Anyone want a hot dog? I have, like, 700 packages clogging my freezer.
Me, well, I'm enjoying* a glass of Merlot with my hot dog. I've decided to forgo the bun this time, and have speared the entire dog on a fork, which I am blythely quadruple dipping in a puddle of catsup between sips, and occasionally waving around like a conductor's baton.
*enjoying is a relative term. I'm actually sort of chewing the wine, since in my zeal to uncork the bottle I split the cork and am therefore periodically pausing to pick a fleck of cork off my tongue. Really, I'm feeling the genius behind boxed wine.
The kids have been fed, bathed and are now engaged in some sort of game that involves stuffing plastic barn animals in the ferris wheel of doom that belongs to my son's Hot Wheels set. Maybe Matchbox, I don't know. It clearly calls for lots of distressed barnyard noises, and loud clicking noises when the animals jam in the chute. If I have to rescue another wedged pig or jack-knifed cow I'm going to have a fit.
Maybe I should make it into a drinking game.
Anyway, this has been one of those days. I'm grumpy, my children have had my number all day, and whenever they zigged, I zagged. Messes were made. Tantrums were thrown. Attitudes sucked. And THAT was ME.
It sounds like a holy war has broken out between the cows and the pigs. My youngest just crawled up into my lap and she smells like buttered popcorn. It's a nice smell, but WHY does she smell this way? What has she been rolling in and where is the spill located?
Sigh. I'm weary and should go to bed as soon as the kids drop tonight, but for the love of Jack Bauer, I will press on. I think I will read that Beatrix Potter books about the vindictive mice who trash the dollhouse for the bedtime story tonight, since it suits my mood.