Uncle!!!!

That’s it, I give up. UNCLE! As Kenny Rogers once so eloquently put it, “You got to know when to hold, em. Know when to fold em. Know when to walk away, know when to run”. THIS is me running!

My day began with a morning greeting, muttered to me in dulcet tones by the enormous cold sore that -over night- took up residence on the lower west side of my face in a what appears to be a five block radius. We’ll just call the reaction of my “loved” ones shock and awe. After the breakfast table press conference regarding the growth on my visage I thought the worst was over. Silly. Me.

Next I was greeted by the bone chilling site of an empty K-Cup box, meaning.

NO COFFEE! <—insert panicked scream ala Psycho here

Once I came out of the fetal position and got on with my day, the hits just kept coming. Cut myself in the shower, lovely. Stepped on the cat’s tail, classic. Then I got to Target, normally my personal “happy place”. As I shopped that familiar old feeling of acquisition bliss slowly began to blanket me it it’s warm glowing warming glow. It was only a brief port in the storm though. Enter the the checkout from HELL. As it turns out their computer system was down so they were tabulating your order. On actual tablets.. by hand.. in pen. Seriously! If I wasn’t 100% sure that failing to get pop-tarts, milk and sandwich fix-ins would result in the children going Donner Party on the cats I’d have left then and there. After finally extracting myself from this suburban surreality I thought a quick lunch of greasy food hocked by a freaky clown was in order.

Wrong. Answer.

My youngest in tow, we walked in beneath the arches o’ gold only to be greeted by a man slamming things around the dining room, and in colorful language telling all the women (in his head no doubt) that they were “women of ill repute” and that aliens where going to cut the cows out of their stomachs. LOVELY! As we walked out my daughter went into fits of fry withdrawal, so I folded the the cheap suit that nutjob was wearing and hit the drive through. Two blocks from the place I realized Joe Pesce was right, they really do screw you at the drive-through. Que the fits of hysterical four year old crying over lost cheap fast food toys. Again…

Cheap + Suit = ME.

Everyone properly stuffed with transfats and salt I headed for home, my sanctuary, peace, home-sweet-home. NOT! As it turns out “Aunt Flow” and her traveling companion Betty Bloat stopped by unannounced.

Therefore the only recourse left to me is to simply scream UNCLE, I QUIT! from the rooftops and crawl into bed with the only ones who understand me… Merlot and Godiva.

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