Scrambled Eggs.

This morning, whilst cleaning scrambled eggs off the floor (courtesy of TWO):

Me (talking to no one in particular): In 3 years, I will no longer have to pick food up off the floor. Everyone in this house will be old enough to know better. In 3 years, I will be turning 36 and I will no longer have to get on my hands and knees to pick up eggs that a baby threw on the floor. Just three more years of egg-picking-up. Three more years.

Husband: In 3 years, you might be senile. In fact, you’ll probably be the one throwing food on the floor. BECAUSE YOU’LL BE OLD.

Ahhh, yes. Thank you for that, Husband. Little do you know, I will be spending our money on little treatments here and there so I never look a day over my actual age.

And I’ll throw eggs on the floor if I damn well please. 

These people spend an awful lot of energy trying to push my buttons. I’ll remember that when I’m doing my Christmas shopping for a new purse them

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