I’ve covered this material before.
The I’m not a morning person material.
But not quite in this way.
Not the way I did it back in 2008.
I’m trying to think under what circumstances I could be a morning person.
That’s me thinking. Or crickets.
I could be a morning person if the smell of dinner being cooked by someone else wafted up the stairs at the bird-singing crack of dawn.
I could rise up like the undead and sprint to the kitchen for that. No decaffeine required.
I really want the Pop-tart…
I can’t get my motor running. It’s schlepping. Not running. Definitely schlepping. I need to be an Indiana Jones today, but I feel more like a Rip, as in Van Winkle. I need a breakfast fit for Popeye. Okay, I at least need some strong coffee and the Multi of multivitamins.
I confess. I’m all bleh and no bling first thing in the morning. I’m not a pretty sight hauling my brain-dead, face-mashed, wrinkled tee-clad self down to the kitchen looking for the breakfast of the nearly dead. I’m like the teenager just home from school who automatically opens the fridge door and stares into the great cavern of mystery containers blinking and ratcheting-up the electricity bill. Nope, no leftover breakfast oatmeal bake there.
I drag myself down to the pantry and study the shelves. No Raisin Bran. No Grape Nuts. Sigh. Part of me really wants a Pop-tart — preferably the S’mores — but that so isn’t going to happen. Only thing there is G-Man’s hamster buds. They’re not really hamster buds, but they look like hamster food and they smell like hamster food. Hence, hamster buds. Some of you probably have these in your pantry. But I am a desperate woman, so buds it is. I’ll cover them in yogurt and berries — covert buds.
G-Man tries to clear out of the house before I get up in the morning. Why? Well, I’ve been known to pour coffee into a vase instead of a cup. That is a good morning.
I’ve put milk in the coffeemaker instead of water. I’ve left my apartment in my slip and stilettos. Oops. I’ve…
I’m a slow-to-rise-and-late-to-retire female living with an early-to-bed-up-at-the-crack-of-dawn Mr. Happy. So he says. But I’ve occasionally stuck my pinkies out at the rooster call of dawn and shuffled downstairs to confront a cut-offs wearing hairy beast man I don’t recognize, with sheet creases in his cheeks and wicked bed head, leaning over the coffeemaker like it was a caffeine vaporizer. Aha! Call the Discovery Channel.
So my motor’s not running, and I really want the Pop-tart. There should be a reward for getting up early, and it’s not hamster buds.
Mmm. I smell coffee. Maybe there’s some peanut butter. I can work with peanut butter.
And that’s how we’re rolling this Throwback Thursday.