Just Better and Better

Ugh.  I hate Mondays.

And some Mondays are even worse than others.  This Monday sucked on toast.  I have no idea how that phrase even makes sense – I mean, sucks on toast – what does that even mean?  Yet somehow, you know, don’t you? 

So let’s start the charming day off right, shall we?

5:35 am.  Crud.  I’ve overslept.  Not severely, but I’d hoped to give Jarly a little extra walking this morning, since we kind of shorted him the day before.  It was like 100º out, what “breeze” there was was more like a blast furnace, and the relative humidity was hovering somewhere between 90 and 140%.  Around the block for a quick poo, and back to the air-conditioned house before we all melted.

5:45 am.  Come on already, you big oaf.  Jerkboy decides he doesn’t “feel” like walking this morning.  He’d rather park his furry butt on the air conditioning grate and just wait here.  I get him out the door, and he lies down on the porch and just looks at me like I’m the one being unreasonable.

Hey, pal, if you could use the bathroom like the rest of us, I’d be fine with that.  But you need to walk, so I need to walk you.  That’s just the way it is, OK?  So finish draining the bird bath and let’s get going.  Places to go, work to do, you know?

5:50 am.  Oh, looky.  There must have been a storm of some sort last night.  Guess I slept through it.  Let’s stop and sniff around Every Single Tree Branch we find.  Every Single trash can.  Stop & Sniff.

Dude.  A tree limb that’s half a tree is too big for you to carry around.   Really.  I know you’re a big puppy, but trust me on this, OK?  Let’s go.  Walk and poo.  Remember why we’re out here. 

6:00 am.  Down the street, around the corner.  OK, we’re moving now.  Walking walking walking.  Stop.  OK, a tiny little pee.  Great.  Gotta poo?  Not yet?  OK, let’s keep moving then.

When suddenly, from across the street, this most piteous barking! 

Now, mind you, we often set off the early-riser dogs on our morning walks. We’re used to that.  Usually it’s a quick “bark bark” and we’ve passed and it’s all quiet again.  No big deal; Jarly doesn’t even twitch an ear anymore, usually.

Whatever this was, though, it sounded like, I don’t know, some yappy little Maltese or something flinging itself against a wooden box.

Bark Bark Thump Bark Thump Thump

Freaked ol’ Jarly right out.  He stopped dead in his tracks and peered across the street.  Then he immediately tried to turn around and head back in the opposite direction.

Whoa, there, big fella.  What’s the matter, boy?  I have no idea what his problem was, but once I convinced him to keep going forward rather than turn around, that’s it.  We were a moving machine.  Ears back, slighty crouched, moving in double time, occasionally looking back to make sure it (whatever “it” is) wasn’t behind us. . . go go go.

Tree limbs, get out of the way.

Rabbit running across the street right in front of us – who cares?

I stepped on a twig that snapped, and the poor dear just about jumped out of his skin.  Now I’m starting to get a little freaked out. 

Moving moving moving.

DUDE.  Hold up.  Come on, man.  I can’t keep this pace up.  I am OLD and FAT.

I don’t know what his deal was, but we hustled home, poo-less. 

6:15 am.  Huff. Puff.  Pant.  We’re back.  Up the steps, in the house, park on air conditioner vent. 

And it’s getting late – I’m usually long gone by this time.  Or at least on my way out the door, anyway.  I’ll have to hustle.  Gotta skip the shower this morning.  (I know, eew.  I showered and washed my hair and all the night before – and it was a short walk.)

6:25 am.  OK, on my way.  Make my morning smoothie (I may skip the shower, but I’m not skipping breakfast!  And it’s actually quicker to make the smoothie before leaving than to, say, stop for a bagel.)  Dig something out of the fridge for lunch.  GOT to clean out the fridge.  Again.  OK, off we go.  I get outside and glance back toward the yard.

CRAP.

All the tomatoes that I’d picked and left on the deck (because we were using all the available counter space for bread and English muffins and tomato juice and carbonara sauce (low fat!) and. . . ) then forgotten – all over the place.  That “storm” that I slept through must have been really something. 

Well, it looks like I’m gonna have to make more juice, I guess.  I hope the first batch is good. 

7:00 am.  Local news on the radio.  Seems there an “active fire” over at Oak Hill. Dandy.  I hope it doesn’t effect the golf course – there are still plenty of good golfing days left for Mon Capitán.  Just what I need. 

7:10 am.  I get into the office.  There’s voice mail.  Of course there is.  I go to make coffee, and . . . wait a minute.  What have we here?  Someone BROKE my coffee mug?  The pottery shop doesn’t have another sale for 5 more months, and somebody BROKE my MUG?  And you know what really frosts me?  This is the same cleaning service that insists upon placing our trash can directly under the copier trays, despite signs all over the place pleading with them not to – it causes the copier to jam, shut down, and occasionally results in expensive service calls. 

The same service that has broken not one, but two coffepots. 

Now I understand that these things happen – lord knows, I’ve broken my share of coffee mugs and stemware.  I was visiting friends many years ago in Atlanta, and I accidentally broke the husband’s Buffalo Bills mug.  And I felt like crap about it.  These things happen.

Maybe I can glue it back together and use it for pencils or something. 

And dig out an old mug to use at the office for the balance of the pottery year. 

And, I guess, write Patty the Cleaning Lady a gracious note assuring her that, really, it’s not a problem and please don’t worry about it, but thank you so much for salvaging the handle pieces; I guess I should just wash my mug and hide it before I leave. . . and believe me, I will from now on. 

And, to be honest, I’m pretty sure this is the same service that’s been doing the housekeeping here for probably 8 or so years now.  I guess the loss of a couple of coffee pots and a mug isn’t that bad. 

Even though it’s my mug. 

So. . . welcome to my world.  We have more angst before 8 am than most people do all day.