So you know what sucks about being a working parent?
THE WORKING PART.
Like, I am not allowed to just show up and collect paychecks while spending my day telling people about How Awesome Noah Is, I Mean Really Ridiculously Awesome, Look At These Pictures, Wait, Where Are You Going?
I am expected to WORK. BASTARDS.
The Wednesday Advice Smackdown has been demoted to the Friday Advice Smackdown, because today and tomorrow are going to suck, work-wise, and if the vending machine guy doesn't get here soon and restock the Cokes, I may have to kill someone. Hard.
Tonight we are going out for a nice dinner to mark the eight-year anniversary of our first date, mashed together with first anniversary of when we found out I was pregnant (January 23rd, by the way; would it kill you to send a card?) and also Valentine's Day.
We are combining celebrations to save our babysitter's sanity, because just wait until she sees the poops this solid-food-eating baby is producing these days. HA HA!
Also to save money.
Except for the part where I got so excited about our nice dinner out that I bought a new dress that cost as much as a week of daycare.
Oh yes. I did.
Between this and BlogHer, my savings account is very, very mad at me. "Why? Why do you abuse me?" my saving account cries. "I wanted to see you through retirement! I wanted to buy you a house with a yard! You went back to work so you could leave me to grow and compound in peace! These credit card statements, they burn! They buuuurn!"
And I spit on my savings account, because sometimes, you just need to be stupid and buy a dress that will make your husband ogle your boobs.
There. That is my advice for today: Impending financial ruin is no match for a flouncy out-of-season dress, so long as you also buy a sensible sweater wrap to cover your shoulders.
My boobs cannot handle all this ogling.
EDITED TO ADD THE MELTDOWN THAT I WAS TRYING TO PRETEND THAT I AM TOO COOL AND CAREFREE TO HAVE:
OH MY GOD, I am freaking out about this dress. This dress that Jason FORCED me to buy for myself as a you-survived-a-whole-month-at-work present, and it was honestly the cheapest dress in the store, so I had no sense of CONTEXT, and the numbers on the price tag did not really turn into actual dollar numbers until I was at the register handing over my credit card. And I looked at Jason with big, frightened eyes and whispered that the Internet is going to KILL ME, and he said fuck the Internet, you don't have to tell them about it, and yet here I am, telling the fucking Internet, because perhaps I subconsciously believe that I deserve to be punished.
I am totally returning the dress after work. And I'm going to ask for my refund in PENNIES, and I shall put all the pennies in my bathtub, and I shall sit on top of my bathtub of pennies with a shotgun and stare suspiciously at the bathtowels and rant about the government trying to steal my precious, precious pennies.