I’m in the throes of a dire artificially-flavored milkshake crisis.

I was supposed to go to the podiatrist today at 9 a.m. If you’ve been paying attention, however, that first sentence tells you TWO THINGS: 1) I didn’t actually go; and 2) okay, only ONE thing, which means I should ALSO tell you that I had to cancel at the last minute because I didn’t get out of bed until 8:40 — next time I hope somebody reminds me to remind Sam to wake me up — and I positively did NOT feel like walking out of the house with bed-head, stiff knees (we’re expecting rain), untweezed eyebrows and a shitty attitude. (But please don’t say anything. I simply told the doctor’s office I ruptured something.)