Wednesday was my turn to cook night so being the gourmet chef that I am I tossed some crap in the crock pot and headed down to Dave’s house. I’ve had that nasty ear and throat ache for a few days and wasn’t feeling like getting all gussied up just to drive down for dinner and Duck Dynasty (it’s been a year, he knows he’s already seen the best it’s gonna get and it’s all downhill from here) so I threw on my lounge wear (monkey pajama bottoms and a ratty Bass Pro sweat shirt) and dragged myself into the car. Now, smarter people than me know that when you put something filled with hot food in your car you should probably pack things around it to keep it from turning over. Especially if “it” is your mother’s 30 year old crock pot that sits on wobbly legs and is bizarrely top heavy. But we all know my chronic lack of forethought and common sense so of course I just sat it in the floor and blissfully went on my merry way. I hadn’t even made it to the highway before it turned over. So there I was on the shoulder of the off ramp racing around my hooptie in baby blue flannel pajama bottoms that are 3 sizes too big and covered in frolicking monkeys and that I have to hold up if I’m moving very fast because the elastic waistband is all worn out, crusty old flip flops and swinging free in a faded, hunter orange Bass Pro sweat shirt trying to salvage chicken and rice from the dog hair in the floor board of my Honda. After I finished scorching my hands shoveling unsavable dog dander casserole on to the pavement I had to schlep back around the car while being passed by nosey travelers not even pretending not to stare. I could just FEEL the “hey you’re going the wrong direction, WalMart is back that way” jokes being told. Jerks. I’m starting to get the feeling the universe is trying to tell me to stop going out in public looking like a washed up hooker. Pft, like that’s gonna happen.