Fire Engine Red

I got nothin against working early. (Thousands of my English teachers around the world just cringed and died a little inside at that sentence structure.)(And then my college friends cringed at my use of hyperbole.)(See that! Hyperbole. I did learn something in grad school Mom!) In fact, I like to get to work early because I tell myself it means I get to leave early. Get in at 6am - well then I get to leave at 3pm and have the whole afternoon to myself! But it never works that way because 3pm will roll it's pretty little self around and I'll be balls deep in some sort of tax something and suddenly it's 7pm and I'm starving because all I've eaten since breakfast is a half a pound of See's candy and some gum. So, I aim for 8am because it's early, but not so early that by 7pm I want to saw my own arm off so I have something to chew on on the ride home.

But, calling me at 6am to see if I'll be in soon? Too early Boss-Grandma. Too early.

But I answered, because I'm a sucker, and explained I'd be in as soon as I went for a run.

"You're going to run? It's pouring."

"I have a boob shelf now."

"What?"

"What?" Note to self: don't answer phone and try to talk to your grandma at six am, you will be inappropriate.

"Just get in as soon as you can. Make it a short run."

"Fine I'll just do ten miles then."

"Amy Michele, I swear to Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. . ."

"I'm kidding. I'll be right in."

**click** she hates goodbyes.

"I love you."

So, I got in super early only to find out she'd called someone else in early too and now she didn't need me. And so, in retaliation, I painted my nails at work. On company time. Take that early-waker-up-er!

It's small and weird retaliation, but it made me feel better. (And just to be clear, the nail painting took all of sixty seconds. It was clear polish I found in the first aid drawer we have here - because chipped nails is a bigger emergency item than band-aids I discovered last week after an encounter with the stapler and some lotion.)

When my mom rolled in at her usual hour of 11-ish, I told her about the horrid call time, and she nodded sympathetically - being my mom, letting me vent - and then after I was done, told me how her client called her at one am to let her know about something she forgot to tell her. ONE. IN THE AM. This is taxes people, not organ transplants. Trust me, even if it was organ transplants you don't wanna be waking me up to tell me which lung it was you needed, because I'm gonna forget and then I'm probably gonna make a your-mom joke to it while I'm scrubbing in.

I'm bringing in some red polish tomorrow, just in case. That should take at least two minutes. Two minutes of pure renegade painting. You don't wanna mess with me - I take it out on you by making my hands look better. And giving my future therapist a lot of weird things to work through.