That was Saturday, before the trick-or-treat. Another Saturday thing was the Supersonic Wash. The simple, squealing pleasure of green foam, wiggling and waggling hoses, long yellow strips of sponge slapping against the windows as the van moved mysteriously along the tracks through the fun house of a car wash, all for ten bucks. My kind of multi-tasking. Wish I'd brought the camera.
Here's Sunday. Nothing says aftermath like the candy wrapper clutter of All Saint's day, even if it technically wasn't. I refrained from exposing our morning after mess with a photo, but doesn't Mary look striking in this purple dress that Grandma Martha gave her for her birthday?
Sunday night I had to admit to kids that they'd been really well-behaved all day, which would lead a behaviorist of my leanings to believe that they should eat five pounds of candy and stay up until midnight every Saturday night. The family erupted in cheers. I enjoyed my sure to be short-lived popularity.
Monday, niente. E poi martedi.
This is Tuesday. Don't you hate it when every one's plundered, shaved, surgically removed all the frosting from the birthday cake and they just leave the dry, but nonetheless sugary and therefore still tempting to anyone over thirty-five cake bones sitting on the counter, so you pick at it all day until you realize that that's all you've had to eat and you feel totally sick but does that stop you, no?
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