I can't really type because I stabbed myself yesterday while trying to remove some unnecessary and insane piece of plastic from the handle bars of Glady's new princess bike. I had to lean over the sink for quite a long time trying not to pass out even while my husband insisted it wasn't that big of "poke" and why was I pretending to swoon. "I'm pretty sure I stabbed through to my bone, you Horrible Person," I wept. Now I am holding my wounded pinky in the air like an insufferable snob, and moaning to myself about how difficult life is.
Although not that intolerable because I made so much pie yesterday everyone just had two quarter-sized pieces for breakfast. With tea. And now everywhere is smeared with pie and puddles of tea are flung far across the wide expanse of my red table. And children are roving over the face of the house coloring on the wall with marker, whining about having to do school, roaring, and taking ice out of the freezer to build an ice mountain on the floor, respectively. So I guess I won't laboriously upload birthday photos and write a nice long post. I guess I'll go shout at everyone to get to work and see about rescuing some of the pie.
Pip Pip.
3 comments:
Put on one of the pretty band aids I left there and you will feel better.
Art
Anne, please write a book. I am begging.
Oooo, a book by Anne Kennedy. I would love that. I might finally learn how the cat was rescued out of the basement!
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