The alarm didn't go off this morning. Actually I can't guarantee that - it's possible that it went off and I turned it off and fell asleep instead of getting out of bed. It didn't go off because the alarm switch was firmly in the "off" position. So even if I didn't screw up this morning and turn it off then go back to sleep it's still my fault for not turning it on last night. That really blows because I'd like to blame this morning on somebody else.

Normally it wouldn't be a big problem if the alarm didn't go off. I usually wake up at around 3:50 and stare at the alarm clock until 4:00 hits and it lets off its piercing (and quickly silenced) bleat. That happens when I go to bed on time, anyway. Last night, due to some nocturnal activities that don't need to be spelled out and will resurface later in this diatribical self flaggelation, I went to bed late. This morning I woke up with that self congratulatory sensation of "Ah, I woke up naturally. I shall now turn over and gaze fondly at the digital countdown as it marches its way towards my assigned time of arrisal."

Unfortunately, when I turned over and gazed at the clock the numbers were wrong. I stared at it for a few minutes trying to grasp the wrongness of the clock with my sleep befuddled brain. Finally it dawned on me. There was no 3 at the beginning. If there is no 3 at the beginning then I am supposed to still be asleep. I rolled back over with the full intent of fulfilling that sleep mandate but I still had this nagging sense of "wrongness".

That first number was not a 3 so I should go back to sleep. If it was a 4 then I should get up but it isn't a 4. Not a 3. Not a 4. What's the one after 4 again? Oh, yeah. It's 5. Okay, I can go back to sleep until 4 then. Wait a second. It can't go from 5 to 4. It's already past 4. 4 o'clock is totally frikken over! I'm still in bed! SHIT!

I whipped back over and grabbed the alarm clock. I held it in both hands, staring at the lying display. My alarm clock, my morning companion for five out of every 7 days, has betrayed me. It is not 3 o'clock. It is not 4 o'clock. It is way past 5 o'clock! It is freaking 5:38 in the morning!

This is very, very bad. You see, I carpool with G and he arrives to pick me up at around 5:40 each morning. That's the nominal arrival. The target is 5:30 but it's usually around 5:40. 5:38 is really fucking close to 5:40.

"SHIT!"

I jump out of bed. Race to the front door and turn on the lights for the porch and driveway. Is that a car already there? "FUCK!"

Lovely Wife appears. "What happened?"

"I don't know. Alarm didn't go off."

"I'll get you clothes."

"Thanks, Sweetie."

Run into bathroom. Brush teeth. Run to the shower. No time for a shower! No time for a shower? No, you jackass. There's no time for a shower. Your ride is already outside waiting on your ass. Okay. Comb hair. God gets a special thankyou today because he has seen fit to not give me a monstrous case of bed head. The comb works. Wash face. Comb hair again. Lovely Wife appears with clothes. Wash nether regions. Shirt goes on. Crap. Shirt gets pulled up, pits get stick treatment, shirt back in place. Tighty whiteys on.

"Aren't there any boxers?"

"Don't know. You want me to look for some?"

"Nevermind. No time."

"Does G take his coffee black?" (I provide coffee for us in the AM. Fortunately I did not forget to set the coffee machine up last night and it performed perkfully at its assigned time of 3:45. G doesn't really take his coffee black but he has his creamer here at work.)

"Yeah."

Pants on. Old pants. Don't fit. Pants off. "Fuck!"

"I'll get you other ones."

"Nevermind."

Grab shorts from yesterday off of bedside table. Shorts on. Socks on. One more look in mirror. Looks good. Yeah, right.

"Do you need your jacket?"

Of course I need my jacket. It's 40 degrees out. But I have shorts on so no jacket. In December I can get away with shorts and a jacket. In October I can't.

"No. But I need the cigarettes out of it."

"Here you go."

"Thanks. Where the hell are my shoes?" (That last part was directed at the shoe tree, not Lovely Wife.)

"You're wearing them." (That was Lovely Wife. The shoe tree was put off by my profanity and sulkily ignored my question.)

"When the hell did I put those on?"

Run to kitchen. Grab wallet, phone, water bottle, throw them into a plastic Kroger bag along with a picture that Bear made for me.

"Here's the coffees." She used the wrong mugs. She used the short fat one that can't sit in any cup holder and she used the really small thermos brand steel mug. Ah, well. She's helping and it's like an hour and a half before she even has to get up.

"Thanks Baby. I love you. Bye."

Kiss Lovey Wife. Run down to the street where G is waiting.

"What took you so long? Why were all your lights off?"

"Because I was asleep."

"Until when?"

"Five minutes ago."

"You're giving me the tiny coffee again, aren't you?"

"Yeah. Lovely Wife got them ready for me. She used the wrong mugs."

"Why can't I have the fat one?"

"It's already got my milk in it."

Sit down. Close door. Seat belt on. G starts driving. I am amped on a severe adrenaline rush but still mostly asleep in my brain. Adrenaline rush goes into crash dive, removing last vestiges of intelligence. I haven't got the slightest idea what we talked about on the drive in.

So here I am. Stinky white boy at work. I feel slimy and nasty. Oily. I look fine. I've been assured that I don't stink. I still feel unkempt and stinky. Remember those "nocturnal activities" I mentioned way back in the beginning? Yeah, well John Thomas is feeling especially icky despite the washcloth treatment. He's demanding constant adjustment in compensation.

And guess what is now inevitable that will make my morning even worse? People who have been reading me a while can probably guess. The one part of my morning routine that I hate to do anywhere else. That's right, y'all. I'm gonna have to crap at work. Fuck. Me.

UPDATE: Sweet. I just had a reminder pop up. Meeting at 10:00. Discussion of hardware requirements. My mega cube partner, the network administrator, a couple people from the other side of the software family tree and last, but certainly not least, my boss. At least it's in the large conference room. If I get there late enough I might be able to sit at the little table in the corner, well out of olfactory range of everybody else.