Today's e-mail to my sister. Verbatim.

Lord, woman, I could've used a break this morning.

I think my child would make Osama Bin Laden cry. Maybe that should be our new military strategy: sic V on him.

Scene: She's playing with her dollies in her shopping cart. I am staring blankly at a newish episode of Little Bill, as it is only 7:30 am. Suddenly things get quiet in the dining room/kitchen, never a good sign.

"V?" No answer. Another bad sign. I start to get up, then I hear something small, round, and chocolatey hit the floor. Dozens of small, round chocolatey things. A whole bag full.

By the time I round the corner to the kitchen, she's got her mouth stuffed TO THE LIMIT with peanutbutter M &Ms. They are all over the floor, my white kitchen floor that I mopped for the first time in a year two days ago. They are all over the floor along with a glass of water she poured over them just to piss me off (I can't imagine any other reason to pour water over M & Ms. Because they melt in your mouth. Or in a glass of water on my kitchen floor).

I pick her up, remove her to the dining room, where she commences chewing. I commence to clean up M & Ms and their rainbow stickyness.

Did I mention this was at 7:*&^#$:30?

I know we should've had the M & Ms higher up or not in the house or just already on the floor, as all of these would've been better options.

Do you mind if I cut and paste this into a blog post? Because I'm too lazy not to, and I don't have any secret M &Ms left with which to comfort myself. This is why I shop for shoes. Because it's the only joy left.

gak.