I burned our steak dinner. You know, that chard-black-chunks-fall-off-outer-casing-to-the-meat kind of burned.
Doesn’t it drive us nuts when we get home from work, start dinner, run around and someone wants to come over for a chat at the front door. Does anyone not respect someone’s dinner time?
Who visits at 6pm?
I still served the better parts of the steak to Brian, who I caught a glimpse feeding Boonie the dog. She proceeded to drink all her water after just one bite. I ate my salad only. One might say dinner was a bust. Brian told me my scrambled eggs are better, so he got to load the dishwasher thank you very much.
Brian has a project due in school. I think if I start drinking martinis now I should be mentally prepared for his last minute pull it together. Oh wait, I don’t drink them. Maybe I can talk his dad into taking him the night before. I can feign some important meeting I forgot.
Brian has to make some sort of shadow box. Lord just shoot me now.
What was the teacher drinking when they decided this would be a good learning experience for a boy?
Unless we put dead bugs in it . . .
and pieces of my burned steak.
Until next time-
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