I’m often amazed at what it takes to send me off the deep end in the shallow pool these days. I know how I am. I push too hard for too long. Neglect the little things in life. You know, those little things that actually make life worth living sometimes, and then whammo! I either break and come to my senses or the universe bitch-slaps me back into some semblance of order. Usually, it’s the later rather then former.

Like this weekend. I was crawling a bad stretch of mental road on hands and knees through shattered glass when I decided the thing I really needed to do was to go grocery shopping in the middle of gorgeous, sunny afternoon. I had become fixated on a certain yogurt I like, or lack thereof, and figured that if I did the weekly grocery shopping chore and got it out of the way, that somehow life would get all better right quick.

But it was hot in the car, and the traffic sucked, and everything on the radio sucked, and the parking was miserable, and people in the store were idiots, and where was my damn list? and my mood just sank lower, and lower, until I got the organic section at Wegmans and discovered they were out of my favorite yogurt and I swear, I went ballistic. And I do mean ballistic. Cursing, swearing, stomping, just all Elton-John-the-Bitch-is-Back crazy. I mean, all I wanted was my Liberte Mediterranean style yogurt for eff’s sake! The one thing I really needed to make life all better. Was that too much to ask? (And before anyone gets in my proverbial grill about this, I ask you step back, take a deep breath, and try this stuff because you’ll never again eat any other yogurt, I swear).

But of course, it wasn’t about the yogurt. It never is. Although it’s damn good yogurt, I was just in a general foul mood and should have done the known world a favor and stayed inside the house with warning signs posted out front and wreaths of garlic made readily available to any poor soul who darkened my door.

I don’t know what it is about these little fixations, but when they are realized, they’re miraculous, and when they aren’t, life effen sucks to all bloody hell. And while I recognize that those are the times best suited to take personal stock and try to find out what the “yogurt” is really symbolizing, I don’t freakin’ want to and no one can make me.

So I storm home, sans yogurt, and the first thing I see is the blinking red light on the phone:

“(my name)! It’s yer mudder! Pick up! Pick up ta phone! I’m on a drunk wit yer cousins and they all say haloo! Everyone! Say haloo to (my name)! HALOO!! Yer cousin Malcolm is gettin married! I met ta girl last night and all I can say is that at least she’s Catholic. Yer poor Aunt Siobhan would roll in her grave if she knew, but Malcolm’s marryin’ an Azorean-Welch. What the hell tat is, I’m not sure, but your Uncle Lorry assures me they’re not like mules who can’t have bubbies. But she’s Catholic so I guess that’s all tat matters. All righty then, tell (Sailor Man) his old mudder in law sens her love, and do you still have that god-awful big animal in yer house? Is she dead yet? I don’t like the looks of ‘er. Never have. Damn Diego dogs! Too big. Whyntcha get a nice wolfhound if yeh need an animal tat big. All righty, I’ll talk to ya soon if ya ever pick up ta damn phone! Buh-Bye!”

Strangely, and I can’t even begin to explain why so don’t ask me, I feel all better…

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