Man, I'm fucking tired. I had my short work day today and had to constantly keep moving with Miss O to keep from passing out. We drew, hit the grocery store, played some guitar, shit we even made some chocolate-chip cookies:
Which ROCKED, I must say. Lemme tell you, if you are into baking at all, you've got to get this book:
No, fuck that, even if you're not into baking, get it. I cannot understand people who say, "Oh, I can't cook." What the crap?! Can you read?! Basically, that's all you need to be able to do. Read some words, and then move your hands around and dump shit in stuff and then twist a knob and put the stuff you mixed around into a really hot area. Then, when you hear a dinging sound, you pull the shit out of the hot area, let it cool a bit, and then you shove it into that big hole in your face. That's cooking. I can't cook. Fucking morons.
Mr. Z got this little bug bite, or something, on his eyelid the other day. It seemed like nothing but then, yesterday, it was all swollen up and there was this little red streak thing moving away from it -- turns out he's got cellulitis and has to take this antibiotic four times a day. See, it's little shit like that that makes me fucking exhausted. Not only do I now have to worry about him getting some sort of eyelid elephantiasis, but I also have to drive over to his school at lunchtime every day and pour him some pink antibiotic juice to suck down.
You fuckers without kids don't get it. It's non-stop shit like that, day after day after day. It all adds up until you find yourself sitting in your basement, taking pictures of a plate of cookies, so you can post it on the internet and hope that some schmuck comes along and acknowledges it so you can prove to yourself that you're still alive. "Oooh! Three people looked at the picture of my plate of cookies, today!!!! I'm a somebody, I'm a somebody!!!" [Don't get me wrong -- I appreciate the four or five people who swing by to read my drivel. I use the word 'schmuck' in only the best sense.]
I even tried to record Mr. Z and Miss O singing their "Slippery Dick" song today, but that quickly devolved into a fucking nightmare. I was trying to set up the mic stands, and they kept knocking them over, and then Mr. Z started yelling at Miss O not to sing during the chorus. Then Miss O kept smacking her ukulele into my $1000 microphone, and Mr. Z kept yelling--
I was just too exhausted to deal with it today, so I pulled out the ultimate parental weapon. I simply stated, "You know what? Forget it." and shut everything down. If you ever want both of your kids to simultaneously burst into tears, say that. It's like a parenting neutron bomb -- all the buildings are left standing but any child within the targeted area is destroyed. It's not that I did it on purpose, I just had to eject myself from the situation. They forced my hand.
We all bounced back, though. I boiiled up a batch of Edamame as a peace offering, which was greatly appreciated. After a good dinner and a couple of piggy-backs upstairs, all was forgotten.
Now I've gotta trudge upstairs and go to sleep. If only I had someone to give me a piggy-back.