Tell me when it's over

Sometimes when the alarm clock is screaming at you in the morning to get the hell out of bed, and all you want to do is bury your face in the pillow and sleep through the day; you should listen.

It was cold and wet this morning. Traffic was already f***ed at 5 a.m. Rich Marriott, the morning meteorologist for our local NBC station, looked pleasantly miserable under his umbrella in the roof-top weather garden. 

I couldn't think of a single reason besides needing money to show up at work, but I did what responsible adults do -- I swore at my husband for getting to sleep longer; I swore at the closet for being a mess; I swore at the house for being stupid; and I drove to work in goddamned Seattle traffic. 

It was potluck day at the office, but I didn't bring anything, because I put off thinking of something to cook until it was too late to cook it.

And then -- because everything crappy comes in clusters -- I got a visit from my fairy friend who screams in my ear every month or so "GOOD NEWS -- YOU'RE NOT PREGNANT." And it is good news -- I don't want to be pregnant, but the alternative's no day at the beach.

So I noticed in the bathroom that the button on my jeans was coming loose. I've already patched them twice so I carry a sewing kit in my purse just in case -- though I do realize the story would be better if my pants fell down at work.

The Ladies Room

I learned something today about public restrooms; they aren't designed for sewing. In fact it's really, REALLY gross sitting in a stall while people are dropping off their business all around you. It's also hard to see. 

The button was a 15-minute patch up -- tops -- but something wasn't right. My shirt was pulling funny, and I couldn't tug it free, because I'd sewn it to my pants.

I surrendered after that. Tomorrow might be better; it might be worse. I'll wear a long dress.