Top of the Morning

"...nine fifty four, nine fifty four, nine fifty four,” I repeated to myself as I walked down the stairs from the parking lot to the train station. “Nine fifty four, one thirty, nine fifty four, one thirty...” I attempted to keep track of my blood sugar number, because I was too lazy to jot into my journal. “Two dollars, two ninty five. Shit, that’s four ninty five!” The amount of money it cost to park and the cost of a one way fare to the San Francisco financial district. I tripped over numbers like a man made mine field. Okay, I realigned myself, I have to remember the lot number which was what again? Nine fifty four? Or was it nine forty five? Crap on a stick, I was stuck juggling in my insanity that is dyslexia and it wasn't even eight in the morning.

The train was a sardine can of faces staring down at their current electronic. Fingers darting, they communicated anxiously with haste. My blackberry lay somewhere in the deep dark dirty of of my dark leather probably next to the half of an avocado perfectly sealed in saran wrap. I didn’t want to know what was going on in the world or with my friends or with my family. I had to much going on in my head.

Third pregnancy and I was embarking on the wonderful world of nesting. What office desk had to do with nesting? A lot, apparently. Suddenly, our home office space was insufficient and lacked organization. I shopped feverishly for the perfect desk and new computer. I convinced my husband and his business partner that they needed to relocate their office by restructing our bathroom which, by the way, was a generous room by Manhattan standards. Furthermore, the kid's playroom, after my own personal assessment, required major overhaul. The playroom was a civil war between vehicle of sorts. The trucks piled into the trains, the train tracks piled into the fire station play house, the dinosaurs ruled all. Nesting goes something to the fine tune of obsessive compulsive disorder in over drive.

Fortunately our home was nothing close to that show hoarders which should be renamed "I'm an effing lazy sloth pig!" When a person is so lazy to toss his dirty toilet paper in a corner instead of in it's proper place, um that’s just prolifically horrifyingly disgusting!

I was a few stops away from Montgomery station, the mass of texters remained glued to their little screens. Zombified. I felt refined among these common dominators of sloths. Full stop! I was highly privy to Lindsay Lohan's status such as her decrease in jail time down to nine days. I'd rather say I heard it on the morning radio, but really I have a small addiction to the boob tube.

This is Shellie urging each of you to "slowly, very slowly, place your text gadget down, turn the power off, and simply enjoy the silence" back to you Bob at the studio.