The text message read: Here’s my mom’s phone number- you can call her if you want to sit with the family but they’re running late.
My text back read: I’m running late too- I’ll probably slip in the back. Thank you! C u soon.
What I wanted to write back was: I give up. I’m going home before I die. It’s better this way because I might destroy your family if I continue.
Today was once again a Murphy Morning. I lay in my bed, suddenly aware that my alarm hadn’t gone off. Feeling behind my head I realized it was gone—now I remember—it fell down in the night with a crack. That’s what that was. So what time was it? I had to be in Malibu for a friend’s graduation by 10:30am at the latest. And it’s an hour drive away.
Lurching out of my bed I crashed the floor from my bunk and crept over to the headboard where Lindsey lay silently sleeping. I ducked under the bed, tried to spot my phone, but could only see half of it. As quietly as I could I pulled a wooden box away from the wall to see if I could spot the other half of the phone (which operates as my alarm) but I couldn’t see it.
So I hovered over her head—holding my breath so I wouldn’t wake her, stretching my arm down the slot between the wall and the bunkbed—hoping I could grasp the phone. Finally I felt it between my fingertips and pulled it to safety. I snapped on the phone to check the time: late. I was running late. I should be gone by now.
I clumsily threw my clothes on, did my hair and the other usual morning prep activities and then stumbled for the front door where Sam had delivered coffee—thank goodness.
As I pulled out of the driveway I realized my car was on empty. Crap. I yanked Honda into the gas station, entered my credit card information, shoved the gas lever into my car for it to fill up and then realized I received a text message. I sat down in the car, responded, looked up—the gas was finished pumping—I pulled out the lever, shoved it in its place and jumped back into the car and onto the freeway.
What the?
The gas needle still pointed to empty. Ohmy freaking….you’ve gotta be kidding….
Had I pumped gas and the needle was broken? Had I paid for and prepared to pump gas and then failed to actually fill up? Either way was lame and totally ridiculous. But only one would leave me stuck on the freeway and unable to attend the graduation.
So I sighed and angrily pulled off the freeway in Burbank, swerved through some construction cones (whoops), hit a curb (ouch) and slid into another gas station.
Once I entered my credit card info a small man waddled up to me and told me this was the Full Service section--- self serve was across the way. AUGH! Could the morning BE any more frustrating?
I canceled the card, swerved over to the other area, and started to fill up the car. I watched more closely this time: it was full. But when I pulled the lever out of the car gasoline sprayed everywhere—on my feet, all over the station, down my leg. The fumes were nauseating and now my hands had a strange black film to them. This is ridiculous, I thought. I can’t even get gas correctly.
An hour later I pulled into the school parking lot…I lurched and growled into the parking lot I should say…staggered in the direction of the gym and immediately became confused.
I was surrounded by endless babies. Screaming babies. Babies of every shape and size.
What in the WORLD?! Had I misread the directions and arrived at a preschool graduation? Infancy commencement?
I had not. Through the curtains I could see people sitting down for the beginning of the ceremony. Apparently they had all brought babies for some inexplicable reason. Perhaps it is somehow necessary to obtain babies while obtaining an MBA. Fortunately for my friend, his parents had enough of their own to keep him from cashing in on the (apparently popular) idea.
Because the seats were so crowded and soo many screaming kids were stretched across any open ones, I spent the majority of the ceremony leaning on a pole at the back of the auditorium, scanning the caps and gowns for my friend.
But while I did this, people with absolutely no sense of “personal bubble” seemed to find me quite comfortable to lean on. Wanting to shove my elbow through their backs and sides (helllooooo there are other poles to slather yourself all over) and ask “DO I KNOW you?!” but not wanting to cause a ruckus, I resorted to poking them gently with my program. Apparently it made these overly friendly people feel as if a bug was crawling on their backs and shoulders so that they swatted at themselves repeatedly. This proved to be entertaining enough to dissipate my agitation for a brief amount of time.
Once my friend crossed the stage and the nineteenth baby had tried to crawl up my leg I tore myself from the clingy crowd to get some air outside. While I sat on the steps by the pool in the cool, beach breezes, I began to smell something like fireworks.
Huh, I thought, I wonder why they are having fireworks outside today. I shrugged it off and messed with my phone without realizing that next to me something extraordinary had occurred:
The trashcan was on fire.
As in, a huge billowing cloud of smoke and some very large flames licked the air above a large, stone trashcan.
Holy crap.
Before I could think to do anything, a few security guards rushed to the scene and one of them used the largest fire extinguisher I have ever seen. A slender man swaggered around the bin with a cigarette dangling out of his mouth:
“It’s people who put lit cigarettes in trashcans like that who give us smokers a bad name.”
Gee, I thought it was like, emphysema that gave smokers a bad name.
When the graduation was over and I stood with my friends large, stoic family his mother smiled and asked sweetly,
“Are you the one who puts caffeinated coffee in the decaf pot for fun?”
