Bed is my happy place. A double layer of rich flocculent cake, and my heated mattress pad is the downy icing on top of this delicacy. My face is buried in six clouds of pillows… Just once I’d like to sleep until I wake up.
The rude phone next to my bed rings loud, like a police siren. I bolt half way up onto my elbows as my arm sweeps the bedside table. I blindly try to feel for the phone, knocking over books, a bottle of water, my glasses, and finally the phone. I pull off the eye shades that I don’t remember donning, as I fall off the side of the bed groping the floor until I’ve found the receiver. There is no one on the line… of course.
I turn on the bedside reading light, find my glasses on the floor, and look to see what time it is. OH CRAP! MY ALARM DIDN’T GO OFF!
BECAUSE I DIDN’T SET MY ALARM!
My hands, arms, and face are splattered with dried paint. I painted my bathroom yesterday when I got home from work in anticipation of the next step of my bathroom renovation. The renovation is on a tight schedule, because I’m working with a friend of a friend who is giving me a great deal to gut and rebuild a bathroom that probably should have been condemned long ago because of mold.
Between the paint fumes, exhaustion, skipping dinner, and the glass of wine I rewarded myself with as I washed out the paint brushes, I must have collapsed on my bed.
And- I’m off! I’m down the back stairs at breakneck speed. I throw the little dog out the back door as my big dog runs out after her. No time for coffee… CRAP! I’ll never make it. Should I even try?
I’m in and out of the shower within a 60 second time span. I don’t remember if I even turned on the water. I am scratching dried saliva off my cheek, and dried paint off my fingers. Within minutes, I’m in my clothes, and the dogs are back in the house as I run out the back door, hobbling in my mismatched black pumps. My hair- a birds nest, my eyes- the eggs that precariously hang out of said nest.
My suitcase is still in the trunk of my car. God knows what it contains, as I didn’t unpack after my last work trip. My flight takes off in 75 minutes, and I’m 45 minutes from the airport.
Pink flames lick the sky, and I remember the storms in the forecast for later today. Like George Jetson, I maneuver my way in and out of traffic without seeming to touch the ground. I’m flying through traffic as the blazing sun is rising, and blinding me.
I make the flight by the skin of my teeth.
Work is a four letter word.
THE DAILY POST
Nov 12, 2014
Trio no. 4
Today you can write about anything, in whatever genre or form, but your post must include a speeding car, a phone call, and a crisp, bright morning. (Wildcard: you can swap any of the above for a good joke.)
<a href="http://Trio no. 4“>Trio no. 4</a