When, Exactly...

...did I get so old that I'm perfectly content, nay, THRILLED to partake in a Saturday night spent stuffed in my fat pants, plunked on the couch, drinking wine, watching crap on TV, and generally looking like poo warmed over? Cause I'm there. Right now.

Granted, not only do I look like heated poo, I feel like it too. My nose is all stuffy. You know how you get where all you want to do is get all that crap OUT of your nostril (why is it always just my right nostril? Left one's clear and sunny) so you're sniffing and snorting so hard you swear you feel your eye pop out of it's socket and an artery burst in your brain? I'm right there too. In the city of Snotty Couchland. I'm the mayor tonight, baby.

Countdown is on for Tate's bedtime and then...yeah. I'll probably go to bed too. Next Saturday night is shaping up to be a different story, at least. I can try and recapture the lost days of my youth for a few hours before returning home at oh, 10:30 pm and falling into bed before waking up with Nora at 5:45.

And here's another fun friendly tip from yours truly. Don't give my daughter a plateful of cut-up peaches when you're at a restaurant. She will somehow position the plate so it is half off the table, karate chop it at the precise angle to send it careening 20 feet up through the air, and then sceam in horror as chunks of peaches come hurtling at her from outer space. People will stop eating, drop their food and turn around with lasers shooting out of their eyes towards the parents who MUST be pinching their daughter to make her screech like that. I learned that today.