The darling baby-child in my house woke up at 5:30. For the day. I have a splitting headache. I had to make yogurt, cheese, and ice cream to use up a gallon and a half of milk so that I can get my milk share this week, because if I don't give them empty jars, I don't get full jars, and Tuesday is my day, so there you go. The ice cream took 45 minutes to thicken, and when it was finally ready, I poured it out of the pan into the tupperware to refrigerate it, I poured it all over the floor, chair, table, The Mister's new shorts, my new nursing tanks, everywhere.
It's hard to be this awesome.
The walking boy-children are ornery.
Someone stole three of my chickens. I called the Sheriff's office to report my mysteriously missing poultry, and I felt like a colossal ass. Ummm, I'm calling to report, ummm, stolen chickens. Yes, that's correct, stolen chickens. No, they were not eaten by an animal. There is absolutely no sign of forced entry. Yes, I said Forced Entry. No, I do not expect you to be able to solve The Rapture of The Poultry, but I wanted to put this on record just in case there are any further incidences of Chicken Rapture. No, I don't actually believe Jesus was involved in the disappearane of the chickens.
I poured more milk all over the table and floor and down (up?) my sleeve. Again. Fortunately, this milk was not full of eggs and sugar and boiling hot.
Also? The F key on my laptop does not make an F unless I pound the crap out of it.
Oh... And Rabbi Schmuley? I'll address this bit o'bullshit later.