feeble old broad

I'm falling asleep at a respectable hour for once. The print is swimming around on my magazine, so I take off both pairs of glasses, flip off the reading lamp and roll over into the softness. I'm, like, so close to being asleep and someone's hollering out there. What? Drunks. Almost gone and there's the hollering, louder, rhythmic... "Help! Help! Help!" Where? Dial 911. Dial 911. Fumbling around up from my covers to the phone, I dialed 411. I repeat: I dialed 411. No! You ditzy old broad! Yer callin' to GIVE the information. Luckily for the man in distress, my neighbors had already dialed correctly.

The other morning it was pouring my coffee water onto the grounds in the filter in my sink, forgetting there needed to be a cup under it. It's getting so hardly a day goes by without at least one seriously ditzy move by yours truly.

I couldn't go back to sleep. My mind started racing about the feral young men spare-changin' at the grocery store earlier this evening, wondering if they were victims or perpetrators of this midnight emergency. I have played out in my head just about every awful scenario, and I'm probably not going to know what the heck happened. Maybe I could dial information and ask....

UPDATE: It was the two filthy young hobos beating up and robbing the homeless guy who lives under our bridge... and his dog. The cops didn't show up for 45 minutes. He managed to defend himself well enough, but his dog is in very bad shape... and one of the kids is in jail and the other in the hospital. A goddam wonder when it takes 45 minutes for The Man to arrive. I've just been informed that this is typical response time, even though the Sheriff's office is 15 minutes from here... going the speed limit.... And I was griping about my response time!