I'll never be an erotic model

Elliot turned 14 in August. His age began showing in spring, and little by little, his eyesight faded, his osteoarthritis ramped up, and he decided social niceties weren't his thing, preferring to hang out on our bed.

He quit using the stairs to get up and down on the bed a few months ago. That meant we had to lift him, and once we set him down, he'd pee. So, now we carry him outside, and he walks back in, stopping for a treat and a drink. 

Elliot weighs 28.7 pounds. I'm not supposed to lift anything over ten pounds due to medical reasons, but we don't have a choice. As it is, my dog pee-stained carpets drive me crazy, and I'm not about to add to them. But removing the carpeting isn't an option. He needs it for stability. Thus, we have a system. 

I take him out twice during the day. Maddy does the evening feeding time. Tom does the rest, including waking him in the early morning. After an accident on the bed, I purchased a dog blanket for protection, and we've stumbled along with this new normal.

Yesterday, I came home from the gym. Elliot was sleeping, so I hopped into the shower. We'd had some cooler weather, and the bathroom window was open, so when I heard some odd noises, I assumed it was my neighbors fixing up their backyard landscape. 

When the whining started, I knew I was wrong and jumped out of the shower, dripping water. Elliot's lower half was on the bed. His upper half was frantically pawing at the chest at the bed's foot. This happened one other time when his stomach was upset. I hoped this was NOT the situation, thinking instead that he'd misstepped. 

I put him back on the bed, and he immediately went to the stairs and whined. Oh, boy. I had, for some weird reason, an old towel. One that would not wrap around this rotund body, but I could not leave him to get dressed because I was afraid he'd try to jump.

At least he knows pooping on the bed is not something we would want, although the blanket would've protected my mattress. But not wanting to give him the wrong idea, I held the towel to my front with my armpits, scooped him up, and carried him to the front door. 

Picture this--the towel across the frontal privates, ends flapping on either side, my backside exposed to the elements. 

I knew the neighbors directly across were out, that the one catty-corner to my left works, and that the ones catty-corner to my right were either in or out. Still, I had no choice.

So, silently apologizing to whoever might see this naked body, I opened the door, set Elliot down on the porch instead of hiking out into the open yard, and told him I'd be right back. Then, I ran to my room and got a pair of underwear.

WHAT?

It's a mystery why that was my first grab. A robe and a beach towel did not cross my mind. And instead of putting on the underwear, I brought it to the front door, where I discovered Elliot had, instead of walking straight ahead to the yard, turned to the right and somehow fallen off the porch into this little section of various plantings and mulch. He couldn't get up, his arms and legs waving desperately. Running to his aid would have exposed me to anyone outside and all Ring doorbells, so I apologized to him and ran and put on a robe. 

Then, I rescued him and got him into the yard. I was a mess. Mulch and dirt clung to my wet feet and legs, my hair stood on end, and because my robe had lost its sash, I held it tightly, emphasizing every curve and fat roll. 

Dear lord, my poor neighbors. 

When we were back in the house, I laughed so hard I could barely breathe. Elliot gave me a side-eyed sneer and limped into the bedroom. 

Elliot: "I've never been so humiliated."

Me: "Blame your father. He's the one that keeps feeding you seasoned chicken."

I am happy to report that our Ring doorbell only recorded a side view from my head to my shoulder, so unless my next-door neighbor, who has multiple cameras, caught anything, I'm hopeful I won't end up on the Internet.

Repair job 1,456

We need to redo our kitchen. It's been on the list for some time, and we had gotten estimates at one point. But two kids were in college, then the pandemic came, and it all fell by the wayside. But our mauve (need I say more) formica is detaching from the wall, the cabinet doors break, and Tom has repaired the pull-out garbage can several times.

When it broke again, he shrugged and said we'd have to live with it. This break was the worst. Before, the can either didn't pull out far enough or it was hard to push in. In this break, the damn thing just fell every time we used it--right on our toes. 

After a few days of this, I decided I was fixing it. Blog readers and family know I had a dad who repaired everything. We rarely called in an expert because my dad was one. A few days before he died, I called him about a repair job in my home. 

He was the man.

I have his genes. Plus, I spent a lot of time watching him work. That was more interesting to me than cooking in the kitchen. 

