They say bad things happen in threes.

I want to know who ‘they’ are and why they deemed three the magic number. Why couldn’t it have been two? Better yet, why not just one? Isn’t one bad thing enough? Do people really need added insult to injury when they are dealing with something horrible already?

Whoever ‘they’ are I’d like to meet them. I have a cowboy boot I’d like to stuff up someone’s arse. It may not make the bad things go away but I’ll certainly get a little pleasure out of it.

It started with a phone call. My husband was in a work accident and was gassed with a lovely mixture of carbon monoxide and hydrogen sulfide. Just as I was dealing with the scary prospect of growing old alone I fell on my back. My already injured back.

As I lay flat on my back, gasping to regain the air that was knocked completely out of me, I stared at the big Northern blue sky and asked “Are you f*cking KIDDING me with this shit?” It was right about then that my lovely dog, Nixon the World’s Biggest Rat Fink, came over to me, licked my face and turned around to take a poop not three inches from my head.

Did I mention I was carrying the little rat while I fell and all I could think of as my feet went over my head and gravity got the better of me was, “Protect the Dog!”

He’s just damn lucky I didn’t land on him to cushion the blow.

Just when I thought life would not hurl any more rotten tomatoes at my still throbbing head, when I came home to discovere I have no water.

I mean, I have water. 2300 gallons of freshly delivered water sitting in my cistern 100 feet from my house. But for some reason I have no water coming into my house.

So I have a ridiculously ill husband who can barely stand up right without losing his breath, a bruised tail bone and pinched sciatic nerve from my Olympic-like splat onto an ice patch and no water to drink, flush  toilets with or even shower.

It’s good times around here people. Good times.

I’ll be around. Mainly away from the computer. Bent over, whining and in pain while scraping snow into buckets to boil just so the kids can flush the damn toilets.

Life. It doesn’t get any more glamorous than this.

That is, if you define glamour as desperately needing a shower, a back rub and a maid.

Sigh.