Bombeck it!

On the days when the hair refuses to allow inroads for the comb, even the wide-toothed one; when the tummy goes forward into uncharted territory that even the boobs have not conquered (at different altitudes albeit), when the love is nowhere in sight, and the neighbor has a beautiful golden retriever and you, a closet dog-lover, have to keep saying no, no, no to your children’s pleas for a pet, the best thing to do is to Erma Bombeck it, I say. Swig your day like it’s your third shot of tequila, take its saltiness, its sourness and its lemony tanginess like a hardened drunk, let your wicked sense of humour unpeal and wipe your drink down with a teenager’s giggle.

For me, it’s either that or a downhill ride on a bullock cart with the wheels coming loose.