I hate ants. I hate them with a visceral deep-down sort of rage that makes me see red every time a tiny black insect marches into my kitchen from a crack at the bottom of the screen door. I hate them, and I smite them with copious amounts of Raid.
Smiting makes me feel happy. Thanks, Mom.
Every morning after breakfast, I sweep my kitchen floor and then wash it. My kitchen floor has never been so clean.
I heart my Swiffer Wet-Jet. That is all.
In case you were wondering, these extra-short entries are because I have one corporate web site due on Monday and one weblog overhaul due next Saturday--not to mention the illustration gig I'm negotiating and the one that I am still considering for a bid.
Serve buffet-style for large parties. Make sure to provide a wide variety of taco and hot sauces.
The conversation went something like this:
"Hon, I'd like to visit my parents for Easter."
"But I can't come with! How is that a vacation?"
"I'll make a big batch of sweet rolls before I leave."
"Okay!"
Marcus and Becca and I ate lunch at Panera Bakery while William and Maryanne did their thing at Borders. Maryanne and I bought coffee to drink once we got back to the house; it was grey and overcast outside, with a slight drizzle, so the hot coffee would be welcome after our short walk back to the house. I zipped and Velcro-ed and snapped the children into their raincoats, donned my own, and started herding them towards the door.