So, I set about repairing it. The garbage can sits inside an encasement that slides into a hole in the cabinetry. I pulled the encasement out to assess the situation but got distracted cleaning the recess. It was gross. That took considerable time, and I had to crawl into it, which meant getting on my hands and knees. 

In there, I found the issue. The encasement runs on a track, and the track had pulled away from the sides--multiple times, by the look of things. The screws were goners, sliced in half, and worthless, so I hunted for new screws in the garage. It's a little bigger than a one-car garage and organized by Tom's hand, meaning I'm clueless. But I found screws, retrieved the electric drill, and worked inside the hole. Madison wandered into the kitchen.

Maddy: "What is happening?"

Me: "I'm putting an asshole on a hobby horse."

See? I even talk like my dad.

Maddy: "Oh, good, because I can't tell you how many times that can has fallen on my foot. Do you want some help?"

I did. She's young. She can get down on the tile floor, and she did. It wasn't easy. We needed the drill to start the holes, and we switched out the electric screwdriver for a manual, which I did before turning over the electric screwing to Madison.  

We had to do it three times. The first time was a smidge off, and the can closed but needed a firm hand. We opted to try again. It was too high the second time, and we had to unscrew and start again.

Me: "You should put that screw somewhere safe so you won't lose it. That's something your dad is always telling me."

Maddy: "I'm putting it right here next to me."

Me: "That's not exactly safe. I had my screws in a bowl."

Maddy: "And I have mine here next to me." 

Okay, I let her be. Instead, I washed the garbage can, stopped to assist Maddy for a minute, returned to it, finished it, and dried it. Something was poking me in my slipper, and I took it off and shook it out. 

You see where I'm going, don't you? God, I love foreshadowing. 

Maddy: "Where's the screw?"

Me: "What screw? The one I told you to put someone safe?"

Maddy: "Yes. Did you take it?"

Me: "I did not."

She found another one in the garage and returned to drilling. Since we were near the end, I began cleaning up the materials.

Me: "Dammit! Something is in my slipper. I can't see a thing, but I feel it every time I put it on and walk."

Yep. 

I couldn't stop laughing. Because if you knew my dad, this is precisely the stuff that happened to him when he did repair jobs.

I learned well at the master's knee. 

We finished and didn't tell Tom. He found out when he pulled out the can to throw something away. He was thrilled, if not a bit judgmental.

Pfft.

Weird medical stuff

For two weeks, my right eye has bothered me when reading. It's as if something is blocking part of my vision, sometimes blurring it. I let it go, thinking it would resolve itself, but then I discovered something odd on the right side of my mouth under my upper gum. I immediately went down the traumatic rabbit hole of all the horrible things it could be, and then I called my dentist and eye doctor. 

The dentist saw me immediately. He wasn't overly concerned, but he suggested I see an endodontist and made an appointment that day. I hung around Starbucks, worrying until it was time, and had the cone beam computed tomography (CBCT image), where the scanner rotated around my head, obtaining distinct images. I've had this once before when I needed a root canal, and I loved that endodontist. But he retired, so I waited for the new guy to appear to tell me one of the many things I feared. 

Endo Guy: "The images are perfect. I'm not concerned."

I liked him. He believes it is a bone, an exostosis, and it's common. Truthfully, it may have always been there. How can I be expected to remember stuff at my age? I told him I was worried because it was on the same side as my weird eye issue. He said sinus stuff can cause weird things, but this wasn't that.

Endo Guy: "You're cured."

I could also see a periodontist, but I've decided not to worry about this anymore. 

I wanted to see the ophthalmologist who did my cataract surgery, but the appointment lady didn't even consider him, instead giving me a newbie optometrist because mine, whom I'd seen recently, was on vacation. Great.

She was not helpful, although they did retinal imaging to rule out a detached retina. She gave me another thorough eye exam, told me to purchase an eye wash, use warm compresses and eye drops, and she'd see me in four weeks. She also took out her hair clip, flipped her head upside down, gathered her hair into a ponytail, and rewound it to attach it with the clip she held in her teeth. All while talking to me.

I tried to make that next appointment with my regular eye guy, but he had another vacation scheduled. Jeez.

I did everything she told me to do, and by the time I went back, it was more blurry than blocking, and I could get rid of it by looking to the left before it would reappear. And it wasn't a steady thing like it had been. She gave me some doctor speak about it being an aging thing with the fluid in the back of my eye and took another retinal image. 

