Beep! Beep! Beep! Beep! Beep! Beep! Beep! Beep! Beep! Beep! Beep! Beep! Beep! Beep! Beep!Beep! Beep! Beep! Beep! Beep! Beep! Beep! Beep! Beep! Beep! Beep! Beep! Beep! Beep! Beep! Beep! Beep! Beep! Beep! Beep! Beep! Beep! Beep! Beep! Beep! Beep! Beep! Beep! Beep! Beep! Beep! Beep! Beep! Beep! Beep! Beep! Beep! Beep! Beep! Beep! Beep! Beep! Beep! Beep! Beep! Beep! Beep ….
4:30 a.m.
Who set that alarm?
There is no answer. Just the ear-splitting sound of a new day dawning without the warm face of the sun.
I stumble across the room and try to turn off the sound. I press all the buttons, rotate all the dials, flick all the levers and still it drones on with its digital shriek.
“Just unplug it,” says my husband tossing around the gravel in his sleeping throat.
Just then, the cat walks across my chest, carrying ill-gotten game in her mouth: a sable cosmetic brush.
She tosses the brush into the air, and it lands with on the floor with a soft thud before she skitters off to attack the prize again.
Another beautiful summer day off to an officious start.
With each step I take, my joints protest. But I forget about the pain of age and second-floor dwellings once I hear the sound of fat droplets of water cascading somewhere below me.
I start to breath again when I locate the source of the flood.
It's raining in Minecraft, so, naturally, my son is sitting in the living room clutching the game controller in one hand and an umbrella in the other.
“I'm just trying to make the game feel more realistic,” he says with a sideways grin. I wonder how long he's been awake, and if he's figured out how to circumvent our preprogrammed time restrictions, but I don't speak. I can barely think in syllables: Kitchen. (Two). Coffee. (Two). Now (One).
Problem: We're out of coffee. Didn't get to the store yesterday so there's no breakfast either. The cat skulks past still holding her blusher brush and jumps on the counter.
I wish there were a nuclear option for errant cats, but I know the trigger sprayer filled with tap water is the only sanctioned weapon. … Of course, it's never within arm's reach.
“Not good eating,” I tell her instead. “Too much hair, not enough meat.”
She responds by casually knocking over a glass that was half filled with soured milk. She walks past it, disinterested, as the white-ringed glass rolls toward the counter's edge, where I am lucky to catch it before it breaks into shards.
More rancid milk sprays in my direction. Perfect.
I am searching for kitchen towels to clean up the mess when I hear the cat's mewling answered by the dog's measured bark. I investigate only to find the animals making the racket are all inside the game.
I go back to searching for towels. And soon realize every single one – be they bath, hand or kitchen – has found its way to an upstairs bedroom and is snaking around the foot of one bed or another. It seems amazing how yesterday's laundry has magically transformed into a colorful carpet of moss and pool water.
I pick them up and throw them into the hamper.
As I load the washer, I wonder if I am dreaming. I should pinch myself awake.
Nope. Not a dream. It's just a mid-summer morning in which I have spilled some detergent on myself as I try to activate the machine.
I am just the latest part of this hot mess.
Luckily the cat has chosen this moment to encircle my feet, trying to trip me no doubt. So I wipe my hands on her fur and head back upstairs to bed.
4:30 a.m.
Who set that alarm?
There is no answer. Just the ear-splitting sound of a new day dawning without the warm face of the sun.
I stumble across the room and try to turn off the sound. I press all the buttons, rotate all the dials, flick all the levers and still it drones on with its digital shriek.
“Just unplug it,” says my husband tossing around the gravel in his sleeping throat.
Just then, the cat walks across my chest, carrying ill-gotten game in her mouth: a sable cosmetic brush.
She tosses the brush into the air, and it lands with on the floor with a soft thud before she skitters off to attack the prize again.
Another beautiful summer day off to an officious start.
With each step I take, my joints protest. But I forget about the pain of age and second-floor dwellings once I hear the sound of fat droplets of water cascading somewhere below me.
I start to breath again when I locate the source of the flood.
It's raining in Minecraft, so, naturally, my son is sitting in the living room clutching the game controller in one hand and an umbrella in the other.
“I'm just trying to make the game feel more realistic,” he says with a sideways grin. I wonder how long he's been awake, and if he's figured out how to circumvent our preprogrammed time restrictions, but I don't speak. I can barely think in syllables: Kitchen. (Two). Coffee. (Two). Now (One).
Problem: We're out of coffee. Didn't get to the store yesterday so there's no breakfast either. The cat skulks past still holding her blusher brush and jumps on the counter.
I wish there were a nuclear option for errant cats, but I know the trigger sprayer filled with tap water is the only sanctioned weapon. … Of course, it's never within arm's reach.
“Not good eating,” I tell her instead. “Too much hair, not enough meat.”
She responds by casually knocking over a glass that was half filled with soured milk. She walks past it, disinterested, as the white-ringed glass rolls toward the counter's edge, where I am lucky to catch it before it breaks into shards.
More rancid milk sprays in my direction. Perfect.
I am searching for kitchen towels to clean up the mess when I hear the cat's mewling answered by the dog's measured bark. I investigate only to find the animals making the racket are all inside the game.
I go back to searching for towels. And soon realize every single one – be they bath, hand or kitchen – has found its way to an upstairs bedroom and is snaking around the foot of one bed or another. It seems amazing how yesterday's laundry has magically transformed into a colorful carpet of moss and pool water.
I pick them up and throw them into the hamper.
As I load the washer, I wonder if I am dreaming. I should pinch myself awake.
Nope. Not a dream. It's just a mid-summer morning in which I have spilled some detergent on myself as I try to activate the machine.
I am just the latest part of this hot mess.
Luckily the cat has chosen this moment to encircle my feet, trying to trip me no doubt. So I wipe my hands on her fur and head back upstairs to bed.
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