A Stream of Silliness

I know, I haven't been to visit in a week, mainly because I can hardly put a declarative sentence together. A series of sentences? Don't be ridiculous. All I can offer is a stream of silliness. Did you know that babies don't actually arrive via stork? Apparently, that's a myth. On top of which, it takes more than a magic balsamic vinaigrette salad and intermittent contractions over many days to bring a bundle of joy into the world. And what, I'm expected to just wait patiently and maintain a workable level of worry? How crazy is that? To pass the time, a bizarre concept made even wonkier when you're awaiting a life-changing event, I've been "cleaning" the Palatial Estate in the most erratic fashion. I grab the broom, a good start, then stand there, staring into space. Next, a quick strategy session with the Royal Rescue Pup of Questionable Lineage. "Sir Blakey, should I do the floor, it's full of your little black.. oh my gawd, when did the kitchen sink crack right down the.... you know, I should really do a big load of... wow, the mirror's disgusting... oh @#$%, what should I cook for dinner?" Four hours later, I'm lucky if I've rinsed the doggy bowl. Listen, I mean to go that extra mile to ensure my home shines like a sanitized sanctuary. But I can't be faulted for a deficit of counter top sparkle. I blame the 409. And a serious case of Rapidly Approaching Grandmahood (kina hora, poo poo poo).