Arriving Fifteen Minutes Late Without Starbucks Because I'm Just Plain Late

I have a problem with being late.

I've always wanted to be that person who arrives to everything ten minutes early, who expects traffic so leaves fifteen minutes before they have to just incase, who never speeds because they're going to get there at least five minutes early even if they go ten below the speed limit.

I am not that person.

I am the person who, what's the phrase?

"Arrives fifteen minutes late with Starbucks."

Except I didn't have time to get the Starbucks.

Because I was running late.

I have never been an aggressive driver. I have always been that person who drives like a grandma.

Until this past year, when I got a job that requires me to get up at 06:30 and be at work at a normal person's time.

Now I get angry at anyone who is only going the speed limit.

I could be a person who is at least on time. For my birthday this past October, my parents bought me an awesome watch that spurred me to swear to be a person who is five minutes early for everything.

The next day, I was four minutes late for work.

Here's the thing though. I can guarantee you I am going to be late for everything.

And I can guarantee you that because I will be trying on the third outfit for the morning when the clock strikes whatever time I was actually supposed to be heading out the door.

It's not that I've become that Working Woman who always looks like she spent three hours getting ready and is gorgeous every time you see her.

Far from it.

Most days, I look barely put together, hints of makeup and hair thrown back in a bun because that's about all I know how to do with my hair.

And most days, I look barely put together because I am not wearing my clothes, my clothes are wearing me.

Or wearing me down. That is probably a more appropriate phrase.

If I got right down to the nitty gritty, the real issue is that I don't like the way I look.

I am self conscious to a fault, so that's mostly what it is.

I want for a lot of unrealistic things: I want to be a small, petite person; I want to be taller; I want to have nice hands with long, slender fingers; I want to have eyebrows that could slay a man; I want to have long, gorgeous dark locks that every girl is jealous of; I want, I want, I want.

And then somehow all of these wants come out in the mornings when I am getting dressed, and I think maybe if I just looked a little harder in my closet, I would find all of these things.

So I try on ten different outfits before I finally just sigh at my reflexion in the mirror, mutter a "This is good enough I guess," then look at the clock to realize I was supposed to be driving down my driveway twenty minutes ago.

There's not any kind of quick, pretty packaging with a bow on top answer for this.

We girls can be told that we look gorgeous no matter our size. We can sing along to songs with lines like, "Yeah it's pretty clear / I ain't no size two / But I can shake it shake it / Like I'm supposed to do" until we're blue in the face, we can see gorgeous women wearing no makeup and being proud of it, we can do everything we're supposed to and still have poor images of ourselves.

Nothing's going to fix that, at least not for me. I can have the guy I'm seeing tell me he's over the moon with the way I look every single day, and I still wouldn't be content. I can have other girls tell me they're envious of a certain thing about me, and I will be happy for thirty seconds, then look in the mirror and find another flaw.

Accepting of other peoples' flaws is a lot easier than acceptance of your own flaws, I am coming to see.

But I'm working on it. Just know that I am working on it. I fight and I pray and I struggle some more and sometimes I think I look hot and sometimes I remember that what I really want people to see when they look at me is the love I show them because of Jesus' love inside me and sometimes I want to crawl into bed and eat Taco Bell all day because I think I'm especially fat that day and somehow eating more food will make that better.

But I'm working on it. Just like I'm working on not being late all the time.

How ironic is it that I just looked at the clock and I'm supposed to leave my house in five minutes and I'm not ready yet...

(The beginings of a short): What Happens When You Take A Hostage

[Writing at Potbelly is always an adventure. Meaning I never know what will come out of my weird brain. This particular short is no exception to that.]

“Holy crap!”

Dean stood in front of me, rubbing his head. I should have probably been scared, but instead, I was smiling.

“What the crap was that?” he continued.

“I think they call it karate. Or self defense. Something like that.”

Dean stared and blinked at me a few times before responding.

“You know karate?”

“Three years strong,” I said, flashing him a grin. I was really proud of my karate.

“So…”

“So I could probably outrun you right now and get the gun I just kicked out of your hand, yes.”

“Don’t forget, your little roundhouse also whacked me in the head after knocking the gun across the room,” Dean grumbled, still rubbing his head.

