A three-martini lunch kinda day

It's really a three-martini lunch kind of day. If only I drank martinis. Or during the day. Alas, I'll content myself with the fact that Ol is back to school and nothing has yet happened to my car. Though my washing machine broke with a just-washed load of sheets inside and sopping and a Mt. Fuji-sized pile just waiting on the floor. Terrific.

Last night, I was Mother Theresa², all up for hours with Ol, lovingly wiping his brow and limbs with a cool washcloth over and over, singing You Are My Sunshine like a CD on repeat, finally giving up the ghost of breaking up with him as my bedmate and inviting him in. He brought Tool Sheet, Wrenchie and a large, decorative, rectangular pillow monogrammed with You Are My Sunshine (really, it is our song), and finally we got to sleep.

Meanwhile T was mostly enjoying Lady Gaga and then got to sleep in the basement. Balls. He said "She's really very strange" which is undoubtedly true but T doesn't do "strange" terribly well so seemed relatively unfazed by the last-minute experience he got; "She wasn't nearly as good as the Rolling Stones," another free ticket he was gifted. It's a rough life.

Anyway, my maternal font of endless caretaking and love has morphed, via the barbed bottleneck of now-significant sleep deprivation, into a peevish, leaky spigot of exasperated irritability. Bad drivers and outfits everywhere are making me feel positively inflamed. And damn you, PFAPA (the periodic febrile crap with which both boys have been albatrossed).

Thank goodness for sunshine and leftover tart. And you can be sure that tonight, this gal's the one in the basement!