No Pictures Please

I need a manager.  All rock stars have managers, right?  And while we're at it, how about a driver?  I need one of those too.  Yep, I'm a rock star alright.  I even kind of resemble one in the morning.  Ask my husband.  When I get up, my eyes are half-open and I've got a bit of messy Billy Idol-ish mohawk thing goin' on.

And you?  Many of you reading this are rock stars.  You make up beds and patch boo-boos, wipe bottoms, do dishes with one hand while eating with the other, bake cookies, fold the laundry, and chop the veggies. You grade papers, take out trash, keep the plants alive (sort of), and so much more, all while entertaining the masses.  You're a star.  American Idol.  Don't feel that way?  LOL.  Well, you are.

So where's my entourage?  We seem to be a bit short-staffed around here lately.  Me-the-chef and Me-the-maid just walked out again (they'll be back).  Meanwhile, Me-the-writer and Me-the-dancer are MIA, and the rest of us are afraid if we don't find them soon we might end up in an asylum...or at the very least, self-medicating with unspiked eggnog and an obscene amount of chocolate.  Darn!  That's right, chocolate doesn't agree with the baby.  Well alright, plain ol' vanilla ice cream then.

At lunch time today I kept trying to find some leftovers that I had put in the fridge.  I couldn't even find the container, but figured that my husband had taken them to work.  Hours later, I went to put tonight's leftovers in a tupperware container from the cupboard, and surprise!  The leftovers! That lack of chocolate has some serious side effects!  Like I said, I need a manager.