Diary entry for January 23, 2002

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NEW PROMPT:
NEW PROMPT -- Last birthday week prompt
In honor of the Cramp's birthday on January 23, 2002 let's venture into the fictional past. Your last prompt is to create a static item that is actually a "Dear Diary" journal entry, dated with the Cramp's birthday, AND it must include ALL of the following words. In order to be considered a qualifying entry you must use and BOLD each of the following SIX words in your entry: Six, squirrel,waltz, cramp, milkman, bowling.
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January 23, 2002

Dear Diary,

It has been quite a long day, and I’m totally exhausted. With midnight almost here, I feel I need to put pen to paper so I won’t forget a single minute of today’s events.

My day started on the wrong foot and went downhill from there. When I got out of bed, just before six, it was still rather dark outside. My huge mutt raced into my bedroom, bowling me over in his pure doggy delight at seeing me. You’d think it had been years and not hours since our last time together. It took me a few hectic minutes to push Rego away from slobbering on my face and remove his big paws off my chest.

Only after I finally managed to get back on my feet did I hear someone laughing on the other side of the screened window. My bedroom faced the road and had a large window right next to my front door. To my horror, I saw our local, elderly milkman peering in. He had his nosy nose plastered against the screen looking into my room. Both bony hands gestured wildly in his hilarity over my plight.

Even though I’m a lady, I gave him a gesture right back that left no doubt of what I thought of his invasion of my privacy. My gesture, though, didn't need my whole hand. He quickly disappeared from view, undoubtedly understanding what I wanted him to do and where before the sun fully came out to shine.

With him gone and my dignity somewhat restored, I pushed Rego ahead of me and went into the kitchen for breakfast. After feeding myself and the dog, Dear Diary, there was the full day ahead of me before my date and I would go to the town Grange for an evening of dancing. If I’d known what was waiting for me in those long hours, I would have jumped back in bed with my covers pulled over my head. Alas, I had not a single clue and faced the day with a cheerful smile and a feeling of anticipation.

Well, I’d been putting off doing housework all week, but decided there was no time like the present to make a dent in the dust. I won’t even mention the mud tracked in by Rego yesterday after his romp in the mud puddles in my driveway. First though, I wanted to clean out the chimney since the cold weather was only weeks away. Grabbing a broom, I removed the pile of cold ashes left over from last winter. After that, silently warning myself to take care not to disturb anything above my head, I forced my corpulent body into the cleaned area. Next, aiming the broom over my head, I decided to check out the chimney itself. Sorry to say, I wasn’t careful enough, and accumulated ash and hardened creosote came loose. For an older person, I managed to move out from the falling gunk faster than a squirrel high on speed.

After a quick bath, the second of the day, and a change of clothes, I was ready again to face the day. Nothing else could go wrong, right? Wrong!

Dear Diary, at this point I decided it might be safer to forget housework for the time being. Instead, I grabbed one of my rarely used cookbooks and thought to prepare a special dinner for Roger before our dancing date. The pictures of food in this particular book were beautiful, and the recipes looked very simple to put together. Filled with confidence, I just knew I could create a meal fit for a king. Well, I did. I spent all afternoon sweating in the kitchen over the elaborate preparations to amaze Roger.

Around 8:30 this evening, and only half an hour later than he said he’d be here, Roger arrived. By then, the pot roast was dry and burnt, the mashed potatoes were gummy, and I was barely able to hold on to my rapidly fading, good mood. Both Roger and I drank quite a lot of red wine to get the taste of the ruined meal out of our mouths. Even now, I can still taste the smoky flavor that permeated the beef. Yes, my meal was definitely fit for a king. Dear Diary, you know I mean King Brutus, a nasty Chihuahua from next door.

I should have ended the day right then, but I gave it one last chance to improve. Dear Diary, I like Roger and didn’t want to miss a chance to show off my dancing skills. So, after the disastrous meal, we headed out to the Grange, planning to dance the night away.

The first couple hours went well, and I stunned Roger with my grace at dancing the waltz. I even managed the fox trot without embarrassing myself. My downfall came when the small band struck up a lively polka. All that wine I’d consumed earlier in the evening decided to try for a return visit. In the middle of a gallop down the length of the dance floor, a cramp of horrendous proportions struck. Roger wisely backed away from me when he saw me bend over, clutch my stomach, and moan in pain. It was a close call, but I managed to get out of the way of the couples dancing rapidly by me.

Roger was a peach and so understanding. He drove me home right away, not saying a word the whole trip. He didn’t even insist on coming in for coffee. I had even stopped asking him to pull over the car and let me out to retch when we were halfway home. Honestly, I felt a bit disappointed he didn’t try to kiss me at my door.

The hall clock just chimed midnight, and it’s now no longer today. Please, Dear Diary, let us both hope this new today will be a better one. Goodnight.

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Microsoft Word count = 985

"The Writer's Cramp - Poetry Week"  daily contest entry for 01/27/08
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