Because it takes the Earth a little longer than a year to travel around the sun (365 days, 5 hours, 48 minutes, and 46 seconds, to be exact) an extra day was added to the calendar to make up for lost time. (Ha. Ha. Get it?)
“I mark the hours every one nor have I yet outrun the sun. My use and value unto you are gauged by what you have to do.”
Me? I’m ready for March.
Destroy is sick again. Labored, panting breathing – complete with retractions. It’s the “almost asthma” or pre-asthma or asthma attack that won’t officially get diagnosed until age 2 even though we all know that’s what they’re going to diagnose him with now. Although the freak-out hysterical crying proves he’s breathing. (It’s the little things.) But mostly the 103 fever freaks me out.
Tiny little winecones at tiny little germs in tiny restricted airways. Sigh…
I’m not well pleased with brides who seem to think music can just be “thrown together” right before their wedding.
Editor’s note: This isn’t Glee. We don’t just randomly break into perfect song when the moment is right. May winecones grace her vows – said to silence if Bridezilla (wait, if she’s not doing anything until last minute is she the opposite of that) doesn’t get her act together.
Party-pooper pouty dinner dates. No fun.
Editor’s note: Like me! (I’ve embraced my party-pooper status.) You know what would help a situation like this? More wine. Party pooper pouty dinner date still won’t perk up? Wine for you. Cones for them.
Children’s Motrin is the most amazing invention. Ever. 103 to 101.2 in T-2 minutes. I cannot extend enough kisses to the inventor of that deliciously sticky-sweet syrupy wonder drug. It’s like Demerol for baby fevers! (And seriously folks – ask for that one by name next time you’re in the ER doubled over in pain…)
I’d also like to extend a smackaroo to girlfriends who plan trips to the wine country just when we hit the breaking point of a frenzied frazzled freakout. And on this once-every-four-years post, here’s a future kiss to those we plan to share our wine with. Yes. I am talking about you.
‘Till next week, winecones and kisses!
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