My Terrible Morning

Today I woke up at 6:45, which may not seem like anything worth mentioning as it’s a pretty common wake up time, and has been, for the past few months, the time my alarm has gone off every single day. But this morning when I got up at that time, I was upset with myself.

This week, at least until today, I’d woken up at 5:45, an hour earlier, to get a jump on my day and get in some writing and coffee before I had to get ready for work, and for those two days I was happy in my situation. I’m the non-driven type of person who believes in the old adage of working to live rather than living to work, and doing something I enjoy before spending nine hours at my job makes me feel like I do other things besides work during the week—an important distinction for me so I don’t grow to hate and resent my job. But today, I woke up late, which was just the start of my terrible morning.

I turned on the shower and walked down the hall to get a towel out of the closet, only to find that there weren’t any in there. Another part of being someone who lacks drive to do things that don’t interest me, leads to using all of the towels before washing them—a terrible flaw that came back to bite me today. The towels were all in the washing machine, soaking wet, so I was faced with the dilemma of using a hand towel to dry off, or a t-shirt. I chose the hand towel, which absorbed all the water from my hair immediately before I had the chance to dry off any other part of me.

It was just one of those days.

Today in my clothing rotation, the white shirt with blue stripes was up, a shirt that I don’t really like all that much because it feels tighter than my others, but again my procrastination when it comes to laundry left me with little choice but to wear that one. I put it on and went into the bathroom to brush my hair, which decided to be especially uncooperative. One of my coworkers commented that it looked like I just got out of bed and came to work. It really was a pretty bad morning.

I arrived a couple minutes late to work, ready for the day to be over. Luckily my day turned around when I found my first counterfeit bill since I started working at the bank.

You gotta enjoy the little things in life.

When I got home my new water bottle had arrived, one that will keep beverages cooler for extended periods of time and hold more liquid than the tumbler I currently drink out of. All in all it turned out to be a pretty good day, despite my terrible morning. Maybe tomorrow will start off better.

 


 

About the Author

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Kendall is a fan of sports, good food, the city he lives in, and lots of things in between. He likes to think that he is funny and would appreciate a fake laugh every now and again to boost his self esteem. Thanks for taking the time to read mostly meaningless things that Kendall decides to write about each day. He really appreciates it.

You can find Kendall on his blog, Twitter, & Instagram


 

Want to submit your own terrible morning? Visit our submissions page to find out how. 

The Literal Catcall (This Terrible Evening)

It was an average Monday evening. I was housesitting for a family friend, and I was tucked in on the couch with a pizza and an old movie. But then sun was starting to go down and one of the four cats I was in charge of had not come home yet, so I decided to pause Gregory Peck and perform a (literal) catcall. I knew I already had two inside, and the other two had come home quickly when I called on the first night, so I was sure I’d be able to find them, even if it took a little extra effort.

“Luuuuuna!” I called into the dusk.

I heard a cat meow and then saw her appear at the top of the fence. She ran to me and rubbed her head on my legs and then walked by me into the house to eat her dinner.

“Good,” I said, shutting the door behind me, “now I just need to find your brother.

A tip the family had left for me should I find that the cats weren’t coming in was to shake the container of dry food while calling out to them. It was the cat equivalent of ringing the dinner bell. So, after a few calls of “Tuffy!” went unanswered, I went back in the house, grabbed the plastic container and returned outside to make my official evolution into a temporary cat lady.

“Tufffyyyyy!”

*shake shake shake*

“Tufffyyyyy!”

*shake shake shake*

I walked around the backyard, up the side yard by the trashcans, around the front yard, then back in through the backyard for a final lap. Just when I was about to give up and start officially submitting to a panic, I heard a small, “meow.” I looked back at the door to see if Luna was looking on from behind the glass, wondering why I was shaking the food and not giving it to her, like some sort of deranged Pavlov experiment gone wrong. Was it her that meowed? I made another call to Tuffy, this time taking steps away from the back door and towards to the fence outlining the yard.

The meow got louder.

“Tuffy!”

“Meoooowww.”

I placed both hands on the wall and peered over—adding “apparent pervert” to my night’s resume—then let out a few more calls. Each “Tuffy” garnered a “meow”, but while I knew I was close, I still couldn’t see him. So, like any housesitter desperate to keep a cat alive so you don’t crush the spirit of the family, especially the 10-year-old girl who calls you her friend and has expressed more love for this cat than pretty much anything else, I called my mom.

I mostly just wanted moral support, as I was going into the thick of it now. Donned in sweats, a baggy t-shirt, still damp shower hair, and a makeup-less face, I was walking up and around the block to the house whose backyard bordered mine, and having seen the entire Taken series, I thought there was no harm in having my mom on the line, should the neighbor happened to be a crazed killer.

“Alright,” I told my mom, “I’m knocking now.”

