A journalist observes life in the far north.
Alec brought home last night this giant bottle of tequila, a belated birthday gift from friends. I am tempted to open it and slam a shot right now. My day began with a headache behind my right eye that did not let up, despite two cups of coffee, until I swallowed an extra strength Tylenol shortly before lunch. I also endured this morning a call from a bill collector. The call came as I was dressing Lucky to meet the Bottle Washing Fairy, who watches her while I work. I was late, of course.
The bill collector asked how I intended to make good on the debt. It’s owed to Sourdough Fuel, who we’ve been blowing off to try to pay hospital bills from Lucky’s birth. I told the bill collector that I would pay as soon as the Bush tax refunds come. The refunds are due within the next month, I believe. The jerk said that that wasn’t good enough and then the line went dead. He probably thinks that I hung up on him, which is just fine with me. On what planet is 30 days not good enough? If the line hadn’t gone dead, I have a feeling the conversation would have gotten ugly. I hate bill collectors.