Oh, NO

The world is now a little less interesting without Robert Goulet in it.

Only slightly?

Yep. That seems right.

What happens when you don't read the memo

This Saturday, Conor's school is having Spooktacular, the annual Halloween blowout. I, being a PTA member and guilt-ridden single working mother, offered to make cupcakes for the bake sale. So last night, I made glorious butter-recipe chocolate cupcakes with an added surprise: Halloween bittersweet chocolate chips inside. Because what on earth is better than chocolate except even more chocolate?

As I pulled them out of the oven, Conor came sidling in (the oven door sound to him is like the sound of a can opener is to a cat, I suppose).

"What's that?"

"Cupcakes for Spooktacular."

"They're chocolate."

"Yes. Yes they are, and I even added chocolate chips in there, too."

. . .

"What, hon?"

"The paper said no chocolate."

"The paper?"

"In my backpack. The signup sheet said no chocolate."

There was no sound at this moment. But if there had been, I imagine it would have sounded a lot like a bubble bursting.

"Mom. Can I have one?"

"Yes. Yes you can."

Tonight, She Who Cannot Follow Directions will make yellow cupcakes instead. And tomorrow, She Who Cannot Read will bring 23 chocolate chocolate-chip Halloween cupcakes to work, where there will be much appreciation and no knowledge of She Who Is A Dumbass' mistake.

All better.

Because Ricki did it.

How will I die? Your Result: You will die while saving someone's life.   The most noble of all deaths. Your rewards will be great in the next life. You are most definitely a humanitarian. If not currently, you will be. To give one's life is a precious moment that will be remembered by friends and family for many decades.
You will die in a car accident.
You will die from a terminal illness.
You will die in a nuclear holocaust.
You will die while having sex.
You will be murdered.
You will die in your sleep.
You will die of boredom.
How will I die? Create a Quiz

Hm. I don't know if that's a good or bad thing. Good for the save-ee, I suppose. For me, not so much. Oh, well, it's better than going from a terminal illness.

Three weeks

It's been three weeks since I've had a cigarette.

And boy, am I pissed.

Maybe I said that wrong, but the thing I've noticed most is the irritability. And the mood swings. And the depression. That's been a big barrel of super happy funtime.

The tightness in my chest and the coughing as my body still tries to rid itself of the poison I'd been feeding it . . . that's a bonus. As is the night-waking, the fatigue and the spotty concentration.

But it's all good. I keep telling myself that. I'm going to be so much better in as little as a week. All I have to do is hold on, ride it out. And FOR GOD'S SAKE, don't have one, don't think for a moment that you can contain it to just one, just when you really need it.

I DON'T NEED IT. I DON'T.

Cripes, I feel like ass.