Why make one pie when you can make seven and hide six?
Last night I had my standard anxiety dream (
Mrs. Kennedy and I apparently need a spa day), the one where I'm suddenly in charge of a gaggle of hand-sized infants. There are all these babies and they're all small enough to fit in my hand, and I'm terrified I'm going to squish one or lose one, and then one starts crying and I can't find it, and another one slips between the couch cushions, you get the idea. It's a lot of fun. So last night everything was moving along as per dream norm and I'd reached the point where I'd lost a bunch of them under mountains of comforters and some other ones I'd forgotten to feed, one slipped down the drain, all standard dream issue, and then totally out of nowhere in walks Saddam Hussein trying to light a pipe. So I just woke up. I can't win that. The tiny baby situation might have turned around, I might have rallied. Found a few before they crawled into the yard, fished a couple out of the sink, but you throw me Saddam Hussein strolling around playing with matches and I'm out.
He can worry about which microscopic baby hasn't eaten in the last two days. I wash my dream hands of it. (Albeit carefully and with the drain closed.)
Sweetheart
Jen (and Charlotte) kept me company on the phone yesterday while I prepared a huge roasted meal. Really I was just hanging out in my pajamas basting stuff periodically and trying not to eat a whole pie. I got an A+ in basting and a D- in not eating all the pie. Just so you know, Jen, if yesterday's meal sounded impressive? Tonight Randy's having cheddar cheese and raisins for dinner. He found a couple of broken Triscuits a minute ago and he was pretty excited about that. It's feast or famine over here. I don't think I need to tell you what I'll be having.