In essence, live with it. 

As I do with all my other ailments. 

That is good enough for now. I've decided not to worry. 

Walmart Sam

Since COVID, I've kept getting my Walmart grocery order from pick-up. It's so convenient. I can order online, hit Publix, and then zip across the street to pick up my Walmart order. It's the bomb, even though I feel weird sitting in my car while someone loads my groceries.

For the longest time, it's been this skinny, solemn kid who says nothing unless spoken to. Half the time, he doesn't even acknowledge he's done. He just closes the trunk. Occasionally, I had someone different, but it was when I began going directly from the gym that I got Sam (name changed to protect) regularly. 

He caught me dancing in my car and laughed. He was outgoing, cheeky, and conscious of the items he put into my car. Once, the milk leaked, and he went inside to switch it out. Another time, he didn't like the look of a cucumber and got me another one. Each time, he chatted with me like a long-lost friend, constantly reminding me to give him a good review.

Of course, I did. People like that deserve to be commended.

It didn't take much for him to learn I was a writer. Nice guy chatting me up? Sure, I'll give you my bank information. Okay, no, it wasn't like that, but I told him I was a romance author, and every time he'd fill my trunk, we'd chat about my writing. He had tons of questions.

Him: "There are all types of genres? Paranormal? Like wolves? With humans? Where is your book set? What's a series?"

Other than people asking me if I'm done with my book, not many ask anything else. It was nice to talk shop for the five minutes he'd linger after loading my groceries. A couple of times, he asked about my social media, but I only heard Facebook, and since I rarely go on my personal one, let alone my author's Facebook, I never gave him that information. 

Until he mentioned Instagram one day. 

That is a social media platform I've perfected, so I gave that to him, and he immediately followed me. Later, while posting for the day, I checked out his Instagram, and his pinned picture stopped my thumb from swiping.

It was something like this: (This is not him. This guy is from my Daily Hunk calendar my daughter got me for Christmas, but you get the drift)

So, what does a romance writer do after seeing what's under her Walmart delivery guy's uniform?

I asked him if he'd be on the cover of one of my novels!

He said sure. 

Stay tuned...

A typical Saturday morning

I had several family items to discuss this morning, and since the main two were available, we sat in the living room to begin. We ticked off items one, two, and three, but got hung up on item number four which required information from a password-protected account.

Tom: "I don't have that password."

Me: "You do."

Tom: "I don't know where."

Me: "Okay, I'll go get it."

I went to my messy desk and dug through some papers on top of my file manager. As I did, my back scratcher--an essential utensil in my life--fell behind the desk. Now, my desk is huge and heavy and isn't moveable. Since I needed to keep the family focused, I opted not to climb under the desk to retrieve my back-scratcher. 

Instead, I woke my computer to retrieve the password in a file. Out of two monitors, only one obeyed. The main screen was dark. 

I gave up.

Me: "Forget it. My monitor isn't working, and the file thingy is on that screen, and I don't know how to move it to the other screen. Why are things always so difficult?"

Tom: "Is the light on?"

Me: "No. That's the first thing I checked. I turned it on and off. No light."

Tom: "Is it plugged in?"

Me: "Why wouldn't it be plugged in? I just used the damn thing yesterday. How would it come unplugged?"

Tom: "Things happen."

However, he got up and came into the office to assess the situation. Madison, seeing her chance, disappeared. 

Me: "Before we start, I know my desk is a mess, so don't start in on that."

Tom: "I didn't do that."

Me: "No, but you always do that, so I'm nipping it in the bud first."

He messed around with the cord, unplugging from the screen and plugging it back in. He got down on his knees and tried to find the cable behind the desk. There is only one portal in which you can get behind the desk. I have that blocked with a paper shredder, which he didn't move. He assumed he had no access, and annoyed, he got back up and leaned over the desk to peer behind it.

Tom: "I can't even get to the power strip."

Me: "That's because you didn't move the shredder. Let me go under the desk to get it. I have to get my back-scratcher that fell there too."

Tom: "This desk is a mess."

Me: "I told you not to start with that."

Tom: "I'm just getting it out of the way. Plus, I have to move all this shit to so that I can work."

We stopped to yip and yap at one another about desk cleanliness. That ended when I threatened to go into his desk to point out his issues. He went back to working on getting the cord, and I started cleaning. 

