I walked into the kitchen and happened upon Sam dispensing merlot from the box o’wine into a purple plastic sippy cup.

“Gah!” I said. “No! Stop! Bad!”

It was early, and I hadn’t consumed enough coffee to manage a more articulate reprimand.

I quickly confiscated the booze and dumped it into the sink. Then I turned to frown at my young offspring, who seemed surprised at my reaction. He studied my face for a moment.

“What are you feeling, Mama?” he asked with concern, sounding like a pint-sized shrink.

“What do you think I’m feeling?” I retorted, collapsing into a chair.

He thought about this.

“I think you’re angry,” he finally pronounced. He came over, threw his arms around me and planted a kiss on my cheek. “There! All better!”

And then he turned and skipped out of the room, leaving me alone to contemplate the benefits of a military school education.

George: What are you doing?
Me: I’m shopping for shoes online. I’m stressed out.
George: Are you shopping for shoes because you’re stressed out . . . or is the shopping for shoes causing you to become stressed out?
Me: Sometimes it’s like you don’t know me at all.
George:
Me: Of course shopping isn’t stressing me out. Shopping for shoes alleviates stress. Obviously.
George: Oh. You don’t really need more shoes . . . do you?
Me: Seriously, how long have we been married? When are you going to learn to stop asking questions like that? Now go away. I need to concentrate on Zappos.

This is a partial list of what is currently broken in and around our house:

1. George’s car. I have no information on this, other than that it won’t start. His car will henceforth be known as the Fucking Car. (Unless the boy is around, of course. I do my best not to drop F-bomb’s in his presence.)

2. Our kitchen. I’m in the middle of the interminable process of painting the cupboards, so the doors and drawers are scattered all around, making it impossible to cook. Or eat.

3. My iPod. It didn’t take kindly to falling in the bathtub. While I was taking a bubble bath.

4. George’s cell phone. Two words: Virgin Fucking Mobile.

5. Our house phone. Actually, our phone works. But it has decided – for no fathomable reason that anyone can explain to me – to no longer accept calls from George’s office. Which means that when he calls to tell me – and I’m just throwing out an example here – that his Fucking Car won’t start, the call won’t go through. This actually started happening last week, but he solved the problem by just calling home on his cell phone. Yes, that would be the Virgin Fucking Mobile cell phone (see number 4, above).

I’m sure I’m forgetting something. Oh, wait, now I remember:

6. My brain.

I feel a bit like pressing fingers to my temples and chanting, “Calgon, take me away.” Only I can’t take a bubble bath, because I need to sit by the phone and wait to see if it will let a call from George through so he can tell me what’s going on with his Fucking Car. And anyway, I don’t know if a bubble bath would take my mind off of my troubles, what with the whole iPod-falling-in-the-bathtub debacle.