Excuse me! This is me time.

Keith and I have a few rules.  For the life of me, I can't really think of more than one, actually.  

Due to the fact that I can only really think of one, I'm starting to believe we really only have ONE rule.  Do not ever hang out in the bathroom while the other person is on the toilet.   Just because we're seated doesn't mean it's powwow time. (alright, so there are others, like... don't fuck around, obviously)

Until about 2 years ago, I'm pretty sure no one had ever seen me pee (this doesn't count my mother, of course.  I'm sure I gave her a number of golden showers as a baby).  And then Sam and I started "team drunk."  We don't have jersey's but we do drink whiskey.   In excess.  But only once in a while. 

On our inaugural Team Drunk night, Sam and I went to "thebar" and then proceeded to consume a bottle of Jameson that had JUST been opened and used to pour 2 shots.  Over the course of the next 3 hours, we finished that bottle.  Yes. Finished.  I only remember the first hour and 2 small snippets from the rest of the night.  Sam remembers that I drank more whiskey than she did, and not much more.  At this point in my "adulthood", I have a hard time thinking of two people finishing a fifth in one night, but we finished an honest-to-god bottle.

Somewhere around hour 3, we had to go to the bathroom.  So we ran next door to the cafe where I was the boss (yes! way to undermine your authority) and Sam was everyone's favorite.  And we did what drunk sorority girls have been perfecting for all of time.  We paraded into the bathroom as a duo.  You know, held each other's hands.  Just in case peeing had gotten significantly harder.  

I vaguely recall trying to hide my face from my bunnies with my sweater when we were headed into the bathroom, but I'm sure it looked ridiculous.  In fact, I don't even remember having on a sweater, so it's very possible that I flashed a cafe full of people.  Cause I think I was wearing a skirt.  (OH DAMNIT.  Why does this memory just get MORE ridiculous.)  And then I sat on the floor while Sam peed, and vice-versa.

There were, of course, other hilarious things that happened that night.  

1: I got lost on my way home from the bar, which is scary because I lived in the superghetto and hilarious because I was visible from the bar when I called Sam to tell her I was lost.  She waved and told me to "keep on!" This statement kept me keepin' on.

2: Whenever I'm wasted I murmur in french, and that night, the teams-man in me  was shouting out phrases you'd shout at a (european) football match at the top of my lungs.  Luckily my roommates were both at work.  Only Penny (dog) witnessed that.  I think I threw her a ball and said goooooooooooooooaaaaaaaaaaaal for a long long LOONG time.  She got scared and went to her room.

But what sticks out the most to me is the peeing.  And the laughing.  So sam, I know you've seen lots of people pee at gigs and shows (and some of those bitches are shooting up, which is CREEPY! Don't do lines on bathroom sinks!) but you're the only person to see me pee, not to mention the only person I'VE seen pee.  

I was reminded of team drunk part 1 this morning when my dogs came barreling into the bathroom while I was peeing.  EXCUSE ME! This is me time!

We really have to fix that latch.  And Sam, wanna take on a fifth?  Or... what's half of a fifth?

Symphonic? Definitely. Not.

Windinstruments and Percussionists: Two 55lb. dogs. 

The Strings:Two 15lb. cats. (yes, they're fat cats, I know.  They make up for how ultra-trim the dogs are) .

On an average morning, I get up around 4:30 or 5:00.  I have to be at work by 5:45 and if I'm not up and about by 5, I wont have time to get the dogs outside, or get myself presentable to see a litany of people that I serve or am in charge of.  And every single morning... without fail, the following set of sounds rushes through our house at levels the train just 40 yards from my front door rarely reaches within our walls.

I wake up, quite naturally at about 4:47. (I know this sounds ridiculous.  But it's true) And do a little stretch.  And when I say little, I mean that I look out the window and raise my arms above my head while still sitting in bed.  It takes 2 seconds.

And that's when the sound starts. The dogs ("thegirls" from here on out) get up.  I dont know how they hear me.  1) I have no alarm. 2) they don't sleep in our room, they sleep on the other side of the door on a landing.  It's maddening.  The MOMENT I open my eyes, their collars shake out the sleep like a castanet percussion entry.  Here it comes!

Once they've gotten the shake out of the way (damn collars and their jingling), there's the whining. Well,  maybe it's excitement for the new day, but high-pitched, desperate sounds seem to be whining no matter what when you're up before the sun and other reasonable people. 

Secondly, there's the clicking of their nails on the hardwood floor of our landing. They get all excited, and start prancing around like 5-year-old girls in god-awful leotards and mommy's red lipstick, waiting for their first chance to try out the pennies they have glued to their new shoes (Side note: I've been that little girl, and pennies are definitely not the same as tap shoes.  Perhaps I should apologize to my mother today).  

So you have the whining (first movement), tap dancing, and then add in the staircase (PERCUSSION takes over again).  We have a metal, spiral staircase.  It's akin to the sound of churchbells chiming, if church bells were made by, say... the worst metal sculpture student you've ever seen.   And once they plummet --and I do mean plummet-- to the bottom of the staircase the whining continues.  Now they're whining, tapdancing and slapping their tails up against the walls.   That's the second movement and now we're on to the third...  The scherzo.  More like schitzo. 

Enter: the cats (from here on out: The Fats).

 

The fats are cute. Their tails are far less destructive. They're cuddly, friendly, they can't knock me over, and they don't need much from me.  I've always been a dog person, but these two fats made me like two cats.  They're also the devil in a fluffy fur coat.  

I'd say the volume at this point of our --as of yet-- extremely short morning is probably at about a 7.  And once the Fats start chiming in with their "song" the level gets to about a 9.  They Meow. And croon, and gasp and hiss and... well they join the whining sounds the Girls are making at this point. 

I have very little experience with cats, but I don't think it's normal.  Most cats I've encountered couldn't care one way or the other what you do when you wake up.  Maybe it's my fault for creating such a serious schedule for them.  Up at 4:45, exercise vocal cords, fed at 4:47, sleep all day, go bat-shit crazy from 2-4, eat dinner after 5, sleep all night.  Repeat.  Or maybe it's the older cat's fault for teaching the kitten to meow.  Either way.  JEEZE.  SHUT UP! I feed them every morning and so help me, it's like they haven't been fed in WEEKS each time we move towards their food bin. 

And so the crooning is over once their food hits the bowl, and the girls are still tick tick ticking and thwap thwap thwapping around my feet when I turn on the teapot but slowly the sound starts to subside as the fourth movement slowly eases its way to a halt as they settle into their bed by the time the stove burners are red.  Apparently my dogs just LOVE new days with a fervor that mystifies my human mind.

It's probably because they're pretty. But not smart.