It’s Sunday night and the sink is piled up with dishes plastered with leftover pasta and greens. There’s pots with crusted cheese sauce that’ll need a jackhammer to break through and a countertop that’s stained like a preschool art table. I’m better off to throw out the pot, but then there’s the financial woes that immediately races through my brain of doing something so irrational. The stench from the filthy washwater is starting to get to me, so I furiously toss everything in the dishwasher only to realize I’m out of detergent. My son’s in the livingroom, several feet away in our tiny one bedroom apartment, with the sound of his video game cranked up on the television speaker like it’s a Guns n Roses concert, while I’m desperately holding in my pee, because I still need to prepare his lunch for school the next morning and figure out something for the school bake sale. Meanwhile, my head’s racing with thoughts flashing of my upcoming workweek from hell: reports are due, meetings to be conducted and sixteen hour days are inevitable. Then, I have to figure out what to prepare for dinner this week. The fridge is empty because I somehow didn’t have the time to stop off at the supermarket because I was too busy worrying about the funny sound my car was making this past week. How timely, I kept saying to myself.