Before I'd even made it out of our neighborhood, Nervous Stomach started. This condition is what caused me to skip breakfast on competition days when I danced. It also strikes, strangely, when I'm browsing. I began to think black thoughts:
"What if I sound on the radio the way I sound in real life?" (I.E. like the love child of Minnie Mouse and the gay kid on Glee.)
"I wish I had time to call Spike for advice." (My friend Caroline's dad, who was for years WGN Chicago's morning radio host.)
"Pay ATTENTION. You just got all the way to Silas Creek without once running through your strategy." (Strategy for my route, that is, since I tend to come up with a number of scenarios and equations involving the position of the sun while driving to minimize the risk of directional failure—or maximize it, depending on who you ask.)
"What if somebody important hears the broadcast and Noah gets fired?" (I've had the definition of Classified hammered in to the point that if asked "What color is Noah's uniform?" I prefer to take the fifth.)
"What if somebody hears the broadcast, recognizes me, and begins a statewide campaign of ridicule and condescension?" (Obviously.)
This happy train of contemplation got me as far as the downtown area, and then my phone rang. Kathryn had come down with a stomach bug...could I reschedule until Friday? Ah yes, the sweet elixir of procrastination: equal parts relief and dread.
Will Erin go through with the broadcast, or let Self-defeating Erin triumph once more? Find out on the next Fierce Beagle.
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Elsewhere, my thoughts on charitable giving. And an update: Dori has been returned to her family, who found my posting on ComeHomeLassieNC.org. A happy ending indeed. But guess what? This afternoon another lost dog literally walked up to our doorstep. He's sleeping on the back deck right now. Dori must have sent the word out a la Lady and the Tramp that our place is a safe house. Although at the moment it feels more like an asylum for the clinically insane. For realsies.