face. I feel good right now. Remarkably well, in fact. For the first time in weeks I almost feel like a million smackeroos.
And my left nipple finally stopped hurting less than an hour ago.
It's Monday night. Which means Mike is over playing video games with Joe downstairs. I'm wearing black sweatpants and a black Sugar Hill Gang T-shirt. I have make-up smeared slightly under my eyes from rubbing at them and forgetting that I was wearing any.
I'm suddenly reminded of the time in the fall of 2001 (two months after September 11) when I saw The Cold perform at the Howlin' Wolf in New Orleans. I was front row center, and Vance had been passing me flirty looks from the stage all night and was I beaming to myself, thinking, "Aw yeah, that's right, uh-huh, I'm hot..." and then when I got back to my hotel after the show I looked in the bathroom mirror and noticed that my make-up hadn't held up in the slightest in the sweltering New Orleans nightclub heat and my face resembled Tammy Faye on a crying jag -- after begin punched repeatedly in the puss. I nearly collapsed on the bathroom floor with laughter, imagining that all those coy looks directed toward me from Vance were really just him thinking, "Oh my word, what is wrong with that poor woman in the front row?"
Mike and Joe are downstairs in front of the TV yelling at an old wrestling match from the early 1980's that Joe bought on DVD. Apparently Roddy Piper is pounding the snot out of some old no-name jobber. Joe says he thinks he sees Joyce DeWitt in the audience.
I just washed my face. I feel good right now. Remarkably well, in fact. For the first time in weeks I almost feel like a million smackeroos.
And my left nipple finally stopped hurting less than an hour ago.
posted by Melissa at 10:14 PM
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