Headwaters Wordsmithing

Writing for the actor, singer, and reader.

Birthed in the Northwoods of Wisconsin,  Headwaters Wordsmithing creates screenplays, lyrics, and books with an emphasis on faith in God...and a minor emphasis on coffee.  Make yourself at home.

A "Those" Sunday Morning

You ever have one of "those" Sunday mornings.  Yeah.  One of "those".

Wake up late from a lousy night of sleep.  Motoring on autopilot, thudding through the house.

We had off-and-on thunderstorms last night.  That would explain The Wife's groggy disposition this morning.  She can actually hear the first fifteen raindrops hit the grass outside the window.  Not the initial downpour, mind you...the first fifteen drops before the rest of the rain shows up.  When that happens she moves through the house with the speed of chain lightening, closing storm windows, and locking them securely.

I have no reason as to why I feel groggy this morning.  I slept through the whole thing.

The pre-dawn rings the alarm on my internal clock.  I stagger out to the kitchen.

Huh. The Little House On The Corner feels stuffy.  And muggy.  No breeze.

My mind blearily makes a connection:  breeze - moving air - fans.

I stick a desk fan in the kitchen window.  I grab another one and put it in the designated "living room" window of the Dining/Living/Family/Computer Room.  I wedge the box fan into the window in the Little Bedroom (it's 8x8...the dimensions of a shoe closet for Imelda Marcos... and that's just her red, open-toed shoes...)

Through allergy-drenched and sleep-blurred eyes, I trudge to the kitchen.  The Elixir of Knowledge is now gurgling and I hear The Wife close the door to the Reading Room.  I guess I'll wait.  Probably a good thing.  In my present condition I might field dress my face with the razor.  Best to wait for The Elixir.

Finally the brewing's done.  I sip heartily, sitting at the dining room table, and watching a fairly spectacular sunrise.  I hear the Reading Room door open then the Big Bedroom door shut.

In my head, I hear the counter guy at a New York delicatessen holler "Next!".   Huh.  I've never been to a New York delicatessen.  Now that's a bit...

I stumble into the Reading Room.  I change into the traditional attire of the original Greek Olympics and manage to clear the steeplechase barrier commonly referred to as the bathtub lip.   After the ecumenical baptism of Total Sprinkling (got the head, got all parts south, and everything's wet), I stand in front of the mirror, removing shaving cream while hopefully saving face.   The door opens and The Wife looks in.

She's got that thing on her head.  It's the female way of wrapping a towel around wet hair.  It looks like something topping an Arabian Smurf.  I tried to do that once.  I almost garroted my scalp.

The Wife has a disgusted smirk on her face.

"I just spent 20 minutes ironing my shirt and pants. Really had to lean into it.  Finally realized I didn't plug in the iron."

She turns and wanders back down the hallway.

"I'm exhausted."

I laugh good-naturedly, just short of a snorting guffaw which would be ridiculing and impolite.  I continue the shave.  Suddenly I sense that I'm not alone.  Turning towards the door I'm face-to-face with The Wife.

This time she's smiling widely.  And with great joy.

"You set up the fans and didn't put up the storm windows."

She glides down the hallway, laughing good-naturedly, just stopping short of a snorting guffaw which would by ridiculing and impolite.

Yep.  One of "those" Sunday mornings.

I want to draw some deep, spiritual analogy from this ,  I really do.

But we're running late.

You're on your own.

God bless.

Good luck.

Good bye.

All content copyrighted by Dennis R. Doud. Website designed by Isaac Doud.