THE VIRGINIAN-PILOT
Copyright (c) 1994, Landmark Communications, Inc.
DATE: Friday, August 26, 1994 TAG: 9408250167
SECTION: VIRGINIA BEACH BEACON PAGE: 07 EDITION: FINAL
COLUMN: Over Easy
SOURCE: Jo-Ann Clegg
LENGTH: Medium: 93 lines
I am a morning person. At 6:45 a.m. all things are possible.
``This is the day,'' I tell myself as I scoop coffee into the coffee filter, ``when I will finally get around to carrying six sacks of newspapers to the recycling bin.
``And while I'm at it,'' I add as I slice a piece of bread for my toast, ``I'll pack up a box of linens to give to the Salvation Army, call Samaritan House to see if they'll take the old sofa bed, go through the canned goods in the laundry room and take the extras up to the church for the food pantry, get the car to the car wash and make an appointment for Charlie to get his rabies shot.''
The four-footed fuzz ball, reading my thoughts, as he has an unsettling way of doing, wanders through the kitchen on his way to the back yard.
``Forget the shot,'' he snarls over his shoulder as he disappears down the steps and into the Bermuda grass-choked flower bed.
``Guess I'd better pull up that grass while I'm at it,'' I think to myself.
``Good, then you won't have time to call the vet's,'' Sir Charles grumps as he walks over my bad foot on his way back to bed.
My dog, unlike me, is not a morning creature.
I take a closer look at the flower beds and decide that more than grass has to be pulled. The Portulaca I planted with such hope back in June has pretty much succumbed to July's downpours. Out of two packs of zinnias, only three spindly plants have appeared.
``The mums are in,'' I tell my snoring canine. ``I think I'll get a dozen when I'm out today and put them in where the other flowers were.''
He opens one eye. ``Just don't count on me to dig the holes,'' he snarls before going back to sleep.
By 8:30 I'm at my desk, writing down my daily ``to do'' list. The fur ball is beside me, already at work at his most important task of the day - getting his rest.
I look at my list and decide that it's doable. ``I may even have a little time left over,'' I tell myself as I add a couple of items: answer the stack of nice letters I've had from readers and make that 15-ingredient chutney recipe I found in Southern Living.
By 9 I'm ready to attack my first task. I carry the newspapers out to the trunk of the car. They join seven other bags that have been sitting there since June. I close the trunk and observe that the rear of the car has dropped three inches.
I stop in the laundry room on my way through to pack up the canned goods, then return to the car and add those to the trunk. The car drops another inch.
``Guess I'd better get that stuff out of the trunk before I add any more,'' I say to nobody in particular. From the hall bathroom I hear a loud snore. Charlie has moved his base of operations from my office to the cooler tile floor next to the commode.
I put a small step stool in the car so I can reach the impossibly high slot on the newspaper Dumpster, then go off to the elementary school to make my first deposit. The entrance to the parking lot is barred, either in preparation for a special event or in an attempt to discourage me from accomplishing my mission.
At the church I have better success. The door is open and there is room in the food basket.
One job completed, I head for the car wash. They're running a special and the line stretches around the block. ``I've got too much to do to wait here,'' I tell myself, then go on to the garden shop where I spend 45 minutes looking at mums before I decide that I really am in no mood to make a decision on which ones to get.
On my way home I go by the newspaper office to pick up my mail and find another nice letter to be answered.
I come home and take stock. I've accomplished one of the jobs which I set out to do, delayed two others and added an additional two: call the city to see when Fairfield will have curbside recycling and write another note to a reader.
It's almost time for ``The Price Is Right'' and I'm ready to take a breather. At noon I fix myself some lunch and watch the midday news. Charlie, finally wide awake, wanders out to get my leftovers.
He is sarcastic. ``Don't bother calling about my rabies shot,'' he tells me, ``I can see you didn't get much done this morning - as usual.''
By 1, I'm back at my desk, surveying my list. ``The problem,'' I say to no one in particular, ``is not with me, it's with the list.''
Charlie is now tearing through the house, wide awake, attempting to kill a rubber frog. I, on the other hand, am ready for a short nap before I tackle the big job of getting my list in order. Both of us know that the next morning the cycle will start over again with the task list only slightly changed.
Before I take my nap I check the freezer to be sure that there are enough TV dinners on hand. The 15-item chutney - along with the stuffed peppers I had planned to make for our evening meal - will have to wait for another day.
As will Charlie's rabies shot appointment. by CNB