Your girl here has been in a funk as of late. I think the roots to this particular blue period can be traced back to the day Max graduated Kindergarten. That was a week ago. I also happened to look at the calendar and noticed that the 10-month anniversary of Seltar's passing falls on Father's Day. That's just super.
So after spending an unspecified number of days in self-imposed confinement, I decided enough was enough. It was time to crawl off of my cross, make my face less scary and do a little retail therapy with the lady I call Mom. I even sprang for a nice lunch and even nicer, two rounds of Chardonnay.
Everything was going fine.
That is until I realized that something wasn't quite right with me. I noticed that every time I thought about what I ate, I had a not so fun bodily reaction. Palms sweating. Mouth salivating. Shudder. Ugh, food poisoning! Damn it! And even though I want to, I won't disgust you with the details of what it feels like to vomit previously eaten fish and undigested Thai salad.
In fact, I've probably already said too much.
And because the Universe thinks I'm a good sport and can take a joke, my neighborhood suffered a blackout. Thankfully, all those years of under age drinking have led to impeccable aim. You know, the kind of aim you wish your five year old son has when he pisses so that when you have food poisoning and are hurling by candlelight you aren't face to face with his imprecision.
Once again, I've said too much.