We made it through Pentathlon (or the son did. We just provided drinks during practice sessions, and drinks for the day itself, and chauffeuring services). We survived the various parties. We survived the other things.
And now it's a new week.
My pink leather bag (empty) is staring at me accusatorily. I have to decide what is going into it pretty soon (those size 8 jeans are also looking at me accusatorily from the closet. Where they are staying).
I have at least four boxes of earplugs somewhere. Hopefully I will find one because that's something I know needs to go into the bag.
The cat is staring at the bag and then staring at me accusatorily.
The son is glowering.
The daughter is pretending nothing is going on.
The spouse just looks resigned.
D. is making up hilarious songs (to the tune of "Leaving on a Jet Plane") and emailing them to me.
I have approximately 1,438 things to do before I go anywhere.
And about 60 hours in which to get them done.
If I don't sleep.
Don't think I'm complaining.
It's concert season.
Go listen to some good music: "It Don't Come Easy" from the album Blast From Your Past by Ringo Starr.