The antithesis of "good"

I had a bad evening. As I wrote to my sister earlier, I could have picked a fight with a streetlight, but it wouldn't have emitted a sufficiently satisfying hair flip.

So I'm sitting here and trying to piece together something mildly resembling polite bloggage, and I'm really sorry, but I'm coming up empty.

I didn't make a layout.

I didn't create a piece of art for Found Art.

I didn't have a great day homeschooling.

I didn't write anything.

I had major disasters with the cooking of dinner.

I am jealous to the core of my being that incredibly young, untried, unschooled, undeserving little girls keep walking off with awards and kudos that women my age really should have gotten instead. (Go rent "Transamerica" and tell me Felicity Huffman wasn't ROBBED.)

And to top it all off, I picked two fights with my husband (the poor dear) and two fights with my daughter (the poor girl). The only things in this house currently on speaking terms with me are my son and my parrot. And frankly, Cosmo almost bit my nose.

Cosmo is my parrot, not my son. Thank heaven.

Even the cat is looking me as if I am a dog.

I even failed at taking a decent photo of the ink wells Emily dug out from under Mama's house Sunday. See?

The ink wells on the left have been with me for years. The ink wells on the right are dirty and will take me a decade to clean out properly. Can you tell anything about them? No? Well, join the club. As far as I can tell, they're all Milton Berle. Or dryer lint. Pick one.

So I guess the moral to tonight's grumpy blog post is...

Marry rich. If you don't have the money to back up your bad moods, then there's just no point in being hard to get along with.

Thursday must be better -- right?