Oh look, Mom's drinking again.

Karma's a bitch.

What goes around comes around.

Reap what you sow.

And all those other lovely sayings that say, in a nutshell, say don't be mean to people because you can get it back ten-hundred-fold.

Every other month, I have raging PMS. This would be one of those months. The week where that cereal bowl left on the table all fricken day leads to a mental breakdown, multiple time-outs for the offender, yelling, madness, pulling my hair out and by the end of the day, I'm no better off than the unsightly and unattractive bald patches on my scalp and the sore throat from all the screaming. It's then that I wonder if the lack of hair, scratchy throat and all the hoopla was really worth the dang cereal bowl on the table. Probably not, but I'm not one to jump to conclusions.

Well, did I mention the pile of items that need to go into the recycle bin? It grows. And grows. And the only way it actually shrinks is because I take those items to their proper receptacle. And the growing makeshift recycle bin only annoys me on this once-a-month hiatus of my sane brain. When trying to prove a point, this PMS-laden, over-tired Mommy really likes to get her point across by talking about it non-stop in a really loud, high-pitched, annoying Chicago accented voice, all while stomping around, slamming doors and throwing the plastic bottles and cans in that stupid ass recycle bin, for the love of all that is good and holy.

I think my husband's ears are bleeding. Poor fella.

And then karma.

She makes me so mad.

The recycle bin (the real one, not the pile on the kitchen counter that one might believe resembles a recycle bin, but obviously it is NOT) resides in the garage - about eleventy steps from the kitchen, into the hot and sticky garage that smells like old carpet because that's where we've been dumping our old floor until we can haul it away. Yes, it's totally tragic to venture into the garage these days, but if that doesn't kill you, then the bird poop will.

Wait. What?

Yes, stepping in bird poop in your bare feet is not something I would ever THINK of happening while in the garage, yelling at my husband and chucking empty pop cans and milk jugs into an oversized trash can.

But it happened.

Twice.

And at first, I thought it was just a mystery goo that was left behind by one of my children, as any mom of boys may be wont to do. But no, this was way worse.

And cleaning my foot in a bath of boiling water and then bleach was also way worse.

I would have taken photos of the dang bird as it flew around inside my garage, that I swear to you was laughing at me when it saw me step in its excrement, but I was too busy trying to balance the beebee gun and my camera at the same time, and surely I was going to end up on the front page of the newspaper if I didn't pull myself together.

I'm so glad sanity swooped in and rescued me before I put too many tiny holes in the drywall and my house was mistaken for a large cube of Swiss cheese.

Sanity says to me, "Hon, just leave the garage door open and let him fly out on his own."

So, now, it's quite possible that my husband might resemble a rather funny-shaped cube of Swiss cheese, but you can't prove anything.

I dare you.