When Life Hands You Lemons, Make Whiskey Sours-If You’re Not Allergic To Barley


During summer people go crazy from the heat. My eighteen-year-old-moved out of my house with no job and no prospects because she wants to prove to me that she’s a grown up. The previous owners of my house lied about the broken chimney and now I have a rotted roof and mold growing in the attic. I had to pay $40 dollars to get my dogs out of jail after the dogcatcher found them, and another $50 to register them with the city so that if they escape again the dogcatcher “might” bring them back home and not the pound. Last week, a man and his two kids screamed when my giant Lab/Newfie ran over to them causing him to nip at one of the kids, leaving a freckle-sized mark on the boy’s calf. The father went ballistic. He refused to believe we had a current rabies tag, took all my information, and when the vet verified I was telling the truth he never even called to say it was cool. The good news–I’m a writer. And I will turn all of this into something hilarious.


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