LATE, LATE, LATE

            Awaking late this morning, a whole hour late in fact, I instantly ran into a number of roadblocks. Someone was already in the washroom so I had to wait for my shampoo and shower. While I pulled on my clothes, the dog and cats showed their impatience by swirling in and out around my legs, causing me to trip. My dog Pennypepper has mastered this sad little abused neglected sorrowful warning moan, which translates to, "I need to get out right now, or I'll pee on the rug." The fact that she has never done this in all her 11 years means nothing. Her mewling is convincing.

          By the time I'm dressed Mr. Nielsen (my beloved great Dane) is seated at the kitchen table--on my side--close enough to the counter that I have to sidle between him and the fridge and the stove and the microwave and the cupboard for the next ten minutes.  Okay, these days I have to sidle almost everywhere, except the handicapped toilets in Wal-Mart which I often unapologetically utilize. But that's neither here nor there.

          So it is huff, squeeze, sidle, trip back and forward for the for the bowl, the oatmeal, bran, salt, water and the microwave. Then it's sidle past again to reach a spoon, the cream, the Intl Delight.  Another side trip, to get a glass of water for his pills.  Whoops! I find I'm tangled in his oxygen tube. He tries to grab it and pull the end closer, while I do three skips over and under and his nose snaps out like Pinocchio's. The water for coffee boils and either I've widened my load in the last eight seconds, or he's moved closer to the counter.  The trick now is not to spill the boiling brew down his neck. He wants it served on his left, and I am on his right and, Oh Goddess, why did you let me sleep in?

          I need to write my daily essay, and I've lost that window of opportunity. Or have I? Clutching my coffee and BlackBerry, I walk out to the studio, from where I can hear Pennypepper saluting the other dogs in the neighborhood. Woof. Woof. Woofwoofwoof! Woof. Woof. My head is already aching, damp perspiration is sticking my arms to my sides, I can hear the whoosh, whoosh, whoosh of the blood  pumping past my temples. Carefully I reach for the back of my chair and sit. I know better than to hurry, because my steno chair has a mind of it's own and if I don't sit down slowly and carefully, it might take a fancy to skitter across the floor while my whole anatomy rearranges itself on the floor.

          So here I am, safely seated, breath returning to normal. I roll my shoulders and flex my fingers. The hot shower has loosened them sufficiently. I greet my lovely Dell, and locate a clean screen.

          I hate being late.  I haven't worn a watch since 1998, but I know it is already seven a.m. From the corner of my eye, I glance at the calendar (It's a grand calendar. My friend Lore brought it to me from Oregon.)  And I note that my husband Robert's eye appointment is for tomorrow at one, so we can put off his shave and shower until tomorrow.  Or can we? Is this the day the extra-mural nurse shows up unannounced to find him bearded, scruffy and obviously neglected, snoozing away in his easy chair?  I decide the nurse will have to take her chances pawing through cat-hair and porridge and crumbs, to get to my darlin's back and chest for lung soundings.

          Morning is usually the best time of my day. I have a little ritual which starts with acknowledging the miracle of being alive, humming a little mantra of gratitude, wiggling my toes and fingers, while considering the best costume for the weather and the day, according to what I plan to do with it. Then I like to sit on the side of the bed for thirty seconds or so, while my circulation circulates.  I push my toes into my slippers and make my way to the washroom. Then I dress, feed the animals and, while I'm boiling water for coffee, I listen to bird song, and all the other precious sounds of my life, the click-click of the kettle,  the whoop, whoosh of Robert's oxygen machine, the quiet murmur of my familiar on my shoulder reminding me how lucky I am to be alive with all my critters and my lovin' man. Yes.

          But being late puts the cap on my in the moment musings and I struggle to catch up,  to unlock my brain and hand so that sweet witty or woeful words pour forth for all the waiting world to share.

          Okay, I've been late before and survived. Yes,  my tardiness has caused minor and major problems. There was the time I hurried to dress for an appointment, and managed to spray my newly shampooed and dried hair with Arrid deodorant, instantly transforming my tresses into a powdered wig, straight from a French farce.  There was also the time I called a cab and then showered and dressed as the cabbie buzzed the door. Then I couldn't find my new fur coat. I looked in the closet, the dressing room, the kitchen...I even looked in the fridge. Finally I sat down on the bed to weep. It was when I raised my hands to wipe my eyes, I found the coat, folded neatly over my arm.

          Another time we partied long into the night following some friends' wedding reception. I'd promised to drive them to Pearson Airport to catch their early flight to Paris for their honeymoon. The following morning, already late, I ran into a traffic jam. By the time I reached the hotel where they were staying, they were sitting on their suitcases in the parking lot. You've never seen any sadder little faces on two newly-weds, than those that greeted me on my arrival. They'd already missed their flight.

          And there was that occasion when I worked with CBC Radio on the program This Country in the Morning back in 1972 or 1973.  I'd agreed, for the cooking segment, to make the round, filled Danish pancakes called aebleskiver, bring them to the studio and serve them to the show host Peter Gzowski, while explaining my methods, etc.   The night before I'd checked that I had all the ingredients, sugar, butter, beer, baking powder, etc. and went to bed safe in the knowledge that I had lots and lots of time.

          Yup, I awoke late. I rushed to the kitchen. Found the aebleskiver griddle and spooned in some oil.  Then I started to toss in the ingredients.  When I got to the can of baking powder I opened it and howled.  My roommate had used the last of it and put the can back empty. Now what!  Was there a substitute?  Okay, let's try vinegar and soda.

          Somehow in the next twenty minutes I managed to get dressed and get all my little aebleskivers cooked, cooled and lined up on wax paper in a plastic container.  Out the door, down the street to the subway. Along Bloor Street to Yonge, down Yonge to College. Nearly there. As I was coming up out of the College station, a man came rushing towards me. I dodged to my right. He dodged to his left. I dodged to my left, he went right.  We kept up this witch's waltz until he grabbed me by the shoulder and spun me around, heading me in the direction of the CBC studio. When I arrived in the control room, Gzowski was already winding up his earlier interview. I got the nod from the producer and, carrying my plastic container, I went in to the blue room and sat down at the mike across from Peter.  In a slightly breathless voice I launched into my spiel about how I created the aebleskiver, including the substitution I'd been forced to make.  I explained that in Denmark aebleskiver is served as a dessert with sugar or marmalade or a bit of jelly. I talked about the special pan, and the trick of turning them with a knitting needle.

          Then I opened my plastic container and passed it to Gzowski. He looked at it and abruptly leaned away. I pulled my container back and looked in.  To my chagrin, all I could see was a lumpy brown mass of something that resembled rabbit poop from an anemic rabbit.  To say we winged it from then on to commercial would be an understatement.  Oddly enough I got the feeling Gzowski never cared much for me after that.  I don't know why. But, hey, I've already outlived him by four years and that in itself is its own sweet revenge.

Now where was I?  Oh yes, late.