humor essay – Everpine & Petal

A Morning of Glory, Grit, and Getting It Done

Rob left for work at six. I woke up with a migraine roaring between my temples and brain fog thick enough to swim through. Getting out of bed felt impossible. So I didn’t. Not right away. I started with my one-small-step rule.

Before tea can be earned, the mug has to be clean.
Before that—the dishwasher needs loading.

—

Round 1: One Small Step, One Clean Kingdom

I loaded the dishwasher just to clear a spot for my cup, and before I knew it, the whole kitchen counter had been cleared too. With a quick wipe down, I was staring at the abyss of pots in the sink, realizing it would be easier not to look at them anymore—and to have a spot for my dirty teacup when I finished drinking my morning tea. So, the pots were scrubbed, and since the kitchen was basically clean, I swept the floor to polish it off. But then I needed a quiet place to sit, which led to a clean living room—all because of one lonely mug. Sometimes, momentum smells like steeping lavender London fog.

—

Round 2: Pee-to-Power Cleaning Routine

I felt that familiar nudge to pee and thought, not yet. Instead, I cleaned the bathroom like I was racing my own bladder. Counters—sparkling. Toilet—gleaming. Trash—gone. When I finally sat down, I did so in a sanctuary of my own making. Strategy. Timing. Dignity, with a splash of Clorox.

—

With the house now oddly presentable, I finally sat with my tea and coaxed Nikolai into movement. That’s when Rob came home before our appointment for a “quick nap,” which usually meant I had time to spare—not a lot, but enough.

His alarm went off, and he mumbled something about two more minutes. He thought he still had the lead on the morning.

He didn’t.

—

Two-Minute Blitz

I showered.
Shaved my legs like a ninja.
Deodorant. Real clothes. Product through my red hair like I had all the time in the world. (I didn’t, but I acted like it.)

Bag—snatched. Laptop—grabbed. Hair clip—locked and loaded.

By the time Rob stumbled toward the door, dazed and struggling to put on his second shoe, I was already sliding into the car. Cool. Calm. Composed.

In the car, I brushed my teeth, styled my hair, and did my makeup in the mirror like a woman who’d slept through the fairy tale of Sleeping Beauty—instead of a five-minute mama power snooze.

—

Boss-Mode Toolkit: How I Pull This Off

None of it’s luck. It’s systems disguised as chaos.

Spare hair clip lives on my purse handle like a faithful sidekick.

Toothbrush and travel-size toothpaste hide in my makeup bag.

I don’t lug a glam case—just the essentials: foundation, blush, lipstick, mascara.

Dollar-Tree hand-wipe pouches are worth their weight in gold—yogurt spill, sticky kid fingers, all handled.

Add a travel facial-cleanser pouch too. It tucks in like it was meant to be there.

And always keep a folding hairbrush in your purse. You don’t want to meet somebody looking like you just chased your ass and lost a war with an electric fence.

—

When we pulled into the parking lot, I looked like I’d had an hour to get ready. Rob looked like he was still wondering what century it was.

That’s farm-mom magic.
That’s brain-fog who? energy.
That’s I may not have slept, but I drink my power like some people drink energy drinks—with a teacup in my hand.

I didn’t just leave the house—I wrangled disaster into order like a gardener who rips the weeds out of her dahlia bed.

Everything’s bigger in Texas—including the regret.

Somewhere in the middle of BFE Texas, it happened. Two miles down the road from a dusty gas station, the betrayal hit me like a freight train: gas station hard-boiled eggs. They sat there, all innocent in their little plastic container, whispering promises of protein and convenience—but they were traitors.

The Texas sun was doing its best to cook me alive—hot as Hades, the kind of heat where your sweat sweats. And let me tell you something: when they say there’s no humidity in Texas? They lie. The air clung to me like judgment in a Baptist church on a Sunday, while the sun hovered above like a personal heat lamp, daring me to breathe.

Rob was waiting in the car, tapping his foot, muttering, “Hurry up, we don’t have all day.”

Oh, Rob. You sweet, clueless man. I wanted to yell back,
There’s no stopping this train! It’s already left the station!
But I had no strength left to explain.

I stumbled into the bathroom, hoping for relief. Instead, I found a Texas nightmare. Half-stalls that offered views instead of privacy. Walls that stopped halfway up, like they gave up on the concept of dignity. A wide-open skyline view of BFE Texas—because who doesn’t want to see the sunset while they’re fighting for their life?

Flies were mating on my drumsticks. Mating. I sat there, trapped, sweat pouring, stomach cramping, the scent of dust, cheap soap, and my own slow demise wafting in on the breeze.

And then, the sound—clink, clink, clink—the jingle of a dog’s tags outside, and a couple talking softly, like they were out for a leisurely afternoon stroll. Their voices drifted in like a gentle breeze. I sat there in the stall, dying, praying they didn’t hear me, praying the wind didn’t deliver a sample of my suffering. And if it did… maybe they’d think their precious poodle ate roadkill.

And just when I thought it couldn’t get worse, a Hispanic woman sat in the stall next to me… FaceTiming her kid. Like she was in a coffee shop, just chatting away, smiling, letting her child see the bathroom sky and stained brick wall behind her.

Her voice rang out, all bright and cheerful:
“¡Hola, mija!”

And there I was, gripping the walls like a tornado was ripping through my intestines, thinking, Lady, now is not the time for a virtual family reunion.
Meanwhile, I was fighting for my life in Stall Two, and she was catching up with her kindergartener like it was just another Tuesday.

But then… she fell silent. A pause. A breath that hitched.
And I knew: the eggs had claimed another.

We were in this together now—two strangers, united by the betrayal of gas station eggs, the half-stalls of Texas, the humidity they swear doesn’t exist, and the absurd, silent prayers that maybe the breeze would pin blame on the dog instead.

Outside, Rob scowled. “Hurry up already,” he called.

But there was no hurrying. My stomach was still pissed off, rumbling like an angry storm that wasn’t done yet. This wasn’t a bathroom break—it was a full-blown survival saga.

When I finally emerged, pale, drenched, my legs shaking like I survived an earthquake—I made a silent vow to all the creatures who were impacted by my internal hell:

I survived. But let it be known:
I will never eat gas station eggs again.

Tag: humor essay

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