Fromage...by Calvin Klein

Recently, I have become addicted to Laughing Cow Swiss cheese wedges; there's just no better snack. I love grabbing a piece, peeling back its saucy silver wrapper, and popping it whole into my mouth.

Today a wedge, favoring a quick death over mastication and digestion, took a suicide leap from my fingers and bounced off my cans, landing in my lap. A milky white comet trail of cheese streaked down the front of my black sweater and black skirt.

Oy vey Maria.

This is where my Girl Scout training came in handy, for I always keep a Shout Wipe in my purse, and it made short work of the cheese smears. Unfortunately, it did nothing for the smell, and I'm hoping I don't run into a swarm of horny mice between now and the time I get home.

And then, to add insult to stinky injury, I went to the break room to get a substitute snack---I wasn't going to eat no crotch cheese---and I didn't pay close enough attention to the front of the Baked Lay's bag, and I wound up buying sour cream and ONION-flavored chips, which I didn't notice until I had already eaten one. My tongue was instantly covered in a fug of horrible oniony nastiness, and I wanted to puke, but I didn't have another Shout Wipe and couldn't risk splatter.

Christ, it's just been one of those days.