From behind the door, I heard a voice say, “who’s there?” I considered answering, but I didn’t feel like I could give a clear picture of who I was and why I was there without using a lot of apologetic hand motions, so I waited for him to open the door.

“Hi,” I said as friendly as I could, knowing damn well I would have never answered the door if the roles were reversed. “So my friend and I are housesitting in the house, um, over there…around the block, and our backyard’s touch…yours and theirs…and I think their cat is stuck in your backyard.”

The man stood silently, his face slipping more and more into confusion, as he (most likely) awaited my explanation as to why any of this should matter to him.

“Sooooo,” I continued, “can I go into your backyard and see if the cat is back there?”

“Um, sure,” he said. I thanked him, then reported back to my mom in the receiver of the phone, explaining my EXACT location and the man’s appearance, giving her time to plan her rescue/revenge murder, should the need arise.

“Hold on!” the man said as I approached the gate to his backyard. He had already made his way outside by way of the house and was trying to get a leash on his dog so I could trespass freely. Thoughtful, I said to myself, knocking his murderer potential down to 78%.

I walked through the grass, over to the corner of the yard I’d been able to see from the other side of the wall. I called out to Tuffy and again heard the meow, this time distinctly higher than me. I let my eyes travel up a large, thin trunked tree, and there, about 30 feet up, was Tuffy, peering down at me with a look that said nothing short of, “it’s about damn time.”

I got an idea. I told the man I’d be right back, gave in to my mom’s kind offer to come help, then walked back out the side gate and around the block to my house.

Upon returning, I now had two reinforcements and the plastic container of food. But at this point the sun had made its descent below the horizon, making it hard to differentiate between Tuffy and a thick branch. So we all stood in the grass with our iPhone flashlights, calling out to this cat like it was a jumper on a ledge. My dad climbed up on top of the wall and began to shake the tree, hoping to at least jolt Tuffy up, and when that didn’t work, he started trying to lightly nudge him with a shovel.

“You’re okay,” we all said gently. Tuffy made a move to another branch and we cheered. At least he wasn’t stuck anymore. We continued to call him, but he stayed still. It was minute 40 by this point, and as our necks had just begun to acclimate to our constant looking up, we were met with something that immediately made us look down: sprinklers. Water began to shoot out in every direction, soaking my mom and I and stranding my dad on top of the wall.

“I’ll get those!” the man said, trying not to laugh.

After a few minutes, the sprinklers died down, and we all trudged across the damp lawn to look back up at the tree, where we found Tuffy, still sitting in the exact same spot.

“I think it might be time to call it,” my dad said. “He doesn’t appear to be stuck anymore and we might be scaring him more by all standing here watching. I say we head back and let him make his way down on his own time.”

Tuffy seemed to agree with this, as he began to shift almost immediately after my dad started climbing back down the wall. “Follow us!” I said as we walked out the gate, apologizing for the thousandth time to the man for essentially ruining his evening. Thankfully, he—and his wife who I met briefly when she came outside with a dog treat to try and coerce Tuffy—ended up being 0% murders and 100% great people, as they both wished us a good night.

When we made our way back around the block to our house, I could still see the couple shining flashlights up into the tree. Clearly they had become as invested as we were. I carried the plastic container of food back out to the bordering wall and shook it into the evening air like the most desperate tamobourinist ever.

Suddenly I heard an all too familiar meow, this time from behind me. I turned on my heel—which made a loud squeak, as my shoes were still soaked from the sprinklers—and found Tuffy making his triumphant march to the back door.

“YAYYY thank you!!” I shouted to a handful of parties including the neighboring couple, my parents, God and Tuffy himself. For now I would sleep easy, knowing that a) this cat was still alive b) it was no longer in a tree and c) it was (hopefully) slightly traumatized so that it wouldn’t return to the tree again (at least not while I was housesitting). My mom and I walked back into the house and I thanked her and my dad a thousand times over for coming to help. Then, as I’d been initially planning to do when I paused the movie, I went to the freezer to grab my pint of ice cream. Sure, the journey from my seat to the fridge had taken over an hour longer than I anticipated, but I’d finally made it, and now that all four cats were safely inside and 100% not dead, it made the ice cream all the more sweeter.


 

About the Author

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Kimberlee Koehn is a writer based out of Los Angeles, CA and is extremely passionate about telling stories and spreading positivity. When she’s not writing, you can often find her reading, hiking, watching sports, and most likely talking to herself.

You can find her at kimberleek.com


Want to submit your own terrible morning? Visit our submissions page to find out how. 

Gravel in the Knees, Garbage in the Air

This morning I woke up 30 minutes late.

30 minutes.

That’s an entire episode of Friends. An entire high school lunch period. An entire bake time of a thin chicken breast. Kids could have safely swam after eating in the time I slept past my alarm. Traffic on a downtown freeway could have cleared up after a small roadside collision.

