I am habitually late.

I have always been this way, with the possible exception of when I was 17 and would get to work early in order to flirt with the staff Elvis impersonator (don't ask). I have been given a talking-to about it most every place I've worked, with the semi-exception of this one. I think they realize I'm mental (it's like a group home for bonkies in here), and since have to ride a bike a la Pee Wee's Big Adventure to work, no one's said anything about it. But still.

Usually, I pooh-pooh anyone saying they can't get their shit together, but I really can't get my shit together. It is almost beyond my control, what happens in the morning.

For one thing, I suck. I have uncontrolled blood-loss related anemia, and you know what that means, several days a month. There is nothing I can do about it. Iron pills go right through me like a bleedin' Ferrari.

Consequently, I have trouble waking up, even with The Most Obnoxious Alarm Clock in the World.

Also, sh*t falls on my head in the morning. No, actual SHIT. I don't quite know what to do about this. Even getting my clothes ready the night before ain't gonna stop any passing seagulls, airplane toilets, dog bombs, etc. from ending up on my person. Which necessitates the removal of said fecal matter, resulting in my being late. Again.

Furthermore, what I thought was a dog bomb last week turned out to be a "present" from my own cats, the crusted remains of which still lurk in the tread of my shoe.

Oh, the humility.

The cat ritual in the morning is another reason why I'm late. I cannot do the muck-out, clean up, and slop-feed before I go to bed. It will simply be undone the moment I wake up.

This morning, for instance, I ran around in my usual headless chicken fashion, hauling out the feed bag, swabbing the poop deck, dumping filthy animal food-trough wat-er, and picking up miscellaneous bits of biohazardous waste. Then I have to irrigate the cat grass, and Iddy expects his bowl of ice water at precisely 8:00 a.m.

Unfortunately, Iddy is blind, and when I'm rushing around, cannot seem to avoid bouncing off my shins like a hairy football. He's even shaped like a football. But I fear for his tiny, tick-like head.

So then I have to coax him out by shaking a bag of treaty-treats and apologize.

This is why I get to work generally 5-20 mins. late. But to be fair, I always work overtime and leave late, too.

So please, boss. Don't shitcan me. Even though I smell like one.