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R. Linda:
I got a cryptic email. It said, "In da townie fer a few daes we needies ta meet uppie an hoist a few in da aftanoonie." Me world was rocked by that email. Here I was enjoying a leisurely springtime (as you know summer hasn't arrived yet in New Hampshire, it never does until mid-August and then only for a day and its FALL), and then this email came and spoiled the whole process. It could be from one person and one person only and I shook in me boots just thinking about HIM. After an early Halloween (back in May when the Dragon rode in on her broomstick), now I be subjected to Guy Fawlkes Day come early.
Why is it I be set upon by surprise? You remember I was lounging at me kitchen table, enjoying me cup of joe when I chanced to look out me window and see the dragon-in-law alighting from her broomstick in me driveway. I rushed to the calendar and no, it was not October 31, but looking out the window it sure looked that way.
Now I have that Scottish imp who takes great delight in dressing in a kilt, coming by to "hoist a few," and I be not ready for any of it. Especially the Irish jests aimed at yours truly. Like the last time I be sitting at table minding me own business when the Weasil lifted his glass in me direction, sloshing foam all over me hands (that had been resting on the table) and says to everyone in the pub, "A toastie to da Oirish, clumsy as they rrr and backwards as they can't helpie, but dey can sure fight in a barroom!"
I sat there looking up at him, me mouth hanging open wondering what the f? Before I could react he was on to another and after that another, disparaging toasts to Irish people everywhere. Not only in Ireland, but wherever "da grat famine led dem peeps to," and oh my, I must say outright if I hadn't had a few I'd have jumped up and shown that Scottish twit how the Irish really fight in a barroom.
So with all this in mind, I be sitting there thinking on it when me laptop interrupts me thought with "You've got post." I press the key down and there it is popped up, another missive from that crazy Scot. This time it reads, "Tomorry afta 3 i'll be here cum picks me uppie."
Oh good, I think to meself, that arse will be here none too soon to make me life a living hell. I spent the day in perpetual nervousness, trying to get the idea that HE was arriving out of me mind, but just could not do it. Last night I got online to get me mail before retiring and blast if there wasn't an email from you know who. I reluctantly clicked it open and it said, "See ya in da mornin'." What? Morning? I be no good to anyone in the morning. No, even me wife calls me hazy Harry because I can't focus until I've downed two whole pots of coffee and then I be marginal alert until I get out of the shower. In that frame of mind how was I to deal with the Weasil, who I already knew would be bright eyed and bushy tailed first light? I can't abide happy morning people, no I cannot. I like the dark cave of inner non-thinking in the a.m. where light doesn't penetrate with any rapidity, but slowly allows consciousness to ease into another day with subtle bliss.
I blinked, and read on. Would I pick him up at hotel? Say around 8 a.m.? DUH. Every nerve ending was blaring -- NO GABE, WE WON'T LET YOU! I sighed and typed off a quick response that basically said, "YOU told me afternoon, now morning? SERIOUSLY? If you don't want me driving up there in me PJs completely disheveled, you'll have a drive you won't soon forget and I won't remember. What the hell happened to AFTERNOON? If you think I start drinking at 9 in the morning just because I be Irish, you be a crazy bugger."
This put me in a panic. How the hell would I be capable of this? I'd have to get up at 4 a.m. to just begin the process of turning into a human being by 9. I sighed in great distress and I tell you I wasn't going to sleep well, but then once me head hit the pillow, I thought to meself, "Gabe you're and arse. Why do you care? Let him stand out there with his bright sunny smile waiting, and waiting, and . . . " I was asleep and forgot about it.
I woke at 9:15 next morning, and was so blurred in mind and thinking, me nerves were still abed. I entirely forgot about Weasil. I was a brain dead individual until about ten when I went for me mail and found the Weasil had sent another letter. It said, "Yuppers, datty be rite u aint among da livin in da mornin sos I be seenin ya afta 3."
Okay I had all day to brace meself for this. Foolish me had taken a few days off thinking I could get in a little hammock time and not have to do anything. Lucky Tonya it seemed, didn't have to put with Weasil's wife and their two juvenile delinquents. Only me and the Weasil. Sigh. Why me? So now I have the day to brace meself for an afternoon of non-stop nonsense and foolish talk about Irish persons and maybe find out why he's really here to make me life miserable.
