Pete’s job is kicking my ass.
Let me explain – though when I say that all I hear in my head is Mandy Patankin saying, all Inigo Montoya-y, “No, zer ees no time!” and Mr. blogenfreude complaining that Mandy Patankin should be strung up by his ragged Capezios – let me explain: my alarm shatters the pre-dawn stillness, possibly a few times depending on who reaches the clock first, mere moments after six on school days. Yes, those are moments I treasure. Most days, I get up and lumber off to fight crime. Or close purchase orders. I forget which. Most days, Pete sleeps in a bit because while he takes care of a house five blocks away, his actual job starts at 2, a twenty-five minute drive away. Thus, on school nights, he calls from that other house at 10:33, promising to bicycle over before 11:15.
I often see part of the Daily Show. Then I see my cats running around the apartment, furiously declaring their love for Pete’s sneakers. Where until recently I had horrible insomnia, now I have a companion for 45 minutes before I absolutely have to try sleeping like I more or less mean it, and I have to tell you, you can spend that much time looking for keys to the handcuffs.
The man needs a new job so I can get some sleep.
It sounds so reasonable until I say it out loud.