Me: "What happened to that grabber thing of my mom's? I used to use that in situations like this, but you did something with it. Did you throw it away?"

Tom: "It's in the garage somewhere."

Another time out as we went back and forth until Tom located the grabber by his desk. He unplugged the monitor, took it off my desk and carried it to Madison's desk.

Tom: "The next thing is to plug it into another outlet. But I can't do that here because this desk is a mess! All these desks are full of shit."

He said this while spinning in a circle between the three desks, monitor in both hands. I may or may not have chuckled.

Eventually, he succeeded with his plan, and the monitor came on.

Tom: "See that light? That's the light I was talking about."

Me: "Yes, I knew what light you meant. It didn't come on."

Tom: "It's on now."

Me: "I see that. But it wasn't on when you tried it either while sitting on my desk."

Tom: "Is the power strip on?"

Me: "Why would it be off? You saw how hard it is to get to it. How would it turn off? You think the back-scratcher did that on its way to the ground when it fell?"

Yup, folks. That is precisely what happened! And I could not stop laughing.

But I did, and then Tom discovered he had the password all along--in his phone. But that wasn't until after we broke into email accounts to okay the usage of the password manager to even find the password we wanted.

Which he had the entire time.

And my friend wonders why I can't leave the house on time!

Call the dog

Since the pandemic, Elliot has had people in the house. Now while we're down to the two of us, he likes to know where I am twenty-four-seven. If he doesn't, he goes into my bedroom and cries until I call for him.

Yesterday, he came into the office and alerted me that it was dinner time. Typically, I save my work for the day, feed him, and begin prepping the family dinner. This time, I didn't. I fed him and returned to work. 

With his head stuffed into his dog bowl, he didn't see this, and when he finished, he went searching for me. I'm sure he checked the kitchen first because he knows the routine. Who knows where he went next, but it wasn't the office.

Suddenly, I hear this noise. I stop and listen. It's Elliot howling like his life has ended--in my bedroom. That's clear on the other side of the house.

So, I did what all parents and dog owners do when they know their children/pets won't hear us shouting.  

I picked up my cell phone to call him and alert him to my location.

Yep. I did.

Lesson learned? Elliott needs a cell phone.

BEEP

As we head into month #985 of the virus, my nights and days are screwed up. I've always been a night owl, but this quarantining has really messed with me. I thought it was due to minimal exercise, so I made a conscious decision to move this week. I walked the neighborhood, exercised in the pool, and stood when my Apple watch suggested it instead of waving my arm up and down in the air like my SIL does to meet her goals. I made myself get out of bed before 8:30 every morning, no matter what time I went to bed, and I wouldn't let myself nap even if my body begged for it.

It didn't change a thing. 

Friday, I crawled between the sheets after two o'clock. I'd waited for my youngest to return from a social distance get together, and then I'd spent time chatting in bed with my vampire eldest, who always exceeds my bedtime by at least an hour, sometimes more. I tossed and turned for probably a half an hour before my brain shut down and sleep crept into my body.

BEEP

The noise was loud and very distinct—smoke alarm. Or, maybe I'd heard it wrong. Perhaps one of Tom's back-up batteries, those that are attached to major electric appliances. I was unsure. I wondered if I could sleep through the series of beeps as obviously, my husband could. 

BEEP

It was definitely a smoke alarm, and since it sounded like it was literally in my bedroom, I decided it had to be the closest alarm in the hallway right outside Madison's bedroom door. I climbed out of bed and pushed open her door. She was on her phone, the eery light illuminating her face.

Me: "Do you hear the beep?"

Madison: "What beep?"

Me: "Are you being funny?"

Madison: "I don't think so. What beep?"

We went back and forth like this with me because I believed she was messing with me. She wasn't. Madison hadn't heard the beep. By now, the dog had joined us, and he stood in Madison's room with us while we waited for the noise to sound again.  

It didn't.

I waited ten minutes for the damn beep, and when it didn't sound, I went back to bed. Elliot chose to remain with Madison. I got settled and prayed for slumber.

BEEP

I ignored it. When it went off a second time, I texted Madison. She didn't answer me because she was already in the hallway trying to remove the battery from the smoke alarm. I joined her.

Me: "So, you heard it this time?"

Madison: "Yes, I heard it. Every time it went off, the dog whined and bumped my mattress."

