Dear Abby:

As I spent this evening cleaning regurgitated corn out of my daughter's bathtub, a fleeting thought crossed my mind.
I do not remember the last time that I completed one single day without smelling like a wet dog. Each and every morning before I wake my children, I am clean, groomed and smell of the finest Donna Karen Parfum.
My children are my heart and soul. I do not remember my life before them, nor do I care to.
What I fail to understand, Dear Abby, is how I somehow end my days a ragged mess, reeking of sweat and covered in bodily fluid other than my own.
Could you please explain to me how the God of Beauty is on a perpetual vacation and how the God of Pungent Stench and the God of Sick Humor appear to be watching over me?

Signed,
Graceless Stench of a Mom in Alabama