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20 February 2002 @ 03:10 pm
Sorry babe, but next time do call!  
First news first: I'm gettin' a new car, folks! Well, technically I'm not gettin' it. My brother is. But since he'll get his own car, the silver '99 Toyota Corolla that was bought for me freshman year will never run the risk of falling into his hands. His new car will either be a red '97 Mazda truck or a red '89 Bonneville that we used to own before we sold it to my Grandfather who gave it to his daughter.

~*~

So last night I had a visitor while I was settling into women's figure skating. Mia and her boyfriend rang our doorbell at ten thirty in the evening. Unfortunately, I don't do nights. If I'm out on the town before nine pm, then I don't have a curfew, but I can't leave the house after the clock strikes the ninth. I don't know why. Weird parent rule, I guess. Anyway, so Mia and Co. have a dog with them. A dog. I don't like dogs. I'm not scared of them - really - but I very strong dislike them. So seeing Basil (the dog) would've been reason enough for me to decline any invitations to play.
To compound matters, I was getting over a cold I'd caught from Heidi. It was at its worst on Friday, when my throat felt like it must be bleeding in a hundred places and my body was burning and my brains were melted. But I healed well enough over the weekend - despite the fact that I was celebrating New Year's on Saturday and at a ballet on Sunday - that by Monday I felt well enough to go play in San Francisco. That certainly wasn't my brightest move. Tuesday brought the fever roaring back, and I felt gross. Since I didn't have to go to school, I was able to remain sufficiently drugged all day. I certainly wasn't lookin' my best, tho'.
Anyway, so Mia's at the door and I'm lounging in front of the tv, my system full of God-Knows-What. Mom tells me it's Mia - and I assume that means her boyfriend is there, too, because right now they're basically a unit - so I charge up the stairs to find a pair of jeans to change into. (My current pair had a hole in the butt big enough to shove basketballs through.) I can't find any pants, though, because they're all in the wash. So I stick my head out the door, carefully keeping my rear out of view. Jeff (boyfriend) keeps asking me "Are you OK?" which was fine the first and second time, since I wasn't, not really, but when he's asking me for the fourth or fifth time I'm wondering Do I really look that crappy? And if I do, does it matter?
Long story short, I was less than polite. Dog + cold + late night + missing Figure Skating = Cranky Sam. So I'll apologize for my behavior now.
Now back to the Olympics and guys in spandex.