Tidblatherings

Here’s what’s happening lately:

 

I’ve been crafting all my blog entries in my mind at around, oh, 3:30AM. This morning was a real hamdoozle of a post about the media’s role in shaping public perception, and that the media needs to be mindful of that great responsibility and not continue to F it up through biased and sensationalist reports.

 

I even did research on the subject. In my head. I believe I referenced “yellow journalism,” and had experts weigh in, like the renowned Steubing McFactspants, who really laid into Fox TV and MSNBC.

 

I believe the takeaway was: It’s the news folks, not a reality show, a Howard Stern outtake, or a corporate-shaped message. Please report the news, and not produce a soap opera.

 

I’m all up in arms.

 

But I don’t feel like going into it. Suffice to say? I was a journalism major and today’s news reporting is a whole different beast than how I was taught. In fact, I wouldn’t call today’s journalism “news reporting” at all.

 

Wow, still mad.

 

Back to 3:30AM.

 

I wrote a great post in my brain, I really did. But once I get to the keyboard, all I can call to mind is drivel like the above. And for that, I apologize. Maybe tonight, I’ll bring my Flip with me and vee-log my mind’s emptyings.

 

I bet you’d all enjoy that.

 

But for now?

A story.

 

It was 1999. A small group of us gals planned to travel to LA for the weekend to see the sights and buy new clothes without our significant others around to count the money. It was going to be great.

And super expensive.

 

My best friend, Lisa, and I left early Friday afternoon to beat the traffic. Our friends, Wendy and Andi, wouldn’t arrive until much later in the evening, and so we set a time to meet up at the hotel’s rooftop bar. But first, around 3PM, Lis and I rolled into town, checked into the Mondrian, and flounced around the room a bit, opening mini refrigerators and ransacking the toiletries basket. Then, we dolled up and made our way to the Sky Bar for LA action (as we lamely imagined it to be at the time).

 

Little did we know.

 

We trolloped to the pool bar, ordered some wine, and sat ourselves down for girl time. As I recall, we never left our goblets unattended or untouched, for that matter. But halfway through our second glasses, a wave of indescribable exhaustion and fuzzy headedness engulfed us both. We were just tired, she and I decided. Tired tired. I think it was 7PM.

 

We left our unfinished wine at the table and gangly-legged entered Asia de Cuba, the hotel restaurant. We needed to eat something. Yes, that was it. We should eat. However, after Lis passed out in her rice bowl and I saw someone famous but don’t remember who because I had one eye closed, I helped Lis up and we dragged ourselves back to our hotel room.

 

We feel asleep.

 

I guess.

 

Neither of us woke up until 10 the next morning, to find Andi and Wendy staring at us concernedly.

 

“We tried to wake you,” they said.

 

“You both were still dressed and in full makeup, so we thought you fell asleep waiting for us,” they explained.

 

“We tried to wake you,” they said again.

 

Huh, we thought.

 

We don’t remember a darn thing after 8PM. Lis didn’t even recall eating dinner.

 

Huh.

 

I’ve never slept through the night, and for me to not hear Andi and Wendy enter the room the night before, get ready, and play music, was most abnormal.

 

Lis and I looked at each other, then at ourselves, then back at each other.

 

“Are you wearing underwear?” I asked.

 

She snapped the elastic. “Yep.”

 

“Me too.”

 

“Do you have an open incision on your back?”

 

“Nope,” she said.

 

“Me either.”

 

“Did we pee the bed”

 

“All dry,” she confirmed. “But….”

 

“Yes?” I asked.

 

“Is this rice in my hair?”

 

“Yep,” I said.

 

“Huh.”

 

And that was that. So with our underwear on, our kidneys intact, and our fuzzy heads held high, we enjoyed the rest of the weekend.

 

But we didn’t order the wine again.

 

The End.