Let's just say that yesterday was a day. While onsite for one of my clients
  • hours were spent waiting for urgent jobs to arrive;
  • quiet-talkers kept on wondering why I wasn't responding to questions I felt only a canine would be able to hear;
  • access to the Internet was down:
  • I picked up a bottle of Coke Zero instead of Diet Coke at the variety store, and didn't realize my mistake until after I'd opened it and
  • I was feeling stressed about an article that was due the next day; I had nothing done yet.

Oh yeah, I was rocking my Wednesday like a rehabilitated Axel Rose. All I needed were the skin-tight jeans and a sweaty bandana to make it pretty.

That's why the DH suggested we go out for dinner instead of having me near the knives. Or the cheese grater. Feeling like a big-ass salad with more fat and calories than a cheeseburger, I suggested Wendy's.

There's just something about a fast-food joint that offers baked potatoes that makes me happy, even during the crankiest of times. As we stood waiting for someone behind the counter to acknowledge our presence, an aura of broccoli-and-cheese-inspired calm surrounded me. I placed my order and was caught up in my thoughts about the fantabulous article I was going to write despite the incredible pressure that my procrastination had created. It was all gonna be okay...

Until I noticed that there was only one drink on our tray. Then I snapped, crackled and popped.

The lone cup meant only one thing: the DH didn't order the combo. He ordered a potato and a burger without a drink.

"No drink," I said.

"Yeah, so?" he replied, stepping forward to grab the tray.

I blocked him with a hip-check and leaned into him as he struggled to regain his balance by clutching the counter. The debit-card machine dangled by its cord; it had been pushed from its regular spot beside the cash register.

"Why didn't you get the combo?"

He tried to push back, but my PMS had given me superpowers.

"I. Wasn't. Thirsty."

"But it's cheaper when you get the combo!" I screeched. By this point the cashier and the fry guy had stepped away from the counter, both of them eyeing each other and wondering whether or not to call the manager in from the office.

"Will you get your nails out of my arm? You're drawing blood!" he shouted back. He tried to twist his arm away, almost toppling over my drink. The one that came with my combo.

"I can re-do your order sir," the cashier said with a squeak.

"Forget it!" I snarled as I grabbed the tray and stomped over to a table.

"Sorry about that," I heard the DH say behind me, "she's a writer."