Caught in My Bathrobe Again

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How is New Year’s Eve different from any other day? I get up wanting to write, but thinking I might have a few bills coming due, I sit down at the money desk for a minute.  I find a mountain of correspondence to manage, expenses and income to track, and yes, my Visa bill is due in just a few days. 
Will they give me any grace for the New Year’s holiday or sock me with a late fee? I don’t want to find out, so I write the check and try to sneak out to the mailbox, which is across the street, in my nightgown and robe, hoping nobody sees me. And guess what, there’s my across-the-street neighbor walking right toward me, shouting “Good morning!”
“Oh crap,” I mutter. My hair’s sticking up in all directions, I haven’t even brushed my teeth yet, and I’m wearing my fuzzy bathrobe that’s been washed so many times it has faded from lavender to gray. “Good morning!” I reply, walking as quickly as I can. It’s about 35 degrees out, my driveway is green with moss, the sky seems to be holding its breath before a big rain, and Annie is watching me out the window from her perch in the big green chair.
It’s almost 10 o’clock, and I haven’t written anything except checks. Till now.
That’s how my days go. By noon I will be dressed and I will be well on my way to my quota of fresh writing and rewriting because that’s what I do. I take care of the dog and bills, eat breakfast, check email, then write until I’m done writing—however long that takes. It works, so I’m not changing my pattern for 2013. Maybe I ought to buy a more attractive robe or find one that looks like clothing. It’s always embarrassing when a mail carrier, utility guy or evangelist comes to the door and I’m still robed for writing.
This is so not what I was going to write today. I was going to wax philosophical about the years since we moved to Oregon in 1997. I have now been here more than one-fourth of my life, and so much has happened. Books published, loved ones gone, places traveled, major world events survived. Instead, I’d rather give praise for a million daily joys: delicious meals, hugs, songs, words written, books read, dog walks, new shoes, favorite TV shows, compliments, new friends, hot tubbing, roses, blue hydrangeas, winter tulips, wild blackberries, iced tea, marionberry pie, raviolis, BLTs oozing mayonnaise, sunshine, snow, blue jays, woodpeckers, robins, going away, coming home, prayer, a soft fuzzy bathrobe, and you.
I’m thankful for a fresh new year. I’m hopeful for the future and grateful for the past. I wish you all a fabulous 2013 full of blessings.
And now, I think I’ll brush my teeth.

Author: Sue Fagalde Lick

writer/musician California native, Oregon resident Author of Freelancing for Newspapers, Shoes Full of Sand, Azorean Dreams, Stories Grandma Never Told, Childless by Marriage, and Up Beaver Creek. Most recently, I have published two poetry chapbooks, Gravel Road Ahead and The Widow at the Piano: Confessions of a Distracted Catholic. I have published hundreds of articles, plus essays, fiction and poetry. I'm also pretty good at singing and playing guitar and piano.

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