Dear Monday

Dear Monday, April 19, 2001:

You totally sucked.

You started out kind of exciting, with a trip to the escrow office to sign loan papers. Then, someone popped in and said, "Oh, guess what? You're closing today! And also, your loan lock expires at 5pm so you better get all your money into escrow in... say... now? kthxbye!"

And then the shizzle totally hit the fizzle.

I spent over two hours trying to get Bank of America to wire my money into my escrow account. (On a related note: Dear BofA, You also totally suck.) Two. Hours. Three times through the automated phone system. Four customer service reps. One massive pile of suckitude.

Jeremy spent what morphed into a day and a half trying to get another portion of the money wired and in the end felt as though he'd been put through Count Rugen's Machine. "I've just sucked one year of your life away. I might one day go as high as five but I really don't know what that would do to you."

Once it was finally past 5pm and there was nothing more we could do involving financial transactions, I thought you might stop sucking a little bit.

But no.

Then you handed me a four-year-old with a raging earache. An earache so painful that it was impervious to Tylenol, mother-cuddling, and Barney DVDs. And of course, as Chelsea writhed and howled in my arms, Savannah voiced her protest as only a two-year-old can: loudly.

Monday, you are already a sucky day in general. What are your redeeming qualities, exactly? (Psssst: You don't have any.)

So what business do you have adding extreme financial anxiety and sick children to your repertoire?

None, Monday. You have none.

I'm giving you six days to clean up your act, motherflipper.

No love,
Heidi
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