Let me preface this post by saying I am blogging while barely conscious. I wish there was a good story. There isn't. Unless you are intrigued by tales of shots in the backside (or just slightly north of there) that render one totally useless.
So if I spell something wrong, use improper English (okay, it took FOUR tries to type "English" correctly) or generally blather, forgive me.
I still can't figure out why some weeks these blessed (and I mean that in a they-are-not-blessed way) shots effect me so acutely while I barely notice them other weeks.
This wouldn't be a problem, except my family likes to eat (I'm including myself in "my family, because the scale at the ob's office stands as proof that I like to eat). They also like clean underwear. And a lunch packed for school. The occasional restocking of the pantry. You know, super-complicated stuff that is commonly considered insurmountable by normal folk.
I think I vaguely remember "normal".
I'll stop whining now.
I have a mystery. Not a good Nancy Drew-like mystery where you wonder who "done it". No, I already know how the mystery ends and the parties responsible. It's the "clues", the steps leading up to the end of the story, that have me baffled.
Can someone please explain to me how it's possible for my sink to be full of dishes when there has been nary a soul home all day? I will admit to a couple of the dishes. But the rest of them?
Oh I know who's responsible, but what I would like to know is exactly HOW MANY dishes does one require in order to survive overnight and through the early morning hours?
Evidently quite a few.
Needless to say that total exhaustion and a full sink of dishes do not a happy/cheerful wife and mother make.
3 years ago