Do-over! Do-over!

When I was about 10 or 11 years old, kickball and tag were the center of our lives. Kickball all day, tag all night.

Whenever you'd have a bad kick or stumbled over that big red ball, you'd declare a "do-over" and you'd get just that. Somewhere in the unwritten rules of childhood kickball it was ok to start over and give it one last try. No one seemed to mind.

That's what I want today, a "do-over". Unfortunately, in the adult world, you just don't get an opportunity to do it all again. You are stuck with your original attempt. Stuck.

By 6 a.m., my day was off to a rocky start. For some reason so goes my morning, so goes the rest of the day. I couldn't get moving. As hard as I tried, it was if I had two gallons of 2 percent milk strapped to each leg, as I moved from room to room attempting to get ready for work.

I managed somehow to leap obstacle after obstacle as I made my way through the morning routine. Unable to find my black shoes. Couldn't seem to get my hair to stay put. Unable to cover that reddish area on my chin. Nothing in my closet to wear. Nothing in the pantry for breakfast. A mysterious smell was coming from our laundry. Where did I put my brush?

Finally, it was all said and done, I could head out the door, fuzzy hair, red chin and all. Then I heard a crash and scrambling downstairs. I made my way down the stairs expecting to find each and everything on my kitchen table now on the floor. Instead I saw a chubby orange cat surrounded by cat food and water. He'd somehow managed to jump from the counter into the food tray. Undaunted and already late, I got the broom, a towel and started to work.

I decided to cut my losses and make a mad dash for work. As I backed down the driveway I was pleased that the garage door had indeed closed for a change. Maybe my luck was on the upswing. When I looked behind me I saw the trash toter, hauled to the curb by my beloved, sitting in the path of my car, blocking the drive-way. Normally in my haste and distraction, I would have smacked right into it, cursing my car, myself, the trash can, and the boy that put it there. This time, however, I didn't hit it (thank goodness for those very minute blessings), but I did have to maneuver around it, further slowing my pace.

I arrived only one-minute late, but still flustered, rushed and with fuzzy hair. I want a do-over.

(I just re-read this, omigod, did I ramble. Darnit. I am still off kilter this morning. Pay no attention to the lady with the red chin.)