As I lay supine on my bed after an action-packed 36 hours in which I worked an eight-hour shift, followed immediately by a three-hour Monopoly marathon with a belligerent 6-year-old banker, followed by an amateur-hour packing session in which I actually had to resort to the old I Love Lucy technique of sitting on a suitcase to get it to completely close, followed by a cab-sav-infused repast with extended family, followed by a 90-minute MacBook tutorial with my 85-year-old grandparents because they've finally decided to ditch their 13-year-old PC and want to know what this Apple hype is all about, followed by an impromptu editorial pow-wow with the 8-year-old publisher of our 15-page "What We Did Over Summer Vacation" newsletter (small point-size only), followed by a couple of hours of late-night reading (because who can go right to sleep after all that?) about Tasmanian devils that spread cancer by biting each others' faces, followed by an early-morning flight from Fort Lauderdale to Long Island with the aforementioned belligerent banker and her similarly belligerent brother (the aforementioned newsletter publisher), a journey that commenced with airport security ripping apart one travel companion's Spider-Man carry-on because there was hair gel and a hidden rubber pool-toy torpedo stashed inside (subterfuge!), I realized this:
Microwaves have it real easy when it comes to euthanasia, because they just have to ask the doctors to stop pressing "Add 30 seconds."
Which led to my next revelation, which is that alarm clocks are Jesus, because when you stop pressing the "Snooze" button, the opposite happens and they're permanently resurrected.
You won't look at microwaves or alarm clocks the same way again. Everything's going to be all right.
If you want more of me on Twitter, @WarriorHauswife is where you should go.
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