And some of us aren't so lucky. Take...oh, I don't know...me, for example.
This morning, I'm laying in bed, snuggling next to Corb and feeling really grateful that he's home from Baltimore. Our windows are slightly open so we can get a bit of a breeze into the room.
Suddenly, from downstairs, I hear a voice, wailing to the heavens.
"SUN, AWAKEN! THUNOR, I COMMAND YOU!"
What the HELL? I realize that it has to be one of our neighbors on the first floor. He just moved in about two weeks ago, and has inflicted his own personal style on the place. He has poker parties until all hours of the nights, and has redecorated the picture window that faces the front of the building so that it's covered by a huge blanket of "Red Sox 2004" with Red Sox jackets on either side of the blanket, to cover up the gaps. It looks as though "The Man Show" threw up all over the first floor.
ME TO CORB (First time we walk to the front door and discover the redesigned picture window): Well, there's no wondering whether HE's straight or not...
But anyway. It must have been an all nighter last night. "THUNORRRRRR!" I hear again, as though a ritual is taking place. The voice sounds hideous, primeval. The voice sounds gravelly from too many beers. And factually inaccurate, by the way: Thunor (Thor) was the god of thunder, right? He didn't have very much to do with the sun rising. I don't know, maybe he was filling in for another Norse god this morning, who was taking a long week-end.
Or maybe not. All I know is that his cry to the heavens fell upon deaf ears, and, instead of the sun rising, the skies remained a kind of washed-out gray. And after one more cry to the heavens, I hear,
I tapped Corb on the shoulder. "Our doors are locked, aren't they, hun?"
Corb snorted. "I think I'll go double check the locks. Just in case."
Anyone have a rooster they'd like to sell me?