“I haven’t forgotten.”

He stopped rubbing his head long enough to stare at me.

“I hate running,” I said as I casually walked over to his gun, took the barrel out, and tossed that out the broken window.

“You know, you can’t really threaten me with an empty gun,” he said, still just staring at me.

“Who says I want to threaten you? That was your job. But seeing as the gun is now in my hands, you did a pretty poor job of your job.”

“Okay. Okay,” Dean said, rubbing his hands together. “So what is your plan now? Because if it’s to call the cops, that’s fine, but I’ll be out of here before they arrive.”

“If I wanted to call the police, I would have five minutes ago when I first heard you breaking into my apartment. But I think the police would do us more harm than good.”

“Us?”

“You’re Dean Scoulders, the man who robbed the richest bank in the state, then killed your partner, right?”

Dean’s shoulders stiffened. “That’s what they say.”

“But you were framed.”

Dean’s eyes snapped up to mine when he heard me say this.

“Of course you were,” I said with a wave of my hand. “Nothing exciting ever happens to me. I know that sounds dorky or lame, but whatever. It’s true. The most exciting thing to ever happen to me ever was this one time when my mate’s ex-boyfriend tried to punch me in the face but ended up slamming his fist into a wall because he was so drunk. I lived off that for years. I’m not a thrill seeker by any means. I get an adrenaline rush just by going to the market and interacting with other human beings. I’m that cat lady that every apartment complex has to have. I’m pathetic. The most exciting thing in my life now is that I go to karate lessons to get myself out of my apartment. And then you stumbled in one day, with your shiny gun and brazen story of hitmen and chases and the danger of death lurking behind every corner.”

I paused before continuing. I wasn’t sure if I was making any sense to him or not. I couldn’t look at him to see; I had to get through this without looking at him.

“I could have said no. I could have walked away.”

“You mean you could have knocked the gun out of my hand. Which you did.”

I looked up at him when he said this. I needed him to really hear what I was about to say.

“No. I knew you weren’t going to shoot me. I could see it in your eyes. You were more scared of that gun than I was. No, I knew you weren’t going to shoot me. I knew I had a choice. I made a choice. It was conscious and real, and I made the choice to believe you were better than this life and that you deserved out of it. I had no idea how me going along with you was going to get you out of it, but I made a choice to trust both of us anyways.”

Dean kept my eye contact, never looking away. “I could shoot you now. I could grab the barrel you just threw out the window and easily insert it into my gun again, and shoot you down right now.”

“I know you could. I know you can. I know you could find something inside of you that would allow you to be capable of killing me right here with no remorse.”

Dean began to breathe heavily, agitated and confused. “Then why stick around?”

“There’s always a risk when you deal with humans. I’d like to give you the chance to prove you’re better than that.”

I knew he might never understand why I was there. But in that moment it didn’t matter if he understood or not. 

It just mattered that he didn’t shoot me.

Bird's Play

         [Disclaimer: A coworker told me a story about his child being in a school event, and the scene he painted for me stuck with me for several days after he told me. I couldn't get it out of my brain, how precious the moment sounded. So I wrote. Like I do.] 

          I knew I’d probably be the only single father at the play, or at least the only parent without a date, but I honestly didn’t care.

Bird had three speaking lines, and I wasn’t about to miss that for the world.

She was so proud of those lines. We had been rehearsing and rehearsing them for weeks, ever since she found out about her class’ play. I had taught her what inflections were, how to put different emotions into each word, every trick I knew. We had spent hours pouring over those three lines, making sure we had tried to say them every way possible, making sure we had picked the best way, and, most importantly, making sure that Bird knew the words forwards and backwards, and that she would not get stage fright and forget them.

I thought she would be nervous. My beautiful Bird was a chatterbox around me, to the point where sometimes I wanted her to be still and quiet. But when you put her around others, especially adults, she pretends she doesn’t know how to speak.

But I was wrong.

She could barely contain her excitement.

            The whole way to school that morning she was bouncing in her seat, looking out the window, periodically looking over at me with a huge grin on her little face.

“Do you want to recite your lines again?” I had asked in the car. “Make sure you got it?”

