And, The Point Is?

If there was ever a question for this day this would be it:  And, the Point Is?

My body was so comfortable in my bed.  Quilt pulled up around my neck, my first conscious thought when I wake up is, “Is there any way, I can just stay in bed today?” That will be the question for another day to answer.  I made the mistake of getting up.

After a shower, I slip quietly out of the bedroom.  The house is dark and I steady myself along the walls of the hallway.  A lovely case of middle-aged shingles several years ago left me with the equilibrium of a drunken astronaut.  Staying upright in the dark can be a challenge.

Flipping on the light in the kitchen, I hear the blurping and swalurping of the coffee pot which sounds a lot like a drunken astronaut.  There is coffee all over the counter, down the sides of the coffee maker.  Coffee grounds have been carried on the tide and add a lovely garnish to my morning breakfast surprise.  I spin around several times, literally, I spun around.  I’m like a rat on a shock floor in one of those crazy mazes.  My routine is a shambles.  I can’t comprehend where to begin.

A moment of vengeful genius hits me.  Husband preps coffee pot each night in his never ending quest to be prepared.  (It’s like living with a extra large Boy Scout.)  I go right to the source and wake my extra large Boy Scout and let him view the carnage in all its messy glory.

Time to face my favorite part of the morning, waking the boy.  Honestly, I’d rather tangle with a hungry badger.  The boy groans loudly.  I swear it’s enough to make the dishes rattle.  I tell myself I love mornings and go to my happy place.

I’m ready to leave for work.  The fan belt in the fan has been squealing with a disturbing frequency.  When I’ve had my husband check it, the belt was silent.  This morning, husband, holding our dog, is a witness to the capricious belt’s shenanigans.  It sounds like I have a banshee under the hood.  I do not love the smell of burning fan belt in the morning but it could be worse. . . the smell that is. . . the morning ?  Jury is in deliberation.

The day rolls on.  School: 1700 plus teen agers.  The bell schedule is changed today for assembly.  It is a unique bell system that has students wandering like confused but noisy lemmings with bags over their heads who argue with teachers who are adamant they’ve got it figured out but are still mostly wrong.  Arguing noises and lemmings add to the weight of the morning.    So do two very grumpy students who really needed some assistance but resent every attempt.  If I enjoyed grumpy people, I’d still be home trying to pry my own grumpy badger out of bed.  Snarl at me with thinly veiled contempt again, please.  I can’t get enough.

I make it through the work day, slightly worse for the wear.  Home.  Off go the uncomfortable togs of the day.  On with the pajamas!

Taking a very happy dog outdoors to relieve herself, we are surprised by the growl of the hound next door, the door who barks a lot.  No, A LOT!!!  Talking to our neighbor results in him having fits of rabid swearing.   Since most of the barking occurs when the neighbor is gone, his absence automatically exonerates him from responsibility.  I wonder if that works for kids????  NO!

So, here we are startled by his loud barking dog when I hear him say not once, not twice but at least three times,  “Dog (must be what he names his dog) go stop that neighbors dog from barking.”

I’d forgotten that some adults can make their words sound like they are coming out of a sassy 13-year-old girl.  I’m more than a little creeped out.  I text absent husband, who calls back.  He’s been working on screwing on a license plate for 20 minutes.   I end up talking with a sheriff who basically says we’re on our own and here are a few options but “jerks like that don’t usually get it.”

As long as that “it” isn’t me, I’m good but after all the swearing I’ve heard coming from his corner of the planet, I’m not feeling very comfortable.

Then my door bell rings.  I open it in pajamas, covered with a robe.  The young guy standing there looks at me and blinks.  I swear I heard a few crickets chirp.  Finally, I say,

“Who are you?”

I don’t really hear his reply.  This day has been building up to a good boil and I’m steamed.

He finally states his name, I think.  I hold up my hand.

“Hold it,” I say.  “If you’re selling anything or looking for donations, you’ve come to the wrong house.  I’ve got zero money.”  I make a zero with my fingers and hold it in front of my face.

I guess he didn’t clue in to the full steam I had generated.  He goes on to say in a surly tone, “I’m not selling anything.  I just wanted to offer you an estimate on fixing your roof.”

Like that isn’t selling a service?

“Do you roof for free?  Cause, if you do, hammer yourself silly up there.  We could sure use a new one that doesn’t have shingles fly off in every wind storm.”  I think to myself.

I’m too angry to be very civil.  If flames could have shot out of my nostrils, he’d be crispy and in an ICU some where.  Some weeks we get a half dozen roofers out in our neighborhood trying to rustle up business or in some cases, criminals posing as roofers who want to case the joint.

I’ve waded through coffee, survived grumpy, cringed to the sound of a squealing fan belt.  I’ve spent my day with surly and uncooperative.  I’ve got a crazy neighbor next door who frightens me.  Now,  I have a guy on my door wasting my time talking about roofing estimates for a house that won’t be mine a year or two from now.

I shut the door on him in mid sentence.  I didn’t have anything nice to say.

I close the blinds and the garage door.  Calling the kids together, I say in a strong firm voice.  “That’s it.  We’ve shut down.  We’re not answering the door.  We’re taking a break.

And, the point of this day was?  Right now, I don’t have a clue.

I am the person behind the words printed here. I write because my heart will not allow me the option of NOT writing. It has taken me half a life time to discover this basic truth, but now that I have, writing is as natural as breathing. This is where my breath takes the form of words.

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The Miracle Morning: The Not-So-Obvious Secret Guaranteed to Transform Your Life (Before 8AM)
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