Manolo says, it is Monday of the final week before the Day of Labor, and you now feel as if your entire summer has been wasted.
Oh, you had such big plans in May. Not only were you going to do your big week-long trip to the lake, where the kids would get enough sunburn and poison ivy to last the winter, but you had also planned to refinish the deck, resod the backyard, plant some new trees, clean out and organize the garage, begin remodeling the downstairs bathroom, and repave the driveway.
Of the course, none of this happened.
Well, at the least, Gary did manage to install the new mailbox, one of those heavy-duty steel models, guaranteed to break the arm of anyone who hits it with the baseball bat while hanging out of the window of the speeding Camero. (Gary seemed positively gleeful about this prospect. “I want to go get the paper one morning and find body parts,” he said as he made his way, shovel in hand, through the narrow path in the garage, “a couple of fingers, or maybe a whole arm.” In his defense, this is the fourth mailbox in as many years.)
Suburban home ownership, ugh. It make you want to give it all up and move into the little pied-à-terre in the city, something directly upstairs from the quaint French bakery.
Of the course, this dream of yours will never happen. Where would Gary park the ski boat?
What you need now is something to spice up the mundanity of your existence. Look, here are the very urban, slightly scary, extremely expensive boots from Jean Paul Gaultier.
If this does not make you forget the unfortunate color scheme of the downstairs bathroom, nothing will.