Day One of Sleeping In:  Doorbell rings at 7:10.  

 

I lie there waiting for whoever it is to go away.  Doorbell rings again.

 

I don’t hear frantic cries for help, so I ignore it.

 

One more time:  DING-dong.

 

I continue to lie there, violently hating whoever it is.

 

“Sound of truck leaving my driveway.”

 

I get up.  Day One of Sleeping In is ruined.

 

Who was at my door at that hour?  I don’t know.  If I knew, I’d be sticking pins in a voodoo doll.

 

Besides, if I answered the door, in this ratty nightgown and with my Einsteinian bed-hair, I’d frighten somebody into a heart attack.  And if they didn’t conveniently drop dead, I’d probably kill them myself.

 

If my doorbell is going to ring at that hour of the morning, it had better be a dire emergency, a long-lost friend, one of YOU, or Ed McMahon with a really big check.  I’d be nice to any of those.  Sincerely nice, not just the typical pre-murder graciousness of a psychotic mind.