As I headed out the door early this morning to begin the 1/4 mile walk down the mountain towards my car, bleary eyed from the shock of Daylight Savings Time, I half expected to be greeted by flashing lights, and guys in bullet proof vests with guns drawn.

    *Insert sound of male voice distorted by megaphone here.*

    "Marn, this is The Fashion Police. Put your hands up over your head, come along quietly, and nobody gets hurt."

    Oh yeah, it was that bad.

    Today was gym day but last week was particularly crazy what with juggling work, gym, and the added bonus of maple syrup season beginning. There aren't enough hours in the day for everything and one of the things that I let slide was the laundry.

    So today's fetching gym ensemble was: bright green stretch pants that sag in the butt and are stretched out at the knees, utterly shapeless dusty rose tee-shirt, the whole shebang topped off with one of Paul's oversize, badly wrinkled denim work shirts.

    .:cough:.

    You might think it could not get worse than that, but sadly you would be wrong.

    See, the powers that rule the cosmos also decreed that it was time to have a bad hair day. Actually, scratch that. Bad hair day does not really encompass what was happening on my head today. Hideous hair day is a much more accurate description.

    See, yesterday when I was in the sugar house running the rig my bangs kept getting in my eyes. So last night when I got home I grabbed some scissors and cut them. Take it from me, you so do not want to be trimming bangs when you are tired, cranky, and just generally out of sorts.

    And now my bangs, which generally skim my eyebrows, ride a good half an inch above them. If you are young and hip this is a good look, eh. If you are my age it does not say "Bjork", it says "dork".

    So that's my Monday.

    The rest of the week is going to be better, right?