Vacation, all I ever wanted.

We were supposed to go to the beach in September, but that got shot all to hell because you can't push a wheelchair across sand. The place is booked for a week in May, and when I went to check P's calendar he'd actually already put it on. Yay!

Now that that's out of the way, I am free to ponder the inexplicable mysteries of life, like HOW in the HELL do my children get washcloths so dingy? They use them once, with soap. Water is already clean. They don't usually appear to be encrusted with dirt, and the tub gets washed regularly. HOW? How are the white washcloths now all beige-y?

Declaration.

Every once in a while, I make a grand, sweeping declaration that offends at least four people, who then feel compelled to explain to me why they're different and have extenuating circumstances that must be taken into account.

Today, I make a grand declaration, for which there are no excuses.

If you are driving in a torrential downpour with hail mixed in, and you turn on your flashers for no reason except that you want people to see you, you are a total clueless ass.

As if it isn't hard enough to see the road in those conditions, some dork in front of you turns on flashers and slows to a crawl, thus ensuring that you cannot see a damn thing except his flashing, glaring lights.

Dude, they're hazard lights, and the only reason that one could allow that you're using them properly is that you are the hazard.

Assholes. DON'T DRIVE WITH YOUR DAMN FLASHERS ON. Gah.