My mother is convinced we're cursed. Anybody know a good Shaman?

Well, readers, it was an interesting weekend.

It began by me coming home from work Friday night to find the snow blower leaking the entire contents of its gas tank on my garage floor, followed by the entire house filling with gasoline fumes, followed by my mother calling the non-emergency fire department, followed by them coming to the house and telling us there was nothing they could do and then pouring some wood shaving thingies on the gasoline and then sweeping it up (it reminded me of elementary school when kids would puke in the cafeteria and Mr. Sheely, the custodian, would pour some saw dust on it and sweep it up--I was intrigued that the fire department didn't have something slightly more advanced, but I suppose if it ain't broke, don't fix it, right?!), followed by us sleeping with the windows open in the middle of a Logan snowstorm, followed by the house continuing to smell like a mechanic until my mother poured a bottle of Simply Green all over it and now instead of smelling like gasoline, the garage smells like a McDonald's bathroom. I suppose that is slightly better on the smells scale.

Then yesterday Gavin woke up with a fever and he was very lethargic, I thought he might have an ear ache, so I took him to InstaCare to get him checked out. Turns out his ears looked good, but his throat was a little red, so they swabbed him to test for strep throat. As soon as the nurse was finished sticking the over-sized Q-Tips down his throat, he turned to me and said, "I think I'm going to throw-up" and then proceeded to puke the contents of his stomach (two eggo waffles, syrup and a juice box) onto the floor of the exam room. The nurse felt so bad about gagging him that she gave him two dinosaur stickers and a dog-show sticker game. He just wanted to go home and have a Jones soda.

Hans and I did major Christmas grocery shopping yesterday and when we got home we wondered where we were going to put it all, I ended up leaving her to put the groceries away while I took Gavin to the doctor (see above paragraph). Well, when I went to get an apple for Sprinkles dinner, the refrigerator smelled of pickles and that's when I saw it--an electric green puddle at the bottom of the fridge--and using my keen sense of smell and observation discovered that our Christmas Ham had knocked over a bottle of pickles and the juice had spilled out and leaked down the different shelves of the fridge. I hate pickles. I hate the smell of pickles. I hate the idea of having to touch pickle juice, so I made my mom clean it up. Yeah, yeah, yeah. I know. I know. I'm a horrible daughter. But they were HER pickles and HER dumb Christmas Ham. And I hate pickles!!

It's snowing sideways here. I wonder how much a plane ticket to Puerto Rico would be...