We are sick, sick, sick people in our house. Moan groan. My throat hurts.
Kevin and I argued about comma's tonight. We are lame, lame, lame people.
I am trying to remember all of the adorable and cute stuff the kids are doing to blog about later.
I still hate, hate, hate Thanksgiving. It used to be nice but now...not really.
I like getting packages in the mail. I stalk the mailman. His name is Paul.
I want to drink Bailey's on the rocks in a snifter and sit in front of my DVD fireplace and listen to my Billy Idol christmas cd.
I want to go cuddle my sweet little sick boy who is now curled up with his octopus blanket and his bunny...lovingly snotting on my pillow.
I want to go stare at my wee small babykins while he sleeps. I like to watch him breathe. It calms me.
I am dreading the Wrapping of the Presents.
I need a haircut and color. A boobjob. A pedicure. A tummytuck... and so on, infinity.
I hate my cat.
Fin
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