I have a vague recollection of being driven to brush my teeth because my own breath was bothering me, but that was the extent of any attempt at personal hygiene.
I didn't bother to brush my hair at all.
Meaghen and I might have watched one too many espisodes of Prison Break. As in three. Perhaps four. In between, we fell into deep comatose sleeps.
In other words, we were both struck down with a bizarre and vicious flu. It was fatigue and aches taken to the trillionth degree.
Midway through the day, someone knocked on our door.
We really didn't want to answer it, and so pretended not to hear.
A few minutes later the knock came again, only this time it sounded as if the person trying to get our attention had keys, and was actually going to enter our sacred space.
In a moment of completely blind panic, we hurled ourselves from the couch, and raced into the bathroom. We stood there for a moment, by the toilet, clutching each other in some bizarre fit of fear, each telling the other one to shut up and stop breathing.
Suddenly our eyes met, asking an unspoken question: What the hell is WRONG with us?
Typically, we are not this incredibly strange.
I think vanity fueled our bathroom bolt. We really did not want anyone, anyone at all, seeing us slumped on the couch, under piles of blankets, gnawing on chocolate, sighing over Wentworth Miller.
Add to this pathetic scene the fact that Meaghen's hair looked like she had stuck her finger in a light socket and left it there for a few hours, and that I - beyond the fact that my sallow skin and dark circles were giving me a striking resemblance to someone from Twilight - was wearing bright pink pajama bottoms with white polka dots, and you can understand our panic.
In a moment of sanity though, I realized that it would be much, much, much, much more embarrassing to be found in the bathroom with my best friend, than to actually answer the door in a complete state of hideous disarray.
It was the caretaker of the property, eager to inform me that he had dropped off a pile of wood for our wood-burning stove.
He is very friendly and very talkative, and.............has this accent. British. Beautiful.
I stood there in the door, trying to look somewhat dignified in my gorgeous pjs, as he maundered on, until I realized that I wasn't actually paying attention to anything he was saying. I was just listening to the melodious sound of his voice.
At one point I heard the word "donkey," and I tried to focus, but I couldn't. It was like being hypnotized.
Donkey? Why was he talking about donkeys?
Every once and a while, he would pause, as if trying to assess my mental condition, and I would pipe up with one of the words I had somehow held on to "Donkeys? Tell me more about this!"
Since he likes talking, and seems keen about these Donkeys, he continued and I listened; I still have only a vague idea of what he was trying to convey.
Finally, the topic of firewood and donkeys exhausted, we said goodbye, and I stumbled back upstairs to Meaghen, who had forced her hair into a braid and was brushing her teeth, just in case Paul had decided to actually come in.
"What did he want?"
"Wood. He dropped some off."
"Ooh! Where is it?"
"Um......I'm not sure."
"Didn't he tell you?"
"Probably. I....can't really remember."
"You were down there for a while. What else did he have to say?"
"Donkeys. There is a trail ride with Donkeys."
"That sounds awesome! Where?"
"Ummm.......he told me. I think he spelled it out. G....something."
"That doesn't help."
"We could call him and ask."
"Nahh....I think email would work better."
"Whatever. More Prison Break?"
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