The kind of week in which you throw a magic marker at your husband. It missed. For the record he totally deserved it.

The kind of week in which you go to drop off your daughter at her new preschool but you can’t button your cargo pants due to extreme bloating caused by a most atrocious round of PMS. Not the best look in the world.

“Hi, my name is Amanda and this is my lovely daughter Reese. Huh, what? Oh that? Yes, that’s my vag. Couldn’t button my pants today. Or yesterday. Tomorrow should be fine though, I promise. It’s nice though, isn’t it?”

It was the kind of week in which you contemplate shutting down your blog because really, why bother? The amount of time and effort you put into it is ridiculous. You could have cured trench mouth by now. Is there a cure for trench mouth yet? Well if not curing something, you could be watching another superb episode of The Real Housewives of New York City.

The kind of week in which your cat jumps onto your lap while you drink a glass of Syrah, spilling it all over your linen sofa. Who was the idiot who decided to buy a linen sofa?

The kind of week in which you eat seven pieces of birthday cake because your daughters had a birthday. On the SAME day. And if you don’t come home with two cakes your life will suck for the rest of the year.

The kind of week in which you go to a club to see a band and realize just how annoying people are. Especially the dancing lunatic standing next to you who keeps elbowing your face. This whirling dervish happens to look and dress exactly like Miranda from Sex and the City circa 1999. If Miranda had a brain damaged twin sister that is.

It was also the kind of week in which you have a dream that George Clooney is your boyfriend. Not completely ridiculous. Wonder if he likes kids. And three legged dogs. And women who throw magic markers.

I’m a little bit afraid of what next week will bring…