This morning was a disaster. I awoke to Clem biting me, and biting me in delicate places at that! It was four o'clock. I made my way up the stairs, balancing my weight across the balls of my feet. This is the way I enter a room. I live for a gentle entry. I turned the coffeemaker on and retrieved my cereal from the cupboard.

Clem, who followed me upstairs, thinking himself my chum no doubt, jumped to the countertop. Naughty!



Feeling emotionally raw from waking in such a way, I threw him from the surface with a snarl. I bared my teeth and growled down as he watched me with interest. I went about my routine as quiet as can be, mindful of my sleeping family. I widened the gap of the plastic bag within my cereal box over the span of thirty seconds. I did so millimeter by millimeter, irritated at the deafeningly loud crinkle of plastic.

I opened another cupboard to retrieve a bowl. Just then, Clem jumped to the counter...AGAIN. I watched with one hand on my cereal, the other holding the bowl, as he tried to jump into the cupboard. I had realistic visions of the scattered shards of former plates, of Aunt Brenda rounding on me from her bedroom with what looked to be a baseball bat and an interrogation light (her usual "You woke me up...bad move" gear). I set the bowl down with nary a sound and swooped the furry little devil into the air.

He did not like being detached from the object of his curiosity. He reached out with his front paws to get ahold of something stationary, but connected with the cereal box instead. The OPEN cereal box. The open cereal box with the plastic lining widened JUST SO. Cereal, EVERYWHERE. I projected Clem from my chest as I would a particularly hateful basketball in need of passing.

Clem landed on all fours, naturally, and ran back to the mess, playing with the spilled cereal. Maliciously, I imagined many a twisted fate to fall upon this creature. Really nasty, horrid stuff like someone giving him a bath and powdering him with froufrou puffs.

Just my luck, the gender-bending feline who, in my opinion, was neutered a little too early, would take to powdered puffs like a dog to another dog's butt. This is, after all, the cat who has a fondness for brassieres, skin care products, and hair combs. (To say nothing of the mascara tube I caught him trying to carry in his mouth the other day!)

I tip-toed to the hall closet to retrieve the broom. Debbie rearranged the kitchen the day before, and I prayed the broom was where it used to be. I was a woman on the edge. If the broom hadn't been there, I don't even want to think about the fiendishness I would have inflicted upon my sleeping aunt. Luckily for her, it was where I needed it to be. I swept the dust pan full and Clem dived into the heaping tray, playing with the cereal, watching it scatter from the pan.

I quietly set the broom against the counter to dragged wet palms through my hair, leaving it rather wild and full bodied. I could feel the sweat above my lips. I knew my breathing was elevated. This just wasn't happening. It was the Lord's day. The Lord doesn't let calamity of this severity happen before a girl can drink her first cup of coffee! He just doesn't! I think it is written somewhere in Exodus 20 after the ten commandments!

In frenzied whispers, trying to hold myself together, I repeated, "Schmidt, schmidt, schmidt!" Sort of. I am the efficient sort. I spoke "schmidt" omitting every other letter in the retelling. It seemed to fly off the the tongue rather fluidly, and suit the situation rather swimmingly. No schmidt, it really did. And I'm not schmidting you, either.

Then, I felt bad that I would be headed to church in mere hours and there I was thinking about a bi-sexual cat and intoning, "Schmidt!" like it was holy. All in all, it was a schmidt-way to start a day.