Not Funny. Not Funny At All.

Updates to this.

I've since had a drip of pink nail polish end up on the cuff of the dry-clean-only beige linen pants I have on, then the hem up and fell out of said pants. This is probably not the time to think about how much money I paid for them.

I did not bring an extra outfit. There is no way I have enough time to go home and change. Pictures are at 6. It is 4:30. I still have to get Woodstock and fight the interchange's Friday night traffic.

Himself called. Does he really have to wear those shoes? Can Woodstock wear something else he thinks is cuter? What have I planned for dinner? No, he hasn't packed or checked himself or Grover in for their flights - they'll do it later (as in seconds before we have to race to the airport at dire risk of them missing their flights). Yes, he picked up the new dining room table - did I realize how SMALL it is? No, he hasn't put it together - can't I do it this weekend when I'm off, I'm better with tools anyway.

And oh yes, I just caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror. I'm definitely ensuring that I'm on my knees (to hide the hem and the pink spot) with Woodstock covering my middle.

Maybe I should just have the kids' photos taken.

Or go with the whole "we don't wear clothes" theory I pondered before.

Wish us well.