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Frank Gumola - Journal | Weblog

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On any given workday, I rise to the lovely tune my cheap Nokia phone decides to loudly tweet into my ear. I refuse to buy an alarm clock; I have yet to find a soothing sound from a single one. I won't use a radio alarm clock, for I fear the sound of Fergie and her humps getting busy with my eardrums too early in the morning is simply something I'm never going to be fully prepared to deal with, unless multiple cocktails have been involved and I skipped sleep altogether.

Mother Nature and her lovely thunderclaps woke me this morning, and as I peered through the bedroom blinds David suggested I call ahead to work and ask beg that someone pick me up.

"I'll be fine, it's just rain and I have an umbrella a small third world country can fit under."

I didn't expect my regular path to be obstructed by something I would need Moses to part in order to complete my morning commute; but that's exactly what greeted me about fifty paces from my front door.

"Oh. This isn't pretty."

One of my neighbors motioned for me to climb his small brick fence, cross his yard, and continue on to a less waterlogged path.

I did just that and thought I was in the clear, until I heard, and felt, a "squish" with every step.

Mud. Up to my ankles. In my shoes, soaked through my socks, and probably giving my heels a much needed pumicing.

I walked through the door at work, headed to the bathroom to clean up and dry off all the while thinking that the worst part of the day was over.

Until, from behind me: "Ready for your first Indians game?"


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