That was my first thought when I smelled the smoke.
Then I saw it.
The ironing board. The smoke came from the iron that was burning a hole in my new blouse. I bought it to wear on my first day at TIGre and now it's a scorched piece of cotton.
I swear. Call me Oliver Stone if you want, but I know irons have only two settings: Wrinkle or incinerate. It's all a plot by the CIA and big business to make you buy more clothes.
I checked my watch. 8:13. I had to be at TIGre by 9:00. That gave me forty-seven minutes to find a new outfit and drive to work.
I looked at myself in the mirror.
First outfit I tried was some camouflage pants and shirt: Nah. I looked like a white supremacist going to blow-up a Federal building.
Next I put on my leather jacket and pants. I don't think so. I looked too much like a dykes on bikes poster child. But put it on the checklist for Apres work apparel
Finally I went for a suit jacket, pants, white top and sensible shoes.
Corporate Bitch with a touch of attitude.
8:39
It had to do.
I ran out the door and jumped in my car, put the key in the ignition, turned it and...
Nothing.
Once more. Still nothing.
I pounded my fists on the steering wheel.
"If you don't start," I said, to my favorite hunk of metal. "I will get my baseball bat and beat the crap out of you."
8:42
The threat of violence worked. She started right up.
I hit every damn red light.
I sat waiting for the green.
8:56
I could see the office. It was calling to me like Mecca.
8:57
The light changed and I burned rubber, I made a left into the parking lot, got out and hauled ass to the front door.
I looked at my watch as I entered.
9:00
