This weekend, I'm trading in my lazy days off without the kids for two 8 hours days at work. Downside- running around all day. Upside- not only am I making some extra money, but more importantly, I'm not giving myself the opportunity to spend any money.
It's a wee bit after 10, and I stopped by the grocery store on my way home for work so I can make a dinner for Chris and I to eat together when he gets home. I know it's a little late for dinner, but hey, at least I'm cooking it myself and not leaving it up to a bunch of wiley teenagers who may or may not remember to ask if I want fries with that.
Here's a thought for you before I go back to stuffing my shells: (no, that is not a sexual innuendo. I'm much too tired for that, and I am literally making Stuffed Shells for dinner, perv.) Wait, what was I going to say? I started thinking about stuffed shells as a metaphor and kinda got lost in X rated images of my super hot fiance...
OH YES. What I was going to say is that I really, really hate when people have cryptic personalized license plates. My thought is that if you're going to fork over the cash to sport a vanity plate, at least make it something decipherable, so I don't waste the better part of my day trying to figure out what that random slew of consonants is supposed to mean. Because I will. And the day after that. It will haunt me for the rest of my life. I have actually wanted to pull up next to people at red lights, do the international "Roll Down Your Window" gesture, and ask what their license plate means, but I think I'm one notch above that level of desperation. I will admit, though, it is a very feeble notch.
Enjoy your weekends, yous.
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