Oh my God, did I just reduce myself to using a Sammy Davis, Jr. song title for this blog post? My sweet Lord, I need a vacation. Or a tequila. Or possibly both. Where is my manservant? I need someone to book me a flight immediately. And also pay for it, 'cuz mama's broke.
My Anonymous Mother is like some kind of yard sale Batman: where does she get those wonderful toys? This is a giant Candyland game, which would be absolutely perfect for toddlers if they understood the concepts of "turns" and "rules" and "no cheating" and "not every square on the board is yellow."
My sister was talking about getting some "quality Shae time," which of course I think is completely redundant while I write blog posts on my lunch break -- all time with Shae is quality time! -- and then I go home and I have to interrupt a Very Special Episode of "Shaun the Sheep" so we can eat dinner and all hell breaks loose and I want to remind my sister, again, to WAIT TO HAVE KIDS UNTIL YOU A THREE-YEAR STOCKPILE OF VALIUM IN THE BASEMENT. Minimum.
I don't even know what the hell this face is supposed to be. No doubt it will be going on the "Blooper Reel" special feature portion of the DVD of her life. Or whatever. (My teeth still hurt too much to mix metaphors properly -- endodontist on Wednesday.)