Wake up little Kellie, wake up.

Kellie likes to compare herself to Winston Churchill as a way of justifying her ritual of stripping down for an afternoon nap.  I resist the urge to point out how that comparison fails on just about every other possible dimension she could ever conceive.


She refuses to use her iPhone as an alarm clock since if someone called her, or sent her a text message, or made a post on her Facebook wall, the noise would wake her royal highness.  I’m usually left with the unenviable task of waking the queen.  

So when 2:15 PM came around and it was time to wake her, I decided to roust her by singing Wake Up Little Susie.  I have to mention that I sing like one of those contestants on American Idol whose parents never told them they could not sing and allowed their child to make a fool of themselves on national television.  My rendition may not have been very pleasant, but it achieved the desired result.  

Kellie rolled over and said, “My name is not Susie.” 

I reflected for a moment and tried again.  “Wake up medium-sized Kellie, wake up.”  I figured if the name had to be correct then I had to get the size right too.  Kellie pointed out that the word little referred to Susie’s age not her size.  When you’re digging a hole it’s important to know when you’ve hit bottom so that you can stop digging.  I didn’t even bother trying, “Wake up middle-aged menopausal woman, wake up.”

“What are you trying to say anyway? Kellie inquired. “Are you calling me Fat?”  

This little endeavor was going downhill fast.  I pretended to be George Bush; I declared mission accomplished and left the room.