Cursed Morning

At sunrise this morning, my alarm-dog Socrates, a Jack Russel-Rooster mix, woke me up. When I opened the door to the yard, he bolted, sounding his alarming high-pitched bark.    

“Stop barking!” I barked, to no avail.

I hadn’t even had my coffee, yet there I was marching up my hill. “Stop barking! Socrates!”

He had wiggled his way under the fence that separates my property with my neighbors to have a playdate with his new friend, their dachshund, Charlie. I watched Socrates run up to their windows, barking, barking, barking. I had no choice but to hop the fence in my pink robe and fuzzy slippers, landing like a caped crusader, just shy of their pool. 

“Get over here!” I demanded in a loud whisper chasing him around their yard, hoping not to get caught because, honestly, no one needs to see their neighbors this early in the morning. 

Suddenly, Socrates was nowhere to be found. As stealthily as possible, I searched using sonar techniques to hear him out, basically echolocation. He had gotten himself wedged in their pool equipment.

“Ugh!” I tucked him inside my robe and snuck out through their gate.

“Let’s start all over. Breathe in. Breathe out,” I said to the dog.

The sound of the coffee maker grinding the beans was soothing, until I realized I was holding the empty coffee pot. I watched the coffee pour from the machine all over the counter and floor. 

Last night in the dimly lit living room, I had painted over water stains created by a leaky roof with the ceiling paint the painters had left behind – or so I thought. 

What I had done was paint the ceiling with the light gray paint of the adjacent wall. Now the ceiling had an eight-foot-wide cloud.

I changed into clothes and went through every can of white in my garage. I was filling the flimsy tray with paint, rolling on coat after coat of the wrong white, while balancing myself on the back of the black leather couch, turning this quickly into 50 Shades of Grayish Whites. 

Wobbling precariously, I reached up high enough to touch the ceiling, when the roller got the best of me. While rolling paint to one side and sending me to another, the rinkydink, insert paint tray went flying from my hand and landed with a splat all over the couch.

It was then that I realized that I had a curse. I needed sage to burn, it was my only hope.

At Home Depot, I discovered what interesting people go shopping early in the morning. Apparently, me included – now covered in paint.

I approached the “Your Paint Expert,” and began, “I have a unique situation. I had to cover up some spots on my ceiling, which I did, but I can’t find whatever white paint my painters used when they painted my ceiling. Is there some kind of standard paint that painters use on ceilings?”

After patiently listening to me ramble for a good ten minutes, he decided to give me his expert advice, “Turn around.” 

I was standing in front of the wall of paint cans labeled: Interior Ceiling Flat White.

“Perfect,” I said, “Yes, that’s it. Now, how about chicken wire, leather cleaner, plastic tarp, matches and sage?  I’m asking for a friend.”

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