Yesterday

 I was running around trying to get as much done as possible before Garrett got home from his clinical rotation and we headed out for date night.  I filed our taxes, finished up with my CPR re-certification, cleaned and vacuumed, endured several colossal tantrums, did all of the ironing, danced around the apartment with Kenners, made some bread, and actually took more than 5 minutes to get myself ready for the day.  

In the middle of my multi-tasking tornado, I realized that I had forgotten about the bread rising in loaf pans on the counter.  Garrett had just gotten home and was telling me about things he had learned that day when I shrieked, "the bread!" in the middle of his sentence.  I dashed to the kitchen to find an explosion of dough all over the counter top.  My face turned red and I growled, "Noooo!  I could just cuss!" 

"Do it." Garrett encouraged.  (I think he wanted to make himself feel better for letting a little curse word slip that morning when he burned the scrambled eggs--obviously not the finest day in the Christensen kitchen.)  I just swatted him with a wooden spoon.  And still kind of wanted to curse.  The bread didn't really turn out.  First butchered loaves I've baked in probably 10+ years. 

Luckily, I had this comic relief to help me forget about my culinary flop:

In Daddy's Russian fur hat, clutching my cell phone and a baggy of wipes.

Keepin' it classy.