Call me an overachiever, but I'm thinking of practising for my upcoming mid-life crisis.
I should have time before the weekend to paint my kitchen turquoise, replace our boring