“No, Da,” she had said seriously, looking me right in the eyes. “I know them. I know.”

“Okay, Birdie,” I had said, reaching over to take her tiny hand in mine.

“One hand for driving, one hand for me!” she sang out, swinging my hand up and down.

When I had pulled up at her school, she had grabbed her backpack, leaned over and kissed me on the cheek, then whispered her three lines to me in my ear.

“See?” She had giggled proudly. “I know.”

I sat down three rows from the front on the end. I wanted to be able to see her perfectly when she said her three lines.

“Robbie Fontana, my my my.”

I stiffened and cringed.

Shannon Diansallo had been trying to rope me in for months, ever since I went to a parent teacher conference awhile back and she had discovered that, in her own words, divorce had done my looks no harm.

“If anything, you look more dashing than ever,” she had purred, stroking my arm with a single finger.

“Just my emotions that were damaged and destroyed,” I had said mock-friendly, taking a step back and excusing myself with mutterings of being late.

She had been on my prowl ever since.

“Hi Sandon,” I said, plastering on a ridiculous smile.

“Ahahaha,” she laughed, placing one hand on her chest like I was causing her a hysterical heart attack, the other hand slapping me lightly across my own chest. “You kidster. Calling me wrong names on purpose. So funny.”

I had hoped she would be so insulted that I misspoke her name that she would leave me alone. Apparently my plan backfired.

“So listen, do you like casserole?” She twirled a piece of her hair around her finger as she spoke. “Because I was thinking a little casserole, a little candlelight, this weekend perhaps?”

“You can cook?”

She let the strand of hair go and blinked at me. “Well, um, no,” she stuttered, clearly not prepared for my question. “But my nanny makes these amazing casseroles. I’m sure she’d make an extra one tomorrow for us.”

I couldn’t help but chuckle a little. At least she was honest.

“Better get to your seat, play’s about to start,” I said in reply, sitting down and reading over the program.

“Right,” she said, straightening, obviously annoyed from not getting the correct replies out of me. “Well, if you have a free night and need some company,” she began again, putting her hand on my shoulder, “You call me.”

“Will do!” I said cheerfully, not looking up from my program as she finally walked away.

I just wanted Bird.

The lights flickered off and on a few times, and I began bouncing in my chair. I was already so proud of Bird, and she hadn’t even come on stage yet.

We all clapped as Bird’s principle stepped up to give a few words, but I honestly couldn’t tell you a word he said; I was too impatient and eager for Bird’s three lines to even listen.

Finally he finished talking, and I heard the pitter-patter of feet as Bird and her classmates lined up in the back, ready to make their entrance as the opening song played. I turned around in my chair to get a better look.

She was so gorgeous, her hair and makeup all done by Janey.

I swallowed as she got closer.

She looked like her mother.

She caught my eye, and a huge grin crossed her face.

She was suddenly Bird again.

The line walking past was closer to the other aisle, but I knew if I stretched out my hand as they passed, Bird could stretch out hers as well as touch my fingertips.

As she got close, I stretched out my hand, hoping to give her a silent high five.

Instead, she immediately broke line when she saw my hand outstretched, ran over to me, taking my open hand in hers, and kissed the inside of my palm.

I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.

She looked up at me, her little hands still enveloping mine, a look of radiant love in her eyes.

“I’m gonna make you proud, Da,” she quietly said, then scurried back into line at the sound of her teacher’s loud, frantic whisper.

I swallowed the tears down, holding my program shakily in my hands.

I’m not even sure what the play was actually about. Something about a boy getting lost in the woods and a family of deer, and there was a hunter at some point maybe, or maybe a dinosaur shows up, I really don’t know.

All I know is that when it came time for Bird’s big scene, the one where she has the three lines, I was on the edge of my seat.

“You! Girl! Stop there!” the boy called out, pointing his stick at Bird.

“It’s only a friend, I’m only here to help,” Bird said sweetly, so naturally and wonderfully.

“A friend, huh? What do I need a friend for?”

“Why, everyone needs friends! Don’t you know that?”

She was perfect. Oscar worthy, the way she drew the audience in.

“Do you have friends?” the boy asked.

Bird’s face broke into a smile. Not an actor’s smile, a real, genuine smile. “Of course, silly boy. My friends are all here.”

