B E B E R E

Ever have one of those mornings where...

You get up, do your autopilot morning routine, put on the outfit you set out for yourself the night before and find that the silk blouse that coordinates perfectly with the green tweed skirt (long skirt, as you can't wear stockings due to the fact that your legs look like you were bushwhacking in effing poison ivy) has a huge waterstain across the front? Panicked because the routine's been broken and you don't have any Plan B, you toss that blouse off and rifle around for something ironed. The next closest (ironed) match is a pretty grayish-yellow silk blouse that you love almost like a pet. As you're buttoning this choice, you note a wet feeling on your thumb: the cut you inflicted on yourself the other day (remember what I said about being a klutz?) has reopened and you're bleeding all down the front placket. Disgusted, and now cursing under your breath, you pull this one off, take it to the kitchen sink (the bathroom one's out of commission right now) and sponge off the blood. Thank heavens it didn't set yet. Blouse number three isn't even ironed this time. It's plain white, and has a bit of stretch in it, so not too slovenly looking. You pull it over your head (this one's actually buttoned) and hear a loud -RIP-; the right side seam is now a vent that extends halfway to your armpit. The cursing is no longer a sotto voce and you're stomping around the apartment in your underwear not even capable of thinking rationally about what to do next. Finally, you find another stretchy blouse that doesn't look too wrinkled (though missing one button on one of the sleeve cuffs) and a linty but clean pair of floppy black pants. Stuff matches enough (close enough for Government work? -snort-), so you're out the door. At work, people know enough to leave you alone, as you've that look that says you could very easily slap them, leave in a huff, take your vacation cash-in, buy a one way plane ticket to the Phillipines, get a gun and do fricking actuarial work for a living while picking off -ahem- "insurgents" in your spare time. (Don't get your knickers in a bind; we all have our fantasies. When I'm in a mood and it's that time of the month, I want severed heads on platters. I want blood.)