The morning started like most mornings for me. I stumbled up the stairs to the kitchen to prepare my first cup of coffee. I could already feel the day’s activities weighing on my mind. The next hour would require some fast typing due to a looming deadline and I had overslept. Great. While mulling over the madness that can be a writer’s life, I didn’t realize I had already prepared the coffeepot machine and was absentmindedly pouring a second pot of water into the tank and had water pouring over the sides, down the counter and splashing onto my slippers.
I quickly grabbed multiple towels to mop up the mess and realized I needed a fresh mug from the dishwasher. As I pulled the lower rack of the dishwasher out to retrieve a cup, it didn’t move. Still foggy in the brain from details of deadlines and lack of coffee, I jerked hard on the rack not noticing the rubber spatula that had cemented itself to the drying element that was keeping everything locked into place. I pulled on the rack with greater force, the spatula broke loose and I was left with the whole rack sliding out of the dishwasher, running along the lowered door and off onto the floor releasing its contents of plates, cups and silverware en route. After spending 20minutes retrieving scattered flatware, broken plates and chipped coffee mugs, I took a deep breath to start over and make some bacon for the family breakfast. As the griddle heated to 400 degrees I placed a pound of bacon onto the electric device. The sound of sizzling soon greeted my ears as the bacon popped and snapped a reassuring song. I reached across the kitchen for tongs to flip the bacon as my foot hit a puddle of grease that I didn’t notice was dripping from the griddle. I found myself hurtling toward the floor as my youngest son came around the corner to see me curled up on the floor, wet, gooey and clutching a pair of tongs. After gathering myself off the floor, putting my son to work flipping bacon and donning fresh clothing, I realized it was time to stop and collect myself.