First, I could go without pulling up and into the left turn lane at a stoplight and seeing the person to my right with her pinky finger so far up her nose that the ring she is wearing on the same finger is barely visible.
Second, I could do without the burning sensation that follows the holding back of a forceful sneeze while preserving a mouthful of whisky.
Third, I could do well without the embarrassment of seeing ducks in my pond bobbing up and down in an unusual way, calling the kids to the window to observe the strange sight while I put on my glasses only to realize that the ducks are doing what ducks do in order to make baby ducks.
Fourth, I would have a dandy week without traveling to the furthest corner of the local Walmart for a gallon of milk only to have the clerk at aisle nine counsel me that the gallon I’ve retrieved must have a very small hole as I’ve managed to leave no insignificant trail throughout the store.
Fifth, I suppose I might call it a good week if I don’t open the closet door into my face.
Sixth, it would be a glorious phenomenon to go an entire week without having to plunge the toilet in the kids’ bathroom.
Seventh, I’m guessing that most men would count it all good if as they are trimming their beard, one of the thicker hairs doesn’t shoot up and become lodged in a nearly irretrievable position in the corner of their eye.
Eighth, I would posit that it’s been a decent week for most when each time you sit on the couch, the youngest daughter doesn’t ask to sit on your lap as if seeking quality time together when in fact she’s only trying to fart on you—and by way of several angelic apologies, she manages to trick you into allowing it multiple times.
Ninth, I whole-heartedly believe that it has been a splendid gathering of seven days when the sour cream you put on your softshell taco wasn’t from an expired tub. Cue the gulp from a cask strength whisky to counteract the ravaging bacteria.
Yeah, your days are well ordered when you aren’t smelling what seems an awful lot like a sludge of stale candy and gasoline. Sure, there’s at least the candy, but it’s that mystery candy that the older folks in the neighborhood give out at Halloween. You know, that strange molasses type chew wrapped in an orange or black wrapper with no label. I think they’re called Mary Janes, but I can’t be for sure. All I know is that if you take one of those and soak it for a month in gasoline that’s been sitting in the shed through a very harsh winter, you get the scent of Early Times Kentucky Whiskey.
Actually, on second thought, you know the smell that comes from the dishwasher when the plastic spatula falls down onto the heating element and melts during the dry cycle? That could be it, too.
With that, I’d say you’re doing pretty well when you aren’t palating a whiskey that tastes an awful lot like it’s been aged in a plastic barrel used to tag and bring up sharks. It’s abnormally bitter with a little bit of saltiness and very little wood character. And maybe there’s a little bit of something sweet in there, but again, consider the candy from the nosing. No one eats those. Everyone throws them out.
Lastly, your life is blessed when you aren’t faced with a medium finish in which the only thing you can do is buckle over and petition God to please bring the wretchedness to an end.
Yeah, if none of these things happen, your week is going pretty well.