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Any Given Monday

It's cliche, I know, to complain about a Monday morning. Mondays are like opinions -- they all stink, and everybody's got one stuffed somewhere in their underpants.

(Wait, no. That's different. Mondays are like birthdays -- except there's no cake or presents, and everyone invited to the party is a royal douche.

No. The other thing. I like my Mondays like I like my women? Opinions are like birthdays? Rainy days and assholes get me down? You get the general idea.)

Still, some Monday mornings are even Monday-ier than the rest. Behold the first thirty minutes or so of my day, and tell me I shouldn't have simply stayed in bed. Like, all freaking week.

Toe Be, Or Not Toe Be?

My left big toe has been a little wonky the past few days, but this morning it decided to rebel by doing some kind of "rage-throb" number I've only previously seen in old cartoon characters who've just been smacked with a hammer. Or an anvil. Or a Foghorn Leghorn.

I find it interesting how people -- read: me -- can perfectly register pain in one situation, yet remain completely oblivious to the fact that the next very similar situation is likely to be equally excruciating. In this case, I hobbled down the hall to the shower, cursing my ouchy toe all the way. Clearly, I was aware of it. Frankly, I wasn't aware of much else at that early hour.

However. That same pulsating piggy is also my "testing toe". So when I turned the water on for the shower, it was the first thing I shoved under the spray to see whether it was hot. It simply never occurred to me not to dangle the damned thing in there.

For the record, the water was not hot. But the cold jet of freezy shower needles did hurt like hell. I nearly fell backwards into the toilet hopping out of the way. Force of habit is a cruel bitchy mistress, yo.

Scruff Around the Edges

Having navigated a shower -- barely -- I turned to prettying up for work. That involved shaving, which most days is pretty simple. I use an electric shaver for many reasons, not least of which is that under no circumstances should I be anywhere near a sharp object like a razor blade while I'm getting ready in the morning. Whether accidentally or in response to the pain of being awake before nine AM, I will hurt myself. It's practically guaranteed.

Not so with the Norelco 'Lectro-Shave, or whatever model I've got. I just flip it on, rub it around my face for a while, and call it a shave. It's not perfect, but it's easy. And who am I trimming sideburns for at this point, eh? Nobody, is who. So the shaving portion of the morning is usually a breeze.

"I'm sporting one mutton chop, a half-assed soul patch and a mustache that looks like Adolf Hitler making out with Wilford Brimley."

But wait. There's a Monday in the house. So instead of a nice leisurely clip, I picked up the device only to have the shaver heads collapse into pieces. Turns out the painters who were in last week to make some repairs and repaint the bathroom ceiling must have knocked the shaver off the counter. Failing to find all the various bits, they evidently crammed a few back into the base until it looked reasonable, and then went their merry way.

Meanwhile, I was faced with a shaver missing two blades, which had to be reassembled like a jigsaw puzzle before I could even attempt a shave. Better yet, the painting crew also moved (or stole, but whyyyyy?) the power cord, and I couldn't find it. So I had to risk that my battered shaver would have enough juice to get me through a shave with one blade instead of three. Surely it would, right? It must. Of course. Surely.

Even I knew the answer to that question. Five minutes and a quarter-shave later, and the thing groaned to a halt and died. Kaputski. If I were a smarter or more methodical man, I might have been okay. Perhaps I'd have had a nice mustache left, or most of a beard -- or, say, one complete side of my face shaved in some sort of He/She pattern. Even that I could work with. I'd just swoop in from the left all day at the office, and no one would be the wiser to the whiskers remaining on the dark side.

But no. I just wandered the shaver around my face randomly, as usual, mostly forgetting which blade it was that even still worked. So I looked like some little guy with a lawnmower had gotten drunk and wandered back and forth across my head. I'm sporting one mutton chop, a half-assed soul patch and a mustache that looks like Adolf Hitler making out with Wilford Brimley.

There's no salvaging this, and I didn't have the time to find a razor and fix it. I just told people at the office today that I contracted a sudden case of werewolfism -- which worked out nicely. Not only did they stop asking questions, but they also kept their distance all morning. Other than Joe from the mail room attacking me with a Swingline full of silver staples, it actually turned out okay.

Into Every Laptop, A Little Rain Must Fall

I mentioned a few days ago that I made a business trip last week with a computer, but no computer bag. Like a dork. But I soldiered through it, and at least it didn't rain on my CPU parade.

I got back in town over the weekend, so today was my first day back in the office. As I stumbled my hairy way out the door, I realized that I still don't have a bag to put the damned thing in. And now? It's raining.

Because of course it is.

So I went as ghetto as one possibly can, and wrapped two thousand dollars (and fifteen pounds) of valuable corporate computer equipment in an oversized garbage bag. And then I got the hell out the door, before some other ridiculous Monday morning nightmare happened.

Behold the transformation. I woke up at eight o'clock, presumably refreshed and alert and ready to start the day.

By a quarter til nine, the neighbors saw some half-shaven idiot limping down the sidewalk lugging a Hefty bag full of laptop. Frankly, I'm surprised they didn't call the cops on me. Or Homeland Security. Or Jackass.

But I survived it, so that's something, I guess. And I won't have to go through anything quite so aggravating for a while. Not until next Monday, at least. Somebody call me when it's over. I'm sleeping in this time.