My troubles began when the alarm clock started screaming at 6 am. My plan was to rise and do my best to shine, in order to get out the door before 7 a.m.
Because I wanted my breast cancer book to be edited by one of the best copy editors I have ever known, I offered to clean her house as a trade for that service.
But the work week had been long and stressful. I was crazy tired.
After 9 a.m., I was still lounging on my couch, too exhausted to face the drive to Brown County and the moment I had to turn into a cleaning queen.
But I rallied anyway.
Wearing bed head, no make-up and an old pair of too-big shorts and a T-shirt, I finally grumbled my way to my car with a plan to stop at a fast drive-thru.
That’s not the way the plan went.
In the restaurant drive-thru line, with 734 other people in bad moods, my car stopped cooperating.
I can’t write what I said about that.
But it was deader than a door nail.
Suddenly, the dead car, on top of all my other stress, was just too much to handle.
I felt like a big baby. But I rested my head on the steering wheel and cried my face off. When other drivers angrily honked at me to get out of the way, I cried even louder.
Though I hated to bother them, I called a couple of friends for help. A few minutes later they appeared like angels to push my car out of the honked-off drive-thru line. My job was simply to steer the car. But without power steering, my breast cancer affected chest refused to be a team player. My arms were too weak to turn the wheel and sharp pain erupted across my chest when I wrestled with the wheel. At the moment the front of my car nearly kissed the fender of a truck, one of my friends reached inside my window and helped steer the car into the parking place.
A new battery was the answer to my day straight out of you-know-where.
Lucky for me, my friends again helped me survive that crisis.
Finally, I made it to that huge house on a ridge in Brown County. It was deliciously quiet, and I happily decided to start cleaning in the big, bright kitchen.
Later, I would take a break, fall in love with the view and get myself unstressed and happy again.
But then I promptly stepped in cat puke.
Barefoot, of course.
I can’t tell you what I said about that, either.