A despised day, small wonder the Mamas and Papas popularise its paranormal malevolence. On the morning rush out, a lurking sliver on the weathered doorjamb leapt and snagged a nylon stocking, forcing a hose-changing retreat upstairs.
The first out of drawer streaked a run on the roll on; the next failed the taupe colour match, a noticed falsity before it touched my leg.
My drive time coffee fix rebelled. Misaimed on the thigh hold, the doughnut shop pint added desert camouflage to my beige wool skirt. An hour later, scatter-brained boss Danner mumbled his dictate and left me guessing at half his words. Midway through, the designer pen gifted me by him Christmas last blew its blowhole, its navy anti-seminal spewage added to coffee on beige.
Debating an exorcism or lunch, I self-treated with a PB&J sandwich. An off-colour joke by Millie spawned a first bite over-squeeze. Down squirted a glob of grape, guided by those purgatorial jokesters targeting my pristine clothing. It caught the white silk blouse, but spared the skirt.
Post lunch, infuriated Danner excoriated my letter preparation, department status to the school president. My honest error followed his wiggle-fingered goose of my lower posterior, a play of fate his greasy paw found the one remaining unsoiled swath of skirt cloth. So I forgot ‘off’ from ‘laid her off’, no big deal.
The typewriter carriage broke on the retype. Ding-Dong Danner harped on the mistake for the two hours I waited for delivery of a new machine from maintenance.
Home brings refuge from the spectral anomalies of this day. Dinner sets before Donna and Richie, who spoon launches a cherry tomato. It ricochets off her chewing jaw and deflects into a full glass of milk. The spray geysers, sopping fries I earn by default by typical mother’s exchange.