Sunday night. When the specter of the coming week floats through the wall and buggers you with images of traffic jams, printer jams, pointless meetings, laddered pantyhose, the impossible expectation of being in two places at once and a coffee stain on your right boob?
Last Sunday wasn't like that at all. Instead, I was giddily naming the things I would do with my last week of not working. I had plans.Writing. Reading. Finishing an editing job that I lost when I washed my jump drive. Lolling around, sleeping in, long afternoon naps in between watching Netflix and AcornTV until my eyeballs dried out.
And since my first week on the job means a week of member meetings where I'll be cloistered at a hotel and not be at the beck and call of the America aristocracy who've become all too accustomed to having an entire Downtown downstairs staff rolled into one woman, I'd planned to get things arranged so that MathMan, the kids and cats won't be reduced to making meals out of the remains at the bottom of a jar of olives and some three-year-old cookie mix*.
Then everything went all Robert Burns. Or Steinbeck, if you will. And no one even got laid.
I won't bore you with the details, but holy servants' bells, how did it get to be
I decided there was no point in fighting it. It was best to keep calm and ...... bake challah?
|Ingrediments. If you know Jack Benny, you get this joke.|
|Chloe doing the necessary kneading.|
|Sophie with her finished braid.|
|Chloe learning how to braid.|
|Egg washed, ready to go in the oven.|
|Fresh from the oven.|
|Enjoying the fruits of her labor.|
*Mostly a lie. They'd just eat fast food all week.