A group of kids came out onto the stage with her and began singing a song as she took the boy’s hand and walked off the stage.

I have no idea what that scene had to do with the rest of the play. But that scene was the most beautiful moment of any movie or play or television show, and always will be.

Until The NyQuil Kicks In

It’s late.

            But the NyQuil hasn’t kicked in yet, so I estimate that I have fifteen minutes before it does and forces me to sleep.

            Maybe ten.

            Sometimes I get frustrated at all the things I don’t get.

Not just things like calculus or chemistry or how to draw or dance.

Things like why someone would ever want to physically hurt another human being.

Or how to not make things awkward and complicated.

Or how to love someone platonically.

Or why knowing the difference between love and lust is hard.

Or how to love the appropriate people and know when someone is not good for you.

Or what one should do to pray better and more sincerely.

Or how to express things to someone who has a different love language than you.

Or just some days how to be a normal, functioning member of society.

I like getting things. But the older I get, the more I don’t get things.

That’s okay, right?

Okay, I lied. It was like five minutes. NyQuil wins this round. 

           

           

            

That Time I Wrote Cabin Pressure Fan Fiction

[Because everyone needs some incredibly sappy Cabin Pressure fan fiction in their life. Especially when it involved Douglas being cute and in love. Also because everyone and their mother is sick right now, so apparently I've got taking care of the sick on my mind.]

“DOUGLAS!”

Douglas was startled back into reality by the sound of Martin’s shrill voice.

“What? Oh. Yes. All clear, captain.”

“Douglas, what’s wrong with you today? That was the third time saying your name.”

“No it wasn’t,” Douglas snarled. “It was the first time you shouted my name.”

“Really Douglas, even for you this is out of character.”

Douglas sighed heavily. “I’m sorry Martin. I didn’t mean to snap like that.”

The two men sat quietly in the cockpit, Martin hesitant to press the matter and Douglas too lost in his own thoughts.

“It’s just…” Douglas finally started after an awkward silence, then stopped and sighed again.

“Maybe if you told me I could try to help,” Martin said carefully. “And don’t laugh. Maybe I really could.”

Douglas looked out at the night skyline and was silent for another moment. Martin sucked in his breath; ‘Something must really be troubling him for not even making a jab at me,’ Martin thought.

“Maggie’s ill, and I don’t know how to do it,” Douglas finally blurted out.

“Do what?”

“You know, make her better. I’ve taken her to see a doctor and he told me it was some kind of severe flu and to give her medication when the fever comes on.”

Martin smiled in spite of himself; the fact that Douglas was so concerned about her was touching.

“What?” Douglas demanded, seeing the look on Martin’s face.

“Nothing, I’m sorry,” Martin said quickly. “It’s just, well, I’ve never seen you like this.”

“Like what?”

“This. So worried and sincere about someone. It’s, well it’s sweet really.”

“I just don’t like seeing her suffer. I wanted to stay home with her, but she insisted I come to work.”

The two men fell silent again as Douglas stared out at the skyline once more.

“Lisa picked up something from one of her kids at school the other day,” Martin began again. “Nothing serious, but she was stuck in bed for a day. She kept telling me she was fine, but I knew she was lying. So I ran her a hot bath and used myself as an extra blanket all night to make sure she stayed warm enough.”

Douglas cracked a smile. Leave it to Martin to be romantic, even in sickness.

“Maybe I’ll try that,” Douglas said as a thank you.

                     *                              *                                  *                                *

Douglas tried to make as little noise as possible as he walked in his apartment, afraid Maggie was sleeping. Quietly he tiptoed into their bedroom, only to find the room empty.

As he walked towards the kitchen, he saw her, curled up and shivering on the couch, having kicked off her blanket in her sleep.

He snuck back into the bedroom and walked into the master bathroom, turning on the hot water in the tub and adding salts and lavender soap.

When the water began rising, he walked back to the living room and leaned down to kiss Maggie’s forehead. It was hot to the touch.

Maggie stirred at his touch, opening her eyes halfway to look up at him.

“Darling,” Douglas whispered, “I’ve run you a bath.”

“No, no, I’m fine,” she croaked out, barely above a whisper.

