I am not a morning person.
If I had my druthers, I'd sleep until at least 9:30 a.m. every single morning. I realize morning people are ALLEGEDLY virtuous and productive, but I don't give a fuck about that. I'd rather be in bed than almost anywhere else. Ever. Especially before 9:00 a.m. So waking up at 6:45 under the darkening shroud of Alaskan winter is a form of medieval torture for me.
When the alarm goes off (even though it's the "crystals" ringtone) I feel like I've been shaken violently awake from general anesthesia following brain surgery, and asked to make myself and two children presentable to the world in under an hour. And I usually scramble around like a blind newborn kitten for at least the first thirty minutes of that hour.
Not cool. (See Fig. 1).
Adding to the difficulty of this morning's already difficult wake-up was the fact that yesterday, a swarm of little boys descended on my house to literally play with knives for Isaac's pumpkin carving birthday brunch, and at one point the mayhem migrated outside for a pick-up soccer game.
Naturally, the ball went over a cliff, and I bravely placed myself in harm's way to avoid having to explain to anyone's parents that I let their first grader chase a ball to his death. Clad in green off-brand Crocs (not even legit Crocs!) and fortified by liquid courage in the form of two large double screwdrivers in a clear plastic Solo cup, I scaled the cliff behind the cul-de-sac across the street from our house to retrieve a stupid rubber ball with butterflies on it, and scrambled back up like I was auditioning to be a body double in Vertical Limit. (See Fig 2).
"Is this really the hill I want to die on?," I asked myself as scree gave way under my fingernails. Of course not, but by then it was too late to change my mind.
By the end of it all, Isaac too seemed undone. Already a sensitive soul prone to emotional outbursts, he must have been feeling extra vulnerable, because while watching Netflix later that night, he wept--WEPT--when the judges on season 2 of "Kids' Ultimate Baking Championship" sent a kid named Cody home for "savory puffs" whose strong blue cheese "flavor profile" "overpowered" the more subtle taste of prosciutto and figs.
All they could taste was the blue cheese, poor kid.
Then when I got to work, I bent down to retrieve a Tampax from my desk drawer (because of course it's Day 1 of my reproductively pointless period), when RRRRRRRIIIIIIIIIIPPPPPPPP, the pants I was wearing literally split open RIGHT DOWN THE MIDDLE OF MY ASS. (See Fig. 3).
Fortunately, I always keep an extra pair of black pants in my office for just this type of sartorial emergency. But I had to run to the bathroom to change, because my shirt wasn't long enough to cover my ass-crack.
Seriously. One question no one will ever ask about me: "How does she do it all?"
I followed up my epic pants-fail by briefly reading about Donald Trump, the Great Patriot who honored the Party of Lincoln this weekend by delivering an address at Gettysburg outlining his plans for his first 100 days in office. To summarize, it's a personal vendetta that goes something like this:
"Four score and seven years ago, a bunch of women accused me of sexually assaulting them and the press was mean to me. SAD! Thus I plan to sue them all and strengthen the country's DISASTROUS libel laws as soon as I become president, because the only thing in the whole wide world that matters is me, and I plan to use the office of the presidency exclusively to exact revenge on all of my critics, since that's how democracy works." (See Fig. 4).
It could be much worse of course. With the exception of Fig. 4, all of these are petty annoyances. Tuesday (both tomorrow and November 8) can't come soon enough.
(Fig. 1): My reluctant wake-up.
(Fig. 2): The hill I almost died on.
(Fig. 3): The pants that could no longer contain my ass. Pen for scale.
(Fig. 4): The ass that America could no longer contain.