We took out the battery, laid it with the cover on the piano bench, took the dog outside to do his business one last time for good measure, said good-night, and retired to our separate rooms. We both went to sleep--for approximately fifteen minutes--before Elliot began howling. I heard it almost subconsciously, from far, far away, and somewhere in the back of my brain, I wondered if we should've let the dog stay longer outside. He howls at night only if he needs to go out or it is storming. But my N3 stage of my NREM was overtaking the N2 stage, and I was desperate to let it. I ignored the dog.

BEEP

Poof! I came out of the NREM instantly, my eyelids shooting open. What the hell? Had I seriously just heard that, or was I dreaming? I grabbed my phone and shined the light toward where Elliot sleeps in our bathroom. No Elliot. I moved it, and there he was standing in our doorway, looking straight at me.

Elliot: "It's about damn time!" 

I let my head fall back against the pillow, glancing at the time. It was three-forty in the morning. Elliot whined and pushed his nose against my mattress. 

BEEP

I got out of bed and went into Madison's room.

Me: "Maddy? Are you awake?"

Madison: "How can I not be? The dog's been howling for the past ten minutes! I was asleep, and he keeps waking me up."

Me: "It's because of the beeping. Do you hear it?"

Madison: "Yes. I checked Darcy's room, but she doesn't have a smoke alarm. I don't know where it's coming from, and I'm getting really tired of the dog coming to me when things happen that he doesn't like. Why am I his go-to person?"

Me: "The beep is coming from my bedroom. Your dad has something hooked up behind my dresser, maybe it's that?"

We went to investigate. By now, I was laughing uncontrollably because Madison refused to whisper, and I kept shushing her, she kept saying she wouldn't, and just the thought of Tom waking up while all of this was happening, well, I couldn't stop giggling while imagining that conversation. As I've written multiple times, Tom is not someone who reacts well at being awakened. 

Madison: "That's just a wifi thing behind your dresser. It doesn't beep."

Me: "Let's just sit here until we hear it again. I'm telling you, it's coming from in this room."

Madison: "I'm Googling beeping after removing the battery from an alarm."

We sat, Madison on the floor with the dog, googling on her phone, and me on a chair. Tom snored. When the beep finally came, it was loud, and it came from my left. I squinted at my closet while the dark recesses of my brain stumbled through files until I had a eureka moment, remembering once seeing an object in the closet that resembled a smoke alarm. 

The three of us scrunched into the closet, Madison and I shining our lights around the ceiling. There, above the door, was a smaller version of the smoke alarm we'd already disabled. Immediately it beeped as if rewarding us for our find. Madison ripped the cover off, removed the battery, and added it to the other on the piano bench. This sent me dissolving into laughter again at picturing Tom's expression when discovering this collection in the morning.

It was four o'clock by the time we finally got into bed and were able to drift off to sleep. We slept well into the late morning, where we then told our story and discovered that a month ago, Tom and Oleg had changed out the smoke alarm batteries...with expired batteries.

Tom: "Guess that tells us for sure that the expiration dates on batteries mean something."

He's lucky Madison and I were tired and walked away. 

Plumbing issues

During one of my non-sleeping nights recently, I sat up in bed because of a noise in my bathroom, which turned out to be my toilet running. At 3:22 a.m. Long time readers know how I don't turn on lights even in the early, dark mornings, and so, I proceeded to take off the back of the toilet tank with only my nightlight as a guide. 

We replaced our toilet recently, and these new-fangled commodes no longer have the chain, the piece that usually falls off of the thing-a-ma-bob attached to the rubber stopper, and is the cause of a toilet always running ninety percent of the time. Instead, I stared at the inner workings that led to my turning on the bathroom light. Just to be sure I wasn't hallucinating. 

Yep. No clue. I turned off the water, solving the problem until morning. Only then I lay in bed, worried my husband would get up and use the toilet, setting off a chain reaction beginning with why the toilet wasn't filling. I lay there for another ten minutes trying to talk myself down from waking him. 

It's like waking a sleeping bear. My girls learned early on not to come to his side of the bed. Hell, even the dog comes to me in the night. 

On the rare occasions when waking him is a necessity, I prepare myself for the tirade. It always consists of a time update, how he doesn't understand, and involves questions as to why I noticed said problem at this time of the night. 

