Good morning. Having a bad day. Well, I don’t mind telling you I’ve had several of those lately and I don’t think it has anything to do with the barometer. I seem to march to a different drummer, you know, the one who flunked band.
Things really didn’t work out well for me last week. Like Meg (my dog) getting her head stuck under the fence going after a cat, the three dozen petunies slugs are already polishing off, the baby grackles that blew out of their nest splat onto the patio, me smiling my way through a luncheon with poppy seeds caught in my front teeth and driving off from the gas station without filling my tank after I went inside and paid for it.
What really frosts me is that there are people, women especially, who NEVER have a bad week. They glide through life on their own private gilded lily without breaking a finger nail.
They can wear navy blue to a party and eat lemon squares topped with confectionary sugar, turn four frying pork chops over in a pan and make them fit, tear open a Lean Cuisine pouch without using a butcher knife, fill their glass with crushed ice from the refrigerator door without spraying the whole room and melt butter in the microwave without frying it.
Their jar lids never stick, their cell phones never go dead, they can show their toes in sandals, their pets never throw up blades of undigested grass at the foot of guests, their computers come alive the minute they walk into the room and they can take shish kabobs off the skewers with their teeth without getting lipstick smear.
About that drum I’m maching to, maybe its a flute.