Yes, I have a timer. Useful that thing is.

I was going to bed and then I thought what the heck, I'll gnaw on some homemade bread and throw some excess verbiage out into the unknown.

All at once I feel like my back molar might fall out, an invisible ant is crawling on my arm and I didn't know how to spell gnaw.

I was doing the dishes I ignored and then forgot about when it was a sane time to do them, so I'm trying to pick up each dish in a whisper. But we have ants now, so it has to be done. My best and most humorous thoughts come to mind late at night during my dish washing chores, but hardly anyone hears them because I am left alone and I forget by the time I come to the computer.

But let me ask you a question. Do you ever have those times where dinner goes all wrong? I feel like that is my moment in the 24 hour day to prove myself. The babes are always irritable and demanding. The honey is running late at the office. Your temperature is rising, the mess piles up from the meals earlier that day, there's the stress of committing to a meal you had in mind, the meat you forgot to thaw, etc… etc… . And then the pasta is overcooked. At least more times than not a meal fail involves overcooked pasta. Why does this happen more than once Mr Smith? I don't know. YES I HAVE A TIMER. My moment of shine turned into outer darkness, but it's not because Mr Smith is upset (he knows better). Even when Mr Smith doesn't give me credit on a good meal, mostly the soups or loaded veggie meals, I will give myself an A+ and move along happy as a clam until the next 6 PM. But on the days of meal bombs, I just want to bang my head against a window because there was so much potential. Gone. 

Mr Smith eats ice-cream. I eat cereal. Alexis is thrown under the bus and is given the overcooked pasta.

It's really not the end of the world. But sometimes it seems that way.

Just know, for every meal I cheer about and post to Instagram, another bomb goes off. I read somewhere how all these social media outlets portray false lives. Which is true. I'm trying to keep it real. 

And I might as well document it here as one of THE BIGGEST pet peeve's I have, outside of inefficiency, is when your husband walks in through the door on his phone. When the pasta is boiling, the babe is screaming, and you have something to say because heck, no one has heard you for the past 12 hours. Hey babe + kiss on the cheek = less overcooked pasta. Even if it's your mother.

#huff