Gabe
Copyright © 2009 All rights reserved
R. Linda:
I got a cryptic email. It said, "In da townie fer a few daes we needies ta meet uppie an hoist a few in da aftanoonie." Me world was rocked by that email. Here I was enjoying a leisurely springtime (as you know summer hasn't arrived yet in New Hampshire, it never does until mid-August and then only for a day and its FALL), and then this email came and spoiled the whole process. It could be from one person and one person only and I shook in me boots just thinking about HIM. After an early Halloween (back in May when the Dragon rode in on her broomstick), now I be subjected to Guy Fawlkes Day come early.
Why is it I be set upon by surprise? You remember I was lounging at me kitchen table, enjoying me cup of joe when I chanced to look out me window and see the dragon-in-law alighting from her broomstick in me driveway. I rushed to the calendar and no, it was not October 31, but looking out the window it sure looked that way.
Now I have that Scottish imp who takes great delight in dressing in a kilt, coming by to "hoist a few," and I be not ready for any of it. Especially the Irish jests aimed at yours truly. Like the last time I be sitting at table minding me own business when the Weasil lifted his glass in me direction, sloshing foam all over me hands (that had been resting on the table) and says to everyone in the pub, "A toastie to da Oirish, clumsy as they rrr and backwards as they can't helpie, but dey can sure fight in a barroom!"
I sat there looking up at him, me mouth hanging open wondering what the f? Before I could react he was on to another and after that another, disparaging toasts to Irish people everywhere. Not only in Ireland, but wherever "da grat famine led dem peeps to," and oh my, I must say outright if I hadn't had a few I'd have jumped up and shown that Scottish twit how the Irish really fight in a barroom.
So with all this in mind, I be sitting there thinking on it when me laptop interrupts me thought with "You've got post." I press the key down and there it is popped up, another missive from that crazy Scot. This time it reads, "Tomorry afta 3 i'll be here cum picks me uppie."
Oh good, I think to meself, that arse will be here none too soon to make me life a living hell. I spent the day in perpetual nervousness, trying to get the idea that HE was arriving out of me mind, but just could not do it. Last night I got online to get me mail before retiring and blast if there wasn't an email from you know who. I reluctantly clicked it open and it said, "See ya in da mornin'." What? Morning? I be no good to anyone in the morning. No, even me wife calls me hazy Harry because I can't focus until I've downed two whole pots of coffee and then I be marginal alert until I get out of the shower. In that frame of mind how was I to deal with the Weasil, who I already knew would be bright eyed and bushy tailed first light? I can't abide happy morning people, no I cannot. I like the dark cave of inner non-thinking in the a.m. where light doesn't penetrate with any rapidity, but slowly allows consciousness to ease into another day with subtle bliss.
I blinked, and read on. Would I pick him up at hotel? Say around 8 a.m.? DUH. Every nerve ending was blaring -- NO GABE, WE WON'T LET YOU! I sighed and typed off a quick response that basically said, "YOU told me afternoon, now morning? SERIOUSLY? If you don't want me driving up there in me PJs completely disheveled, you'll have a drive you won't soon forget and I won't remember. What the hell happened to AFTERNOON? If you think I start drinking at 9 in the morning just because I be Irish, you be a crazy bugger."
This put me in a panic. How the hell would I be capable of this? I'd have to get up at 4 a.m. to just begin the process of turning into a human being by 9. I sighed in great distress and I tell you I wasn't going to sleep well, but then once me head hit the pillow, I thought to meself, "Gabe you're and arse. Why do you care? Let him stand out there with his bright sunny smile waiting, and waiting, and . . . " I was asleep and forgot about it.
I woke at 9:15 next morning, and was so blurred in mind and thinking, me nerves were still abed. I entirely forgot about Weasil. I was a brain dead individual until about ten when I went for me mail and found the Weasil had sent another letter. It said, "Yuppers, datty be rite u aint among da livin in da mornin sos I be seenin ya afta 3."
Okay I had all day to brace meself for this. Foolish me had taken a few days off thinking I could get in a little hammock time and not have to do anything. Lucky Tonya it seemed, didn't have to put with Weasil's wife and their two juvenile delinquents. Only me and the Weasil. Sigh. Why me? So now I have the day to brace meself for an afternoon of non-stop nonsense and foolish talk about Irish persons and maybe find out why he's really here to make me life miserable.
Gabe
Copyright © 2009 All rights reserved
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