Generally speaking, I wake up at seven thirty. Why do I do this? Is because I’m a masochistic weirdo? No; on the contrary, it’s because I’m not a masochistic weirdo that I wake up so (relatively) early.
You see, it’s kinda like this:
My dad wakes up at five, refuses to drink coffee, and drives to work at seven-ish.
My sister wakes up at seven (and leaves at seven thirty) to go babysit some fart nosed kids who are most likely trying to murder her. Except for when she gets her dot–then it’s the other way around.
I wake up at seven thirty to watch Buffy and drink tea in peace and quiet.
My mom wakes up eight-nine thirty, depending on how late my two youngest siblings sleep in.
My younger sisters, aged 10 and 13, sleep in till the ripe old time of ten-ten thirty.
According to this schedule, from seventy thirty two at least eight, I have the house all to myself, and I can pretty much do whatever the hell I want.
But not this week. Alas, my grandparents, even if I love them ever so much, have inadvertently ruined my life by showing up, as they wake up at six and don’t go anywhere. You know what this means? Stranezza’s happy time, the only time of the day, besides when I’m working the lightboard at my community theatre, that I get any alone time whatsoever, is now gone, vanished into a scheduling black hole! Does this mean I can watch Buffy? No, it’s too blatantly offensive to my grandparent’s conservative values! Does this mean I can drink tea? Yes, but what’s the point of drinking tea if you can’t do it whilst watching Andrew indulge himself in his various delusions of grandeur, instead of…erm…oh, I forgot people under the age of fourteen read this blog…crap…doing what Anya does in the bathroom, if you catch my drift. *Hint hint nudge nudge*
Anyways, the moral of this story is that you should watch all your tivo’d episodes of Buffy before your grandparents get into town.
P.S. In the next few days, hopefully tomorrow, I’m going to post a review of Honoré de Balzac’s Eugenie Grandet and how it’s surprisingly ahead of its times, what with its character-, instead of plot-, driven action back in the good old days when plot was not a four letter word and an inanimate object such as the sea had enough power to be the subject of an entire five hundred+ page book, and a good one at that.