Le secret d'ennuyer est celui de tout dire.

I am tired and my kids are super unfunny this week. Instead of recounting some lame stay-at-home mom story involving cleaning the house or emptying the dishwasher, I thought I'd give you a titillating blog-style "Where are they now?" photo update.

The brown poop scrunchie
RIP, little guy.

Hello, my sexy new bedtime friends.

I will admit to spending money on these only because that would mean I either shoplifted them (which would make this even more sad than this already is) or I got them free from someone (highly probable in my cheapwad life, but fortunately for society also falls somewhere near the "throw up in my mouth a little" range).

Maggie the Magnolia Tree
I won. But only out of sheer stubbornness...not because I actually won. Actually, I don't know if anyone calls her by name anyways, so maybe I only won in my head. She did squeeze out ONE flower this spring, but it was on the tree equivalent of a butt, so I feel she may have been a) moodily sneering at us, or b) mooning us.

Typical passive aggressive adolescent tree behavior.

My knee the gate destroyed
Rob is still unrepentant. And THIS is how much of my knee I still can't feel.

I made it green for shocking gangrenesque drama. In reality, I bear this burden in silence, the absence of any bruising or swelling hurting both my pride and any success in evoking Rob's sympathy.

Go ahead - try to inappropriately rub my knee under the dinner table. I won't stop you BECAUSE I WON'T FEEL IT.

Yeti in a Snowstorm
This, perhaps, is the most exciting update. Remember the painting I gave to Rob almost a year ago for our 10 year anniversary? The one whose subject matter we fought like alley cats over? (Cats with sharp, sharp teeth and super bacteria-laden fangs?)

The one I finally hung up in all its unpainted glory and titled "Yeti in a Snowstorm"?

Fast forward 11 months.

Behold, the canvas in our entryway:

Really.

What was that about passive aggressive adolescent behavior? (Notice the absence of shoe baskets, compliments of The Spawn of Satan using them as litter boxes while we were vacationing in Michigan.) Really.

I am the lamest wife ever. But upon further reflection, I'm also "lame" in a "I have a bum knee because my husband didn't bother warning me about a large obstacle he found in a dark hallway" kind of a way.

Meh. We're even.