It was a dark and stormy Monday, the kind of Monday that could drive a gal to drink...

[Insert cheesy 1940s or 1950s detective music and imagine Humphrey Bogart as Sam Spade (or Philip Marlowe) or Garrison Keillor as Radio Private Eye Guy Noir reading this post. Trust me, it will be way more entertaining.]

It was one of those post-long weekend Mondays, the kind of Monday where you have lots to do and not enough time to do it and you swear that some evil spirit or sprite is out to get you....

The day started off okay, albeit a little hectic. But on the plus side, the black cat didn't knock over his litter box, nor did the orange-and-black stripey model throw up her breakfast all over the house, as often happens, particularly when I got places to go and people to see. So I was feeling pretty good.

I got the kid to her day camp on time, only to discover her friends had been mysteriously placed in another group. But at least the kid liked her counselor. So I figured I was battin' .500, which, as anyone who follows baseball knows, ain't too bad.

I even got in a quick workout at the gym -- after knocking back some Ibuprofen and covering my neck and back with Biofreeze to mitigate the borderline migraine headache I'd been dealing with since last night. Again, so far, so good.

I had a lot on my mind, and I got home just in time to talk with my first client -- only to realize as I picked up the phone that the line wasn't working. I kept my cool, or tried to, casually checking each phone. Nothing. Nothing but noise and static and whispers, making civilized communication impossible.

This normally would not throw me off my game, but, like I said, I had people to talk to and questions to ask. And my first appointment was with a gentleman in the U.K., who was there on vacation, and had asked me several times if I was sure I would be able to call him as he was staying at his in-laws and didn't want to run up their phone bill. Of course, I reassured him. No problem. But I was wrong. Dead wrong.

After several failed attempts at conversation using the land line, unable to use the spouse's VoIP line, which doesn't allow one to make overseas calls, and unable to ratchet up the speaker on my cell phone to hear more than a whisper, the analyst agreed to call me.

Try as he might, from both his land line and his cell phone, he couldn't hear me -- and I could barely hear him over the static and buzzing. So we agreed to call it quits. He would have to email me the answers to my questions.

It was now time to do a little troubleshooting. My specialty. So I grabbed the old analog phone from the bedroom and a cord from my office and headed outside, in the muck and the dirt, to test the line. It wasn't pretty. But life ain't always pretty. As I suspected, the problem was in the line.

So I went online to AT&T's Web site to file a service report when the site went dead. Strike two.

That's when I picked up the phone and placed the call -- only to wend my way through a seemingly endless set of instructions. After navigating and pressing the appropriate buttons, I got a recorded message that my problem had been noted -- and should be repaired by Friday, July 11, at 6:30 p.m. For those of you not too good at math, that was over 100 hours from when I reported the problem. Just saying.

So I popped a couple more pills -- this time some naproxen sodium (aka Aleve) -- and made my way to the spouse's office, to use his Voice over IP line. Problem solved. At least temporarily.

But the story doesn't end there.

While on the can, I noticed that the newly repainted trim didn't look quite right. Although I had no time for dilly-dallying, I couldn't let this pass. So I headed down to the garage, where the extra paint was kept, and, after discovering the bastards who had done the paint job neglected to label the cans, lugged several cans up to the bathroom -- and then went in search of something to pry the lids open, some brushes, and a stirrer.

The clock was ticking. I had a kid to get from camp. And I had work to do. But I was a broad on a mission. That ivory paint had me in a snit, and if there's one thing I can't stand, it's ivory trim when it's supposed to be white.

Somehow, I made it to camp on time. But that's when things got ugly, real ugly.

As I pulled my Mini into the last available spot, I heard a grotesque sound, like a goose being run over by an ice cream truck. I put my car into reverse, but that made the sound worse. And now people were looking at me and children were pointing. Not a good sign.

It turns out, some concrete had come loose, and in my hurry, and in trying to avoid all the SUVs twice my size all around me and children running into the parking lot without looking, I didn't realize it -- until I had driven right over it. Like I said, things got ugly, fast.

But time and my kid wait for no dame. So I parked as best I could, with the concrete block wedged under my front end, and dashed onto the field to get the little angel, who then helped me dislodge said block from underneath the front of my ride.

I could tell you about how later I burned the chicken, undercooked the broccoli, and threw out my back, but I got a kid to put to bed and work to do.