Yes, I’m the one who, if things don't go haywire, I make them that way myself.
My text back read: I’m running late too- I’ll probably slip in the back. Thank you! C u soon.
What I wanted to write back was: I give up. I’m going home before I die. It’s better this way because I might destroy your family if I continue.
Today was once again a Murphy Morning. I lay in my bed, suddenly aware that my alarm hadn’t gone off. Feeling behind my head I realized it was gone—now I remember—it fell down in the night with a crack. That’s what that was. So what time was it? I had to be in Malibu for a friend’s graduation by 10:30am at the latest. And it’s an hour drive away.
Lurching out of my bed I crashed the floor from my bunk and crept over to the headboard where Lindsey lay silently sleeping. I ducked under the bed, tried to spot my phone, but could only see half of it. As quietly as I could I pulled a wooden box away from the wall to see if I could spot the other half of the phone (which operates as my alarm) but I couldn’t see it.
So I hovered over her head—holding my breath so I wouldn’t wake her, stretching my arm down the slot between the wall and the bunkbed—hoping I could grasp the phone. Finally I felt it between my fingertips and pulled it to safety. I snapped on the phone to check the time: late. I was running late. I should be gone by now.
I clumsily threw my clothes on, did my hair and the other usual morning prep activities and then stumbled for the front door where Sam had delivered coffee—thank goodness.
As I pulled out of the driveway I realized my car was on empty. Crap. I yanked Honda into the gas station, entered my credit card information, shoved the gas lever into my car for it to fill up and then realized I received a text message. I sat down in the car, responded, looked up—the gas was finished pumping—I pulled out the lever, shoved it in its place and jumped back into the car and onto the freeway.
What the?
The gas needle still pointed to empty. Ohmy freaking….you’ve gotta be kidding….
Had I pumped gas and the needle was broken? Had I paid for and prepared to pump gas and then failed to actually fill up? Either way was lame and totally ridiculous. But only one would leave me stuck on the freeway and unable to attend the graduation.
So I sighed and angrily pulled off the freeway in Burbank, swerved through some construction cones (whoops), hit a curb (ouch) and slid into another gas station.
Once I entered my credit card info a small man waddled up to me and told me this was the Full Service section--- self serve was across the way. AUGH! Could the morning BE any more frustrating?
I canceled the card, swerved over to the other area, and started to fill up the car. I watched more closely this time: it was full. But when I pulled the lever out of the car gasoline sprayed everywhere—on my feet, all over the station, down my leg. The fumes were nauseating and now my hands had a strange black film to them. This is ridiculous, I thought. I can’t even get gas correctly.
An hour later I pulled into the school parking lot…I lurched and growled into the parking lot I should say…staggered in the direction of the gym and immediately became confused.
I was surrounded by endless babies. Screaming babies. Babies of every shape and size.
What in the WORLD?! Had I misread the directions and arrived at a preschool graduation? Infancy commencement?
I had not. Through the curtains I could see people sitting down for the beginning of the ceremony. Apparently they had all brought babies for some inexplicable reason. Perhaps it is somehow necessary to obtain babies while obtaining an MBA. Fortunately for my friend, his parents had enough of their own to keep him from cashing in on the (apparently popular) idea.
Because the seats were so crowded and soo many screaming kids were stretched across any open ones, I spent the majority of the ceremony leaning on a pole at the back of the auditorium, scanning the caps and gowns for my friend.
But while I did this, people with absolutely no sense of “personal bubble” seemed to find me quite comfortable to lean on. Wanting to shove my elbow through their backs and sides (helllooooo there are other poles to slather yourself all over) and ask “DO I KNOW you?!” but not wanting to cause a ruckus, I resorted to poking them gently with my program. Apparently it made these overly friendly people feel as if a bug was crawling on their backs and shoulders so that they swatted at themselves repeatedly. This proved to be entertaining enough to dissipate my agitation for a brief amount of time.
Once my friend crossed the stage and the nineteenth baby had tried to crawl up my leg I tore myself from the clingy crowd to get some air outside. While I sat on the steps by the pool in the cool, beach breezes, I began to smell something like fireworks.
Huh, I thought, I wonder why they are having fireworks outside today. I shrugged it off and messed with my phone without realizing that next to me something extraordinary had occurred:
The trashcan was on fire.
As in, a huge billowing cloud of smoke and some very large flames licked the air above a large, stone trashcan.
Holy crap.
Before I could think to do anything, a few security guards rushed to the scene and one of them used the largest fire extinguisher I have ever seen. A slender man swaggered around the bin with a cigarette dangling out of his mouth:
“It’s people who put lit cigarettes in trashcans like that who give us smokers a bad name.”
Gee, I thought it was like, emphysema that gave smokers a bad name.
When the graduation was over and I stood with my friends large, stoic family his mother smiled and asked sweetly,
“Are you the one who puts caffeinated coffee in the decaf pot for fun?”
Yes, I’m the one who, if things don't go haywire, I make them that way myself.
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