DON'T WORRY, IT'S PROBABLY JUST THE APOCALYPSE

It all started when some (insert dirty word here) hacked my email accounts and then sent crazy messages to everybody I've ever corresponded with (up to and including the customer service team at Clinique).

Many many thanks go out to those of you who got one of these messages and replied "Hey, Spinster Stitcher! Looks like you've been hacked, girlfriend! What a crappy thing to happen to you! Chin up!".

A big fat "REALLY?!" goes out to the people who've known me for 25 years, yet still felt it necessary to send a "Don't ever send me stuff like this again" email, or decided to tell me that they thought it highly inappropriate that a spinster would sell a "sex drug".

Yesterday, just as I thought we were turning a corner around here, I was rudely jolted from a deep deep sleep by the sound of a huge herd of young men with ladders clanging about in the back yard.

(Apparently my house is getting painted and this is the crew that has been entrusted with things.)

(Somebody remind me to send a big fat muffin basket to the HOA.)

From what I can tell, the oldest member of the Painting Crew that Hails from the Seventh Circle of Hell is young enough to breastfeed, so I'm not thoroughly optimistic. When you combine that with the fact that the leader of the group thought it hilarious to stand on the patio and taunt Stewey into barking himself hoarse, I was sorely tempted to unleash my inner bee-yatch and send 'em all home and then call their mothers.

At quitting time, they packed up their iPods and Red Bulls and left all of their crap strewn about the place, so I'm guessing that we're going to have a repeat performance today. (And, yes, just in case you were wondering.... I was too busy looking up at the pretty pretty clouds today to notice whether or not Stewey decided to pee on said crap when he went out for his morning constitutional.)

Today I am prepping for a "procedure", which means I am only permitted clear liquids. This means, of course, that the splitting headache has started, and I am compelled to stand in front of the open refrigerator to look at all of the lovely things I cannot shove into my gaping maw. Like ham. Or bing cherries. Or leftover spaghetti.

I'm normally a real trooper when it comes to this "procedure", so I'm not sure why I've got the big baditude today. I will, however, remedy this tomorrow when I tell Dr. Mark "If you see Jimmy Hoffa in there, please give him my regards", just as he's hitting me up with the Fentenal and Versed.

(I usually say "See you on the other side, Ray", but I seem to be the only person who gets that obscure Ghostbusters reference. This, of course, kinda takes the fun out of it.)

Aunt Chrissy has promised to take me to the Barnes & Nobles this weekend so that I might look for books on planetary alignment and/or astrology. I am assuming that Grumpy has entered my seventh house of Discontent and the rising tide of Are You Effing Kidding Me has caused my sense of Crazy to go into overdrive.

Or something like that.

Don't cry for me Argentina. All will be right again soon. Methinks Stewey and I will retreat to the studio today armed with a vat of dietCoke and You've Got Mail for company. I'm about seven stitches away from completing Beekeeper's Cottage, so hopefully there will be pictures and Happy Dances in my future!

Here's hoping that things in your corner of the world are a little less....fraught.