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It's a Monday!

Whenever any member of my family (one husband, 6 schnauzers, 2 cats) or I have a lousy day, I always think to myself that it's because it's a Monday. Even if the rotten event happened on a Friday, I'll still refer to it as a Monday mess-up. It would appear that it wasn't until about three seconds ago when my brain woke up for the day that I realized I'm a prejudiced bitch, at least about negative occurrences happening only on Mondays. What do I have against Mondays? I don't know, but a lot of professionals and other service providers I use have come to understand that I will never make appointments on a Monday.Got a suspicious looking mole on my leg? No way am I going to the dermatologist on a Monday because dollars to donuts, the diagnosis would be melanoma (translation: you're going to die a horrible excruciating death but only after you go through weeks of nauseating chemotherapy, 4,000 doses of radiation, and all the money you were saving for your old age). So far I've excluded about 50 people from Monday appointments, including my shrink, my dentist, my GP, my hair stylist (on a Monday I just know my hair color would be turned to vomit green instead of its current lush auburn), my bottled water delivery guy (I'm sure he'd leave the tainted-with-mold variety), and my barista. Yes, I never go to Starbucks on a Monday because then I'd probably get a weak vanilla latte spiked with a hint of opioids--just enough to make me drive through two red lights and badmouth the cop who pulled me over. I also never contact editors on Mondays because I realize that they're pretty much like me on Mondays: resentful about going back to work; tired and too caffeinated to engage in a coherent conversation; and just plain moody and negative about LIFE AND ALL THEIR PETTY ACCOMPLISHMENTS. So I have a mega ego crisis every Monday that results in giving myself a pep talk about my writing prowess, my status as a career woman (as opposed to a no-nothing homebody who cares for pets and babbles on a blog), and my future as a cherished friend and wife. That last one really has a way of sneaking up on me and turning me to jello. I'm convinced that most of the narcissists I consider to be my friends are secretly planning to out me to the immediate world. Then I'd be forced to kill them, and I'd hate to become a mass murderer. Just kidding. I really wouldn't kill them with the shovel I keep handy in the garage, but I would have to apply super glue to their lips and hands so they wouldn't have the option of spreading nasty truths about me to their families and scribbling factoids on Facebook and Twitter. I figure I'm going to die someday (on a Monday, of course), but as long as it's not one of those Mondays declared holidays because the real holiday falls on a weekend when everyone already has the day off, then it's going to be okay. My obituary wouldn't hit the newspapers until at least Tuesday and by then, according to the latest psychic I've consulted, my soul will have had the time to adjust to its non-earthly existence and would be flitting around in heaven from dog to dog, making sure they all had their parvo shots and were on leashes.I intend to be an animal activist in my next life so I might as well get some experience in a nonjudgmental setting (which I hope heaven is because if it's not, I might just have to write a nasty Facebook message to the Pope). But let's face it. I would be better off dying on a non-Monday when everyone is planning on going to happy hour after work. Because then lots of people would be toasting my demise and saying nice things like "I'm glad she didn't die on a Monday and mess up my week." One thing I'm glad about: I don't think I was born on a Monday. I've seen pictures of myself as a baby, and I was damned cute! J. Arenofsky, author, raconteur, and blogger

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