I stumbled out of bed and headed for the bathroom. I stared at the bathtub, wondering why the shower apparatus was attached to the wall directly in front of me rather than the end wall. Nana said she'd taken a shower, but the showerhead looked too complicated for a person suffering from a disruption in her circadian rhythm to figure out. Besides, I didn't want to get my hair wet, so I'd be better off taking a bath. I turned on the faucet.

"YEEEOOOOOOOWWWW!" Cold water blasted me in the face. It needled into my eyes. Shot up my nose. I leaped out of the way. Cold water pounded onto the tiled floor and formed rivers in the grouting. I stared in amazement. Nana had been right. The water pressure was great.

I grappled with the faucet to turn it off then stood for a moment in abject shock, assessing the damage. The floor had become a tidal pool. My feet were soaked, my hair was drenched, my dry-clean only silk turtleneck was plastered to my Click Miracle bra. I glared at the showerhead knowing exactly what had caused the disaster.

Nana had touched the dingus.

I stepped out of my wet leather skirt and mopped up the floor on my hands and knees, then realizing I'd used our entire supply of clean towels in the endeavor, I unpacked my blow-dryer and blew myself and my turtleneck dry. My turtleneck ended up stretched to my thighs, with a splotch like a six-headed amoeba tattooed on the front. And it had been my favorite! Berry. To match my nails. I'd bought it in a little boutique in Ames because it had spoken to me. I love clothes. They speak to me a lot. But considering the size of my bank account, I wish they would speak to me in a language I didn't understand, like Latin or Croatian.

I checked the time. The crystal on my wristwatch was fogged up and I could see tiny droplets of water clinging to the inside. "Aaaarghhhh!" I whipped off my watch and punched on the power to the television. Local time was 17:59. Terrific. It was 5:59 and I was going to be late. REALLY late.

I hopped into a pair of champagne-and-black python print slacks and a glazed-linen blouse, pulled my hair back into a ponytail, jammed my feet into my funky new black platforms, grabbed the key, locked the door, then raced down the corridor to the elevator. I heard movement inside the shaft. A light appeared through the glass above the floor indicator. The car stopped. I heard male voices inside. I waited for the door to open. I waited some more.

The car started to descend. "Wait!" I yelled at the door. "You need to open the door from the inside! It's not automatic!" I let out a silent scream. Okay. Time to execute alternate plan B. The stairs. There were a lot of them, and they were really close together. Just the kind of stairs you want to walk down on platform heels when you're in a hurry. Good thing I'd begun wearing heels at age twelve. I'd had lots of years to practice.