Friday the 13th

So far, so good.


All necessary business done for the day. Clean, soft, smell-good outfit (READ: PAJAMAS) on. Any knocks on the door shall go unanswered. Any unknown phone numbers will be siphoned to voice mail.


If you really need me — you really know how to find me.


It's not that we're that superstitious (Really. Well, kinda sorta maybe not ...); it's just that odd, unusual, unexpected, unwelcome and what the hell, we'll just say it: Really. Fucked. Up. Things have somehow found their way to Halfglassistan over the course of the last 13+ months, and a random message from one of said things (READ: THE LITTLE BITCHES THAT PASS AS OVARIES — WHOOPS! — OVARY SINGULAR. ONE WENT BYE-BYE LAST SUMMER. HER TWIN HAS DECIDED TO DO A LITTLE CHA-CHA DOWN BY MY HOO-HAH THIS PAST MONTH.) was interpreted this a.m. A distraction that was most unwelcome, as we have plenty of other ... well ... really fucked up things to deal with already.


And now, the girl who looooooves alliteration is taunted by the two words, when used in tandem, she despises the most.


Watchful. Waiting.


Considering everything is on the inside and not on some nifty balcony below my bellybutton, I find the term "Watchful" especially taunting. I'd be much more relaxed for the "Waiting" if I had a little closed circuit TV down in my business so I could actually watch it. As it is, it's really just Waiting Waiting, which I typically despise in most any context.


(insert indignant snort of derision HERE)


It's 4:10 p.m. EST. I'm going to park my ass in bed, with Nurse Tilly, a good book, remote controls and magazines for at least the next eight hours. At least. To be on the safe side, I'm thinking ass-parking may be done the majority of the weekend. Especially since our buddy Percy is here to soothe the savage beast bitch doing a polka in my pelvis. And, being as controlled as he is, he does a rather good job of keeping me in one place.


Come midnight, and it's Saturday the 14th, I have a pretty strong feeling that Percy will have set the tone for weekend. It's the other twenty-odd days that follow.


My prediction for Halfglassistan: People will be Watching us as we put our fingers in our ears, close our eyes, sing la-la-la-la and continue Waiting.


Meh. It could be worse. It could always — always — be worse.*


*Holy crap. 
Anyone else catch that flashback to the early days of Halfglassistan? 
Where the hell did that come from?! 
I. Don't. Know. But I like it. I like it a lot.