In short... Oliver was up with a fever last night. Again. Third time in six weeks. As such, he was home sick today and likely will be tomorrow and the next, if the past repeats itself as it is so, unfortunately, wont to do. As such, I had to cancel out much of what I'd scheduled for this week, and I found mealworms in my damn chestnut flour, necessitating a giant pantry purge and more Container Store purchases. I found pus on Ol's left tonsil, we went to the doctor and it wasn't strep (shit!), Jack has a vague neck rash, and Thanksgiving is approaching. The boys and I went to CVS for Gatorade and came home with green, orange and gold nail polish for toe-painting. During a brief, medicine-induced feel-good, I took Oliver to the barber for his first shop trim (T usually does the boys' cuts). He was adorable but now looks like a marine. The loquacious barber never heard my "please, no more cutting" protestations as he told me about moving from Georgetown to Sangamore THIRTY years ago.
I told Tom I would not, tonight, help him carry in the seventy pound coffee table he's been refinishing because I was bushed and would help tomorrow. For christs sakes, who's coming over who wants to sit in the basement and have cocktails? No one. Did he listen? No. He carried it in, on his back, up the stairs, by himself. Great. An invalid husband I don't need. Now he wants a cookie. And really, I'm grateful, but I simply cannot go fawn over it. Not just yet. My puff pastry is ballooning to beat sixty despite the fact that I keep puncturing it down. And is chicken marinated in crème fraîche and Dijon mustard good? I hope so because it's cooking now. China gave a paltry $100,000 to the Philippines for post-typhoon aid - puh-lease - AND we did not have any white wine in the house tonight. Mother of crisis!
If it's not clear, I'm feeling a bit glum. A bit frazzled. Balls, Tuesday, take a load off!