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.
