How many of you are familiar with “Alexander and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day”? I discovered it when my kids were very young, and it became a family favorite. In fact, for years, every time one of them had a bad day, we’d get out the tattered copy of Alexander, read it, say we were moving to Australia (Alexander’s day was so bad that it could only be fixed by moving to Australia), and talk about whatever the problem was. Do you wanna hear how bad my weekend was? I mean do you really want to hear this?

I’m moving to Australia.

For those of you that are still here, I really had a crappy weekend. All the elements were there to make it anything BUT a bad weekend. A volleyball tournament for my daughter. The acceptance letter from Incredible High. Sunny, cloudless skies with temps topping out at about 77 degrees. Sounds perfect, huh?

No freakin’ way.

First, the volleyball tournament was cut short by, well, the team losing. Miss Priss really rocked the house — a huge feat given the deer-caught-in-headlights-looks that she and the other girls wore the first night of the tournament — but to no avail. And because Miss Priss beats herself up about stuff like that, I had quite a bit of consoling to do during the car ride home. But we knew that as soon as we got home, the mail would have come and we would celebrating Mr. Cool’s admission to the school that would guarantee his future. At least that’s what the brochures tell us. The letters were mailed on Friday. Confirmed.

There. Was. Nothing. In. The. Mail.

Well of course there wasn’t. Everyone else in the area received their letters from the school they applied to. See, the way it works in the parochial high school system here is that you list Choice 1, 2, and 3. You don’t receive a rejection letter from any of them. You simply receive an acceptance letter from whichever school offers you admission. So if he did not get into Incredible High, then Sorry-Ass- Choice #2 would have sent him an acceptance letter. Go ahead, I’ll wait while you ponder the possibility of receiving an offer from School #3, knowing that Numbers 1 and 2 don’t like your kid. Okay. Done?

But there was, simply, NO letter in the mail. Do. You. Have. Any. Idea. What. A. Downer. That. Is?

After we let off a little steam, the family decided to just fuggedaboutit and get through the rest of the wonderful weekend and hope that the pony express made it on Monday.

So Sunday, Miss Priss and I got out to run some errands (and attend church, for pete’s sake). We’re just minding our own business when BAM! Someone just knocks the hell outta our vehicle. I stopped the car, got out, and noticed that the other driver was not having any of the stopping. She just took off. So guess who got to sit in a parking lot until the police came. Over an hour. Funny — what once was a pleasant 77 degrees became an unpleasant, greenhouse effect-inducing gazillion degrees as we sat in the car. The police finally came, I filled out a million reports, and I gave the officer the license plate number.

How much you wanna bet she didn’t have insurance? Betting starts now.

My vehicle is barely a year old. I take good care of it. And this inconsiderate ass tears up the entire passengers’ side, from front to rear, and doesn’t bother to stop.

I’m counting my blessings, of course, that we were okay. But I am really, really pissed at this chick.

So let’s hope that today I can get an appointment with an adjuster at my insurance company without too much hassle. Let’s hope that the police are able to track sistah down and give her a coupla two tree tickets for my trouble. And let’s hope that Incredible High’s name has not changed to Impossible High.

Happy Monday. Next stop, Australia.