Where is the goddamn Merlot?

I should have known something was up. My hairdryer blew out three weeks ago. Little did I know the heinous fuckery the universe had in store for me. My thoughtful husband then replaced it two weeks later. In the mean time, my friend Jodie, in all her coiffed-ness, said, "You're killing me." 
But I thought, eh, no big deal, it was just the hairdryer.
Oh, no, it wasn't just the hairdryer. All my appliances began to hate me. It was like they all decided to have a PMS day. The day I started using my new hair dryer, the garbage disposal took a turn for the worse. It started leaking and I swear I head it cry, "OMG! You expect me to crush this!! After all those things I've done for you, the leftover salad dregs, no, this is NOT HAPPENING!"
I got it Midol and a glass of Merlot.
"NO! I WILL NOT BE BOUGHT OFF! YOU LET THAT LITTLE CHEAP HARLOT DRY YOUR HAIR! WHY NOT ME? WHY???"
I was a little worried. But I'm from a family of do it yourselfers (mostly in the form of duct tape and hot glue) and I thought. 'Yeah, I can handle that.' I armed myself with my tools and the internet, intent on fixing our little problem. Two hours later, we still couldn't get the damn thing off the sink. I disabled the right side of the sink to the kids and decided to tackle it later. Turned out to be one week later, but I finally got to tackle it on Saturday morning, I started my laundry first and BOOM! The washer has a bitch fit. "FUCK YOU! BLANKETS? ARE YOU FUCKING SERIOUS?!?!?! I'M BLOATED AND FAT AND YOU GIVE ME FUCKING BLANKETS! WHERE IS THE GODDAMN MERLOT?"
Water is all over. Three hours and three floods later, I realize the moisture sensor is bad. Okay, we can replace that. Easy! Oh yeah, maybe I can pick up the part tomorrow in San Jose when I go see my parents and drop off two of my four children to hang for a couple of days. They are an hour and half away, just enough distance and time for me to miss them without feeling guilty.
When I get  up the following morning, I discover my Tia Maria has arrived and the athlete's foot I'm fighting (thanks kids! ah, the joys of parenthood) is almost unbearable. As I'm driving, guess what? The car is in on it too! "BITCH, YOU THINK I'M JUST GONNA LET YOU DRIVE ME ALL OVER? DO YOU HAVE ANY IDEA WHAT YOU ARE DOING TO MY TREADS? I JUST GOT THESE BITCHES AND YOU'RE GIVING ME HOOKER HOOVES! HELL NO! GET ME A CHOCOLATE BAR NOW!"
By the time I chug to my parents' house, the kids are ready to flee the scene before some bad shit goes down. Except for Pottymouth, he's probably got a video camera and can't wait to post Mommy's meltdown on YouTube.
My mother took one look at me, saw the steam from my ears and I blurt out everything to her and she says, "We can fix that. No sweat. I think I have an extra garbage disposal. Are you going to the doctor? You should go for the foot thing."
Yeah, my parents are those parents. They are not hoarders exactly, more like an orphanage for Home Depot. Not in a bad way, they don't keep everything, some appliances go to good homes and a few are adopted by Brangelina (it must be genetic, I have an extra dryer in my garage).
My dad pops in and say, "No, I think I have a new garbage disposal still in the box. What foot thing?"
They even have an extra washer. Not that I need one and I decline, but I'm more concerned about my bitch tripping car. By the end of the day, my car is fixed, I'm driving home with two garbage disposals and some steaks, because I think, according to my dad, meat will also fix everything. My father gives me a hug and I'm grateful that he thinks meat will fix everything - I really didn't want to cook dinner.

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