For example:

When five-year-old Madison came to my side of the bed to tell me she thought she was going to throw up, and then did so while I was leaping out of my bed shouting for her to get over the toilet.

Tom: "It's two o'clock in the morning! Why would you come in to tell us you were going to throw up? That doesn't even make sense. Not at two o'clock in the morning."

When our hamster escaped and climbed into our window blinds, and I thought it was a citrus rat.

Tom: "It's one o'clock in the morning. I don't understand why a rat would be in our bedroom at one o'clock in the morning. Go back to sleep."

Recently, at 1:20 a.m. I discovered our pool vacuum was not working. 

Each time I go to the toilet in the night, I can hear the pool vacuum busily cleaning our pool. It's a soothing sound. A sound of an appliance doing its job to make my life easier. I've grown fond of the noise, and it is quite loud when the bathroom window is open. 

The pump is outside our bathroom window, and when I sat down on the toilet, I immediately noticed the absence of my soothing pool vacuum and immediately recognized that the pool pump was having problems. Hello, I was in pool management for over thirty years!

Instead of bothering the husband, I went outside to investigate, agreed with my first assessment of a pool pump issue, and attempted to turn off the pump. I couldn't. For some reason, I could not get the pump shut off, and worried that the motor would burn out, I woke the husband and gently gave him a quick version of how I discovered the problem.

Tom: "It's one o'clock in the morning. I don't understand how you knew the pool pump was having an issue at one o'clock in the morning."

Me: "I could hear it making noises outside our bathroom window."

Tom: "At one o'clock in the morning?"

Me: "Yes, Big Ben, I was using the toilet. Normally, I hear the vacuum cleaning the pool. That's not the sound I heard tonight. It's beside the point. I'm sorry to bother you, but I can't get the pump shut off. It won't budge."

Tom: "It's just a switch. It goes on and off. I'm still having trouble understanding how you knew something was wrong with the pump. It's one o'clock in the morning."

Me: "It's actually 1:32 a.m. Are you going to help me, or not?"

He did. He had no trouble turning off the pump, and then because he couldn't understand why it wasn't working, he attempted to fix it, all the while griping about the time. I finally convinced him to let it go and to go back to bed. But not before I had a laughing spell, which always happens when he gives me a time update.

Tom: "I'm glad you can laugh at one o'clock in the morning. I need to sleep. I have to go to work."

So, not wanting a repeat, I was talking myself off the ledge of waking him for the toilet issue when suddenly he sat up and began to get out of bed. Yes! He had to make a trip into the bathroom.

Me: "FYI. The toilet is running, so I shut off the water."

He froze, glanced at the clock, and shook his head.

Tom: "It's three o'clock in the morning."

Me: "Yes, I know. I got up to use the bathroom, and the toilet didn't shut off. I tried to solve the problem, but I don't know these newfangled toilets, and so I just shut off the water."

Tom: "I don't understand how you knew the toilet was running at three o'clock in the morning."

And we were off. I eventually started laughing. He ultimately got the toilet to stop running, got back into bed, and groused some more, alerting me to the fact it was a $5 part from Home Depot. Then he went to sleep. I, however, lay awake, wondering:

• Am I supposed to buy the $5 part?
• How will I know what part he is talking about?
• Is this $5 part considered essential while we are quarantined?
• If he says he will buy it, I need to remind him that Home Depot closes early now. He'll need to leave work before that.

Of course, I was too groggy the next morning when he woke me to say good-bye and thus didn't get any of the above mentioned to him before he departed. Of course, the toilet started running after the first flush. I turned off the water, and when he returned that evening, I reminded him the water was off. 

The hubby turned to Oleg man to man.

Tom: "I get this voice at three o'clock in the morning, telling me the water to the toilet is shut off."

Oleg, having heard the story already from me, wisely refrained from commenting, and Tom went out into the garage, returning with a spare part he'd taken out of another toilet.

He took me into the bathroom to educate me on the operations of the new toilet. Oleg came along because--man to man.

I pulled out my phone as soon as the lid came off and took pictures. Oleg raised an eyebrow. 

Me: "Get used to it, buddy. I have a blog to maintain."

The toilet was fixed lickety-split. Oh, and so was the pool pump. It just needed priming. 

Fingers crossed this doesn't come in threes. 

At (fill in the number) in the morning!!!