THE TALKING HEAD ... or ... Does Nora really want to know what goes on inside my head when I’m running late? ... or ... If we can land a man on the moon why can’t we have a sweater that doesn’t pill?

This story came from a writing workshop with Nora Zylstra-Savage.  She lives nearby so she kindly gives me a lift.  At this particular class Nora asked the group to "write about a time you were running late".  This story was fresh as I was under the gun trying to make it out of my house.  

And so we begin.  
I hate being late!  I was never late before we had kids.  How long is it since they flew the coop?  Almost twenty years?  Guess I can’t blame them any more. 
It really feels like the time is getting away on me.  My stomach knots.  
The clock in the dining room says I have plenty of time.  Which clock is it that’s fast?  This one, or the one in the bathroom? 
All I have to do is paint my face, surely there’s time for that.   
“Oh, My Darling?”  (Can you imagine, we call each other my darling?  It started as a joke when we heard an ‘affected’ couple use the expression.  It’s always a joke when we say it … I think … some how it stuck.)  “Will you call the OPP while I’m at Nora’s writing class?  Just ask how we go about obtaining a restraining order?  Can you also call Rogers to find out how to block our annoying caller?”
I rush to the bathroom.  I must empty my bladder … ET-CET-ER-A … and put on some makeup.  
Okay, so, I’m cleaning up after the ETCETERA and he bursts through the bathroom door, phone in hand.  He’s welcome in the bathroom anytime except a time like this … you know, after an etcetera.   
Oh great!  He’s called the police first.  It’s the OPP on the other end of the line.  I should be so lucky to have an OH, PEE-PEE, in peace.  Not when Michael’s on a mission. 
Thank God, he’s no techi, otherwise I’d have to worry he’s FaceTimed the cops.   
An “OH, PULLLEASE!” goes out to him from the throne.  He quickly covers the mouthpiece like that’s allowing me to retain my dignity.    
Damn!  What is it about making the calls “when I’m at Nora’s class” does he not understand?  
HELL-OOOOO?!!!!!  Can you not see what a mess I’m in?  Couldn’t you have made the calls after I’d left the premises?  God knows when Michael’s involved in a chore there are going to be questions. 
And here they come.  “What’s your sister’s birthdate?” 
He’s only supposed to be gathering info and he’s providing birthdays?  What on earth?
Can he not see the smoke pouring out of my ears.   
“Really?”  I force my voice to remain calm.  Through clenched teeth the month, the day and the year seethe through.  
My stomach ties another knot.  
I quickly wash my hands and reach for my makeup. 
“Oh! My! God! Who’s that wrinkle-faced bitch staring back at me?”    
Damn, is that another age spot starting to rear it’s ugly head?  I swear, I slap on mostly cover-up these days.  Pretty soon I won’t need foundation.  
Why does the damn bathroom clock always run fast?  Now I feel REALLY late.  
I charge out of the bathroom.  Oh, God!  Here he comes again.  He’s on my heels.  Great!  “What’s the number we want to block?”   
“Michael!  We have three phones and there’s a post-it on each one with the number.  We put them there to remind us not to answer when that number calls.”  
His glazed look says it all.  I jab my finger through air … point, point, point!  The light goes off!    
I shall not mention that I’m the only one to forgot to look at the post-it and landed myself in the worst phone call ever.  
Surely after thirty-nine years of marriage he can detect the impatience in my voice.  I wonder just how many times I’ve asked him NOT to ask questions when I’m preparing to leave the house.  God knows I need what’s left of my brain to FOCUS!
I drive my mood home with the icy stare.  His mouth opens to ask another question.  He takes in my demeanour and makes a hasty retreat.  FINALLY!  
The plants on the back porch vibrate when I stomp in to get my shoes.  I quickly glance out the window.  SHE’S HERE!  DAMN! 
I ram a foot into a shoe and lose my balance.
Does he enjoy continually creating an obstacle course in front of the shoe mat?  Honestly, if I had a dime …
No time to check a clock again. It’s probably wrong any way.  
I hastily tie my shoes, throw my jacket on, grab my purse (At least something’s going right.  How many times have I forgotten it lately?).  
I shout out a flustered GOODBYE!!??
I wind my scarf around my now sweaty neck and rush down the path.
Who am I kidding?  I can’t rush.  I wonder how long it’s been since I could run?
Oh, Great!  I forgot to tell him the toilet needs plunging.  He’ll figure it out soon enough.   
When did it rain?  The path is damp. At least it wasn’t snow.  Look at the holes in the grass.  The skunks must have been digging for grubs.  Well at least it’s a sign of spring.  It’s a wonder I didn’t smell them in the night.  Damn critters.
Watch yourself when you rush through the car port.  The thin one hangs a multitude of tools on the wall narrowing the path and making it somewhat harrowing for those of us who carry around … well … extras.
Whew, I managed to squeeze through without being impaled on anything.    
I wonder why I’m not losing weight yet.  Almost ten months of being gluten, dairy and soy free has to count for something, doesn’t it?  
I can see Nora now.  Why is Nora’s head bent?  Is she praying I won’t make us late?  I’m grateful she hasn’t started honking her horn.  
Finally!  I arrive.  I’m breathless.  I open the car door.  
She’s reading a novel.  
OH MY GOD! 
I hate being late.