anti to the rescue?

Normally I am angry when the phone rings before 11 am. When I still had a job, 10 am was considered decent - 10 am being, of course, Bob time. Of course, when I still had a job 4 am was more frequent - the witching hour when the press switched from printing the newspaper to attempting to print whatever presumably messed up commercial job I had on the schedule. But my days are now my own and I reserve the right to extend the hours of my slumber.

Normally when the phone rings in the early hours, a seal in need waits on the other end. In these cases adrenaline replaces anger, excitement turns me into the morning person I used to be. (Those who didn't witness it first hand would never believe that two of the happiest years of my life were spent serving breakfast to Santa Cruz locals - riding my beach cruiser along the bike path to work, watching the rising sun turn the bay shades of pink and orange. I was the Countess of Caffeine, ruthlessly topping off coffee cups, taking a perverse pleasure in upsetting the delicate balance of the perfect blend of cream and sugar.)

And while I have never turned down a seal for slumber, I was shocked to learn that I have a reputation in the coastal conservation community for sleeping late. I expect my fellow volunteers to understand my hours (only the truly new make the mistake of phoning me early to discuss the schedule or check for action) but I was surprised to find that professionals in other agencies are also aware of the rules. Our local Fish and Game officer, collector of dead otters, once told me he'd call to coordinate a carcass transport - but he'd wait until 9 since I am not a morning person. I'm not sure which was funnier - that he knew I wasn't a morning person, or that he thought 9 am was not early.

This morning the phone rang at 8:45. This could have been a hanging offense. Instead, having recently been disturbed by my bladder and my cat, I was fairly lucid and pleased to hear from my sister. I realized right off that she was not calling with bad news about Margaret (who, by the way, is scheduled to be released from death's waiting room by Thanksgiving, returning to her home to be cared for by my Aunt Mary). Instead she had a childcare emergency - in February. Sis is scheduled to spend two weeks in Pago Pago spaying and neutering the island's animals with a non-profit veterinary group, leaving baby G (of "shiver me timbers" fame) behind. Her choice to travel was not an easy decision (those who trust my inner Nostradomus understand that this trip is part of her fate - I have predictions which must, for now, remain private... I would attempt to wrap them in a riddle but I'm not feeling that clever, being a bit sleep deprived as I am...), but it was a decision made easier assuming the two weeks would be one long slumber party with G spending most of the time with her cuzens. This morning Sis heard rumor that her ex hubby has plans to bring his chain-smoking birth mom to town to do much of the babysitting. I have now been enlisted to step in and eliminate the need for outside childcare.

Can I survive a week or two without Erik waiting on me hand and foot? I suppose so. Can I successfully feed, clothe, and bathe my three year old niecelet? No doubt. Then why so many red flags in my head? Oh yeah, because it's my sister's plan and her plans always go awry.

Case in point, Philadelphia, summer of 2005. Suzanne led the twenty five block death march through the thick city heat, zigging and zagging along South Street searching for shops that were just there a decade ago. My atm card, useless for my poverty, mocked me from my husband's sweat drenched pocket. There would be no cab ride back to the hotel for us. No, but the phantom trolley stop waited forever beyond our reach just beyond the next corner.

Earlier example, Sis's graduation from Vet School, summer of 1998. Suz arranged to house the family in a "bed and breakfast" just outside of town. Only trouble was there were only two beds and four grown up people. Both beds were full sized - not king, not queen, not even a double - full sized being an oxymoron, or perhaps a description of how full the bed is when two people try to use it? The parents, of course, had no problem with the arrangement. My brother and I, on the other hand, refer to our two sleepless nights there as "incest". We considered so many alternatives - we'd sleep on the floor if there was any. We checked the closets - full of Amway products. We thought of the couch - even dirtier than spooning with a sibling as the house was filled with fertile dogs and cats in various stages of heat. We contemplated the car - but Washington is no California, frost bite would have been imminent. Our favorite scenarios involved either stealing the car and driving home to Tacoma, or renting one (though again I was broke). We even tried bribery, offering to write the family Christmas letter (a task I had quit the year before after unauthorized edits - including the phrase "Go, Cougs!" - made a mockery of my efforts).

My instincts say no, by my inner Anti says yes. I'm working on the terms of my contract. I can supervise the baby G, but I will be in no way responsible for the care of my sister's three unruly canines. And airfare is included, but it seems there should be some sort of door prize or spending account. Not that I deserve to ask anything of my sister. She's the one who always sends gifts, tokens of her appreciation. (I claim to be above the compulsory exchange of merchandise, but I secretly wonder if I'm just cheap like my Dad.) In any case, I have plenty of time to decide and the details of Grace's childcare will likely be determined by the divorce lawyers anyhow.

Now that I am up early, I guess I should make something of the day. Either that or I should curl up on the couch and take a nap.