I've had one of those weeks.

You know what I mean.

Seven days ago I crafted a lengthy blog post on grammar and punctuation, but none of you got to read it. Some little gremlin in my computer decided to make everything go away about five seconds after I typed in the last period. I know it sounds like an error between the chair and the keyboard, but I know it wasn't my fault (I spent ten minutes after the disaster doing my best Han Solo impression...repeating 'it's not my fault' after the hyperdrive chugs and clanks to a grinding halt). I can only hope that somehow, my file was transmitted over some wireless connection and has now found it's way into space, where 50,000 years hence, some weird mushroom-people called the Spugg, on a planet halfway across the galaxy, will call-off their impending invasion of our home because they can't figure out what the hell I'm talking about and cower in fear over the mystery of it all.

So, if you think about it, I saved humanity-of-the-future.

Six days ago, my kitchen garbage-disposal went out, rusted tighter than a mermaid's chastity belt. You might be asking yourself: "Self, why should this be a problem for a man of such skill and character?". Well, as you may recall, I live in a fixer-upper and I am the fixer-upperer. And I am also the head chef. My kitchen is also stupidly small...like so small if you turn around counter-clockwise, you go back in time (though turning clockwise turns you into Wonder Woman - not a good look for me). When a major component goes out, the place gets much harder to keep clean and safe and good to eat things out of, especially when you have what happened...

Five days ago everyone in my house (except my steely-constitutioned Celtic-goddess of a wife), got this really...well...satanic stomach flu. I honestly didn't know I had so much liquid inside me. Regan from The Exorcist during the deepest throes of possession would have walked in my front door and said: "Eff this s**t, I'm outta here!"

It was by far the worst sickness I have ever had, which probably isn't saying much because I've been fairly fortunate during my 40 years and remained pretty healthy. I mean, I was having hallucinations during the wee hours of the morning. At one point, I judo-punched a space alien in the face as he stood next to my bed. If it wasn't a hallucination, I hope he doesn't take too much offense. Later that morning, I thought super-secret psychic Navy SEALs where going to steal my popsicles from the freezer. Then, even later, I actually thought Tank Girl was the greatest movie ever and watched it on Netflix. Twice.

Anyway, this went on for four days until...

Yesterday, I crawled out of bed and, like my very own Rocky sequel, took the eye of the tiger and took on the world with an unstoppable will and determination that would stop the hearts of lesser men.

Or...I just took a shower and shaved. I then went to Home Despot (no, that's not a typo) and bought a new Insinkerator 5/8 HP dual chamber, quiet-running disposal (a veritable Rolls Royce to my previous Yugo), installed it with all the pipe-wrenches and foul-mouthed glory I was due. Then I bought my family some roast chicken and french bread from the supermarket and ate like a man and slept like a baby. And then I got to...

Today. I totally replumbed my kitchen sink and cleaned the house from top to bottom, then sat down to do this post.

Maybe now I can get back to writing.

Have a great week, everyone!