Literally. I've picked up a lot of trash this morning blown into my yard by the near-tornado out there. Did I mention I'm supposed to be taking the kids and their baskets to an Easter egg hunt at lunchtime?
I look at the trash I pick up, caught in my bushes after its journey down the cul de sac. There was a piece of an ice bag. An Allegiant Air ticket stub from Monterey to Vegas. Some Papa John's pizza boxes (more than one blew across my desert landscape). A receipt for a purchase at the Post Office.
Came back in from tidying and Cayna is sobbing. "My Webkinz is dead!" she screeched. There, there, daughter. (You RARELY played with the thing -- I think it's been dead for a while and you're just now noticing.)
Assemble 15 eggs per child with Starbursts and Tootsie Rolls. That's sixty eggs for you non-mathematicians.
Clean up the spilled milk that John turned into a painting project on the dining room table. Try to talk to Monica about important housewife topics and Webkinz is blaring at my house while her toddler screams in the background at hers.
My hair is sprayed and teased into a mass of concrete curls and captured in a rubber band that matches my shoes so that I can look like an adorable 39 year-old at the park.
It's Holy Week, folks. Somewhere around here. Can you feel it?