You’d think I would have noticed. That my body would have jolted awake to say, “hey! It seems like we should be up by now! The sun is touching us, that’s a bad sign! We haven’t done our morning pee yet; our bladder is still full! We’re so hungry! We’re too rested! We’re late! We’re late! We’re late!” But alas, I rolled over casually, as if I was on vacation or had successfully Ferris Bueller-ed my way out of a math test.

I wonder what time it is, I thought to myself, sure I was going to find a wee hour on the clock. I wiped my eyes, clicked the power button on my phone and the numbers shouted up at me: it’s 6:30, bitch!

Suddenly, everything went to shit.

I jumped out of bed—my hair sticking up straight and one eye still half shut. I tried to tell myself I didn’t have to make the bed, that we could go one day without making the bed, but my OCD thought not.

I don’t have time to make the bed.

I can’t leave without making the bed!

But I don’t have time to make the bed.

I made the bed.

In the bathroom, I brushed my teeth for far less time than a dentist would recommend, then washed my face so rough I coated my hairline in Proactiv solution. I ran to my closet, grabbed the first pair of pants I saw—which I’d soon discover were the still rank pants I worked out in the day before—pulled the first shirt I could reach off of a hanger and stuck my arms through a jacket I found hanging on a doorknob. None of these matched, but I forced myself to count non-nakedness as the morning’s first win.

I scraped foundation over my face with my probably should have been cleaned yesterday makeup brush, and then wiped mascara into my eyelashes. At first glance, I was relatively impressed with my efforts. I didn’t appear to look drunk, hungover, or My Boyfriend Did My Makeup ­tutorial-ed. But then I found mascara all down the side of my hand, deodorant on the bottom of my shirt and a big, uncovered pimple just under my chin.

My brain: Just breathe, it’s going to be alright.

My watch: It’s 6:45, bitch!

I flipped off the bathroom light and ran downstairs.

I had planned for a nice, slow breakfast. The night before I’d pulled out a few things to try a Pinterest recipe said to be both healthy and delicious. I even thought about making a double batch to share with my roommates. Night me is always so thoughtful…

Meanwhile, morning me shoved two pieces of bread in the toaster. It would be burnt wheat bread for me, and my roommates would have to fend for themselves.

I scraped together a sandwich. This will have to be enough, I said to my morning self. She believed it, too. She understood the time crunch. My lingering lunch self however, threw up middle fingers. She was already starving.

The toaster popped. I pulled the blackened bread out, then buttered and honeyed them up. I wrapped both pieces in a paper towel, stuck my sandwich in my lunch bag, filled up a Nalgene bottle with water and a coffee cup with some chocolate milk. I put a granola bar in my purse, slid my sunglasses over my eyes, then walked out the door, arms full, and threw everything into the front seat of my car.

As if on cue, chocolate milk began to spill on my seat, leaving a dark brown stain in the grey cloth. I nodded my head as if to say, “seems about right,” then I got in the driver’s seat, peeled out of the driveway and down the street towards work. Halfway there, I ran over a trash bag and it hooked itself to the underside of my car. Glass and plastic began to shoot out from under me, causing cars to flash their lights, honk and yell.

“Why are you doing this?!” they asked with darting eyes, as if my morning routine always consisted of towing a bag of hazardous garbage behind my Saturn Ion. I tried to keep my eyes on the road ahead, knowing full well I was leaving a Mario Kart obstacle-esque street behind me, desperately hoping I could find a place to pull over in the middle of morning traffic.

By the time I found a driveway and ignored the bright red sign that probably said, “definitely no stopping here, not even if your spewing glass shards at neighboring cars,” my Saturn smelled as melty as a church sanctuary at the end of a candlelight Christmas Eve service. I squatted down on the sidewalk, then kneeled, then crawled halfway underneath my car to retrieve the melted heavy weight trash bag—which was now completely empty—and threw it on the side of the road, adding littering to my morning’s list of sins.

When I finally got to work, I was 15 minutes late, had gravel in my knees and a crazed look in my eye.

“Good morning,” a coworker said. I smiled, completely disagreeing, and made my way to my desk.

No, it wasn’t a good morning, I said to myself as I opened a comfort snack I brought for my lunch self, and how dare you say otherwise. I was dead set on proving them wrong, but then, as I started to decompress, that thing happened. The thing where after you’ve made it through something non-life threatening, grand-scheme meaningless, yet undoubtedly and outrageously shitty, you lean back in your chair and just laugh. So instead, I held my cup of chocolate milk up to the universe in a cheers. Because no, it wasn’t a good morning, but I suppose it could still be a good day, and an even better story.


About the Author

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Kimberlee Koehn is a writer based out of Los Angeles, CA and is extremely passionate about telling stories and spreading positivity. When she’s not writing, you can often find her reading, hiking, watching sports, and most likely talking to herself.

You can find her at kimberleek.com


 

Want to submit your own terrible morning? Visit our submissions page to find out how.