“Maggie,” Douglas said sternly, “Let me take care of you.”

When she smiled weakly and nodded her head, Douglas reached down and scooped her up in his arms. 

“There we go,” Douglas cooed, standing Maggie up once they reached the bathroom and beginning to gently remove her clothing.

“Easy does it,” he said, carefully setting her in the tub. He watched her lay her head back against the wall and close her eyes. On instinct, he stripped himself and stepped into the tub with her, pulling her against his chest, and gently rubbed the washcloth against her body.

“Douglas, you really don’t have-“

“Hush now,” Douglas said, running cold water on the cloth and laying it against her forehead. “How’s that?”

In reply, Maggie sunk down deeper into the tub and rested her head against his chest.
Douglas smiled and kissed the top of her head.

After a good thirty minutes, Douglas could feel the water turning cold. Not wanting to risk Maggie getting chilled, he eased out of the tub, dried off, and pulled on clean clothes before reaching over to lift Maggie out of the tub.

Sitting her on their bed, he pulled out a fresh pair of sweats from his own drawer and grabbed his old university sweatshirt he knew Maggie loved cuddling up in before helping her into them.

Fully dressed, Maggie sweetly looked up at Douglas, her once again half-opened eyes full of love and slight embarrassment.

“Thank you,” she whispered.

“Oh we’re just getting started,” Douglas said, picking her back up and carrying her to the living room. “I’m just going to pop into the kitchen and make some soup,” he said, feeling her head once more. It was still incredibly hot.

Rushing as fast as he could, Douglas made quick time with the soup, and raced back into the living room, not wanting to leave Maggie without him a moment longer.

“Sit up a little farther for me, darling,” Douglas said, helping her up enough so she could eat. When she reached for the bowl, he pulled it away.

“Let me,” he chided, holding the spoon to her mouth.

Too weak to protest, Maggie allowed herself to be force-fed, drinking in the warm liquid.

Once the bowl was nearly empty and Douglas was satisfied, he sat the bowl down and reached for the medicine.

Seeing Maggie’s face, Douglas tried to smile.

“It’s delicious you know,” he said cheerfully.

“You take it then,” Maggie said, her voice so low Douglas could barely hear her.

“Bottoms up,” he said happily, gulping down just a small bit to amuse Maggie. He choked and nearly spit it out as soon as it reached his throat. “Crikey, that’s rubbish!”

Maggie cracked a smile, and attempted to laugh, but it quickly turned into a coughing fit that had her gasping for breath.

“Take it,” Douglas said soothingly when the fit had passed.

In obedience, Maggie downed the medicine and sank back on the couch.
“That’s my girl,” Douglas praised, brushing the hair out of her eyes as an excuse to feel her head.

Still burning hot.

They sat still on the couch for awhile, Douglas’ hand resting on her cheek, his thumb moving in gentle strokes against her face.

When Maggie struggled to keep her eyes even half open, Douglas knew the medicine was beginning to kick in, making her sleepy. 

Standing up over her, Douglas once again leaned down to pick her up, carrying her to their bedroom.

He carefully laid her down and pulled the covers over her. Concerned that was not enough to keep her warm, Douglas turned to get more blankets when he felt her hand grasp his arm.

Douglas turned back to see a pleading look in her eyes, as if she thought he would leave her.

“I’m just going to get another blanket, my darling,” he said, squeezing her hand reassuringly.

Douglas jogged quickly to grab another blanket, then jogged back to the bedroom. Smiling as he entered, he placed the blanket on his wife’s frail figure, then crawled into bed himself.

“Douglas, I might be contag-“ Maggie tried to protest, sitting up, but Douglas cut her off.

“You might also need my body heat,” Douglas said, pushing her back down. “I’m not sleeping anywhere else tonight.”

Finally giving up for the night, Maggie sank back into the pool of blankets, allowing herself to be curled into Douglas’ warmth. She sighed contently as he wrapped his arms around her, pulling her head towards his chest so as to completely engulf her.

“I don’t deserve you,” she breathed into his shoulder.

“You don’t deserve to be sick,” Douglas replied, kissing her forehead.

He smiled. Her head was just a little bit cooler.