Rude Awakening

It's probably not a good omen.

I was awakened this morning -- January 1, 2009 -- at a quarter to seven by the phone ringing. Given that I had FINALLY made it to bed at five o'clock after convincing my little brother Stanley that everyone on the continent had indeed had their midnights come and go, I was a bit shocked by the phone ringing and I guess that's why I bounced about two feet off my matress and tumbled into that crack between the bed and the wall.

And let me tell you, that's not a comfortable awakening.

Obviously the phone was still ringing, so I clambered, thrashed, and clawed my way off of the floor, clutching desperately at the covers and sheets to get to the phone. Believe me, that's a lot harder than it sounds, because your legs end up under the bed while your arms are on top, and in the middle your butt's squashed against the wall and you can't bend your knees right. It's the type of thing that, if it had been witnessed, could pretty much blow a guy's dating prospects for a good six months, 'cause nobody's going to look dignified in that position.

So back to the issue at hand, I finally flopped onto the bed, red-faced and sweating like a raging pig, and reached for the phone.

And what do I get?

Happy New Year wishes from friends?

No.

A call from my loving parents on their cruise in the Bahamas?

No.

A surprise call from Kristen Morris, who woke up suddenly realizing that this was the year she would finally acknowledge my existence and, even more importantly, her undying love for me?

Surprisingly, no.

What do I get?

A call from a machine asking if I want my ducts cleaned.

No.

No, I do not.

I do not want my ducts cleaned.

And I certainly do not want my ducts cleaned at seven in the morning on New Year's Day.

Like I said, it's probably not a good omen.