wake-up calls

I got two phone calls this morning before 7:30.

The first was B, calling from Florida, wishing me a happy Twenty-Seven Below Zero Day.

B: It’s 73 degrees here today. That’s what, 100 degrees warmer?
H: You’re such a bastard. If I freeze to death on the way to work, you’re gonna feel really bad.
B: Hey, you don’t sound too good.
H: YOU don’t sound too good. *cough cough* This is my sexy phlegm voice. Recognize.
B: My bad. It’s very sexy. Okay, well, just calling to rub it in.
H: I appreciate that, Florida Boy. Talk to you soon. I’m getting back in bed where it’s warm.
B: Bye, Kiddo.

I crawled back under the down comforters and tried to coerce Kitten into playing foot warmer. But as soon as I got comfortably entangled in the sheets, the phone rang again. It was the Resident Sports Fanatic.

RSF: Hey. Sorry to wake you.
H: Nah, I was up.
RSF: Will you check to see if you have water?
H: Yeah, we do. Why? Your pipes frozen?
RSF: Shit. Yeah. I was hoping it was a water main and not our house.
H: You wanna come shower here?
RSF: You don’t mind?
H: Absolutely not.

I did a quick bathroom check (I’m prone to draping lingerie on the back of the door and forgetting about it) and made sure there was something more than Roommate’s bar o’ soap in the shower. You know, in case RSF turned out to be closet high-maintenance. But, of course, he emerged from the shower smelling of nothing but Irish Spring, just like Roommate. Thank God. I’m an open-minded gal and all, but I do like to be the good-smelling one. I mean, if we both smelled like jasmine and rosewater, what would I bring to the friendship?

There’s always the rack, I suppose.