A Menthol Cigarette
It's 11:39 on Sunday morning, and I'm still in my robe. Abie was up again and again last night, which is not really my problem, since all he ever wants is his father, but it did wake me. I ended up awake once and for all at 7, and have been reading the paper and wafting around the house ever since. My hair is standing on end, something I didn't even bother to do anything about when each of the kids' playdates were dropped off. The carefully coifed moms were a tad on the shocked side.
Michael just told me to go take a shower. "You're kind of turning into that mother," he said. "You know, the one who spends her day in her bathrobe shrieking at her children?" In response to my expression of disbelief he said, "Seriously, I was just about to go get you a menthol cigarette."
What, no Pabst Blue Ribbon to go with it?