Bacon

Today is just one of those days. The kind of day where you wake up depressed for no real reason, and then you decide to snap yourself out of it by being proactive and hanging some curtains upstairs already, and then you, being terrible with tools, manage to snap the head off of Gene’s 3/32 hexagonal drill bit, and you get depressed again and give up, but not before drilling two useless holes in the wall.

So you think, all right, the weather outside is frightful, as they say, so I’ll just print out those recipes from our wedding cookbook and start organizing them. And for some reason you can’t seem to make the printer turn on.

Then you decide maybe you should just shut up and do some laundry like a good housewife, and you throw a load of clothes and towels in — and discover later that you failed to shake out one towel entirely and now the pine needles it was covered with are sticking to ALL your clothes and towels.

So, proactive again, you begin a helpful email exchange with your beloved husband which starts as a useful plan to buy a car and ends as a whiny rant about how everything should happen on your time line. After you send it, you remember you haven’t told him about breaking his drill bit yet.

And things go on like this, piling up and piling up, hour after hour, until eventually you find you’re huddled in the corner of a room eating cold bacon out of a Tupperware and staring at the wall.

You know? One of THOSE days.