Last Saturday, we had a smashing wine pairing party for my father-in-law’s 60th birthday. It was most definitely a success, with most of the satiated guests leaving in cabs at 2am. My husband got himself slizzard, mang-danngered, shamammed…drunk…on wine futures actualized into several lovely and expensive bottles of Bordeaux. I, on the other hand, managed to eat a few more cupcakes than I needed to. Like one of each flavour.
Earlier this week, Henry decided to chew into our bank account and get himself into yet another shenanigan resulting in yet another minor surgery and yet another pretty red bandage. Here, he is putting on his sad face because he couldn’t go to the park and beat up on his friends.
And Sunday, my husband felt something like this.