to all of you living under the false idea that i don't get crabby. whatever. here is what it takes to brew the perfect storm.

take one tired, tired me and stuff her into a an old ford explorer that smells like dog farts, hockey bags and the cheese popcorn that's been spilled and smashed all over the floor. fill that ford explorer with a large dog kennel containing one farting labrador, two full hockey bags, four suitcases, one big cooler, three blankets, four pillows, three hockey sticks, book bags, water bottles and a mess of tangled car chargers. proceed to a hockey store where the husband buys more hockey gear, including a bag of 25 pucks that has nowhere to go but under your feet, on top of the new hockey helmet, your purse and the water bottles.

drive the stuffy, stinky, crowded, crampy, dirty, nasty, rusty, stupid 230,000 mile ford explorer to mcdonald's and order from the drive-thru.

have clark griswald put all greasy smelly bags of mddonald's food on top of your lap, which is also holding a blanket and two pillows, and then have him ask you to hold his ice cream cone while he talks on the phone and nearly kills us all while driving through a tornado.

there we go.

the perfect storm.

glad i got that off my chest.