My engagement ring broke, a week before my formal engagement shoot. (Call Cousin Billy. [All Jews have relatives in the jewelry industry, duh.])
My non-shedding dog and I are both under the weather and I don’t know how we’re going to manage to get to Connecticut in time for break fast. (Feed her rice, chicken broth and generic immodium [intended for humans, dosed for puppies by someone lacking a degree in veterinary medicine] and start atoning on the train. Heavily.)
I can’t find a sufficiently chic location for a November trip with my fiance, M.D. (Book six nights here.)
Trader Joes discontinued my favorite Indian food. (Throw a tantrum so public and disturbing that a three-year old in a shopping cart looks up at her mother, wide-eyed, and half-whispers, “What is wrong with that lady?”)
A penchant for drama and an addiction to pav bhaji is a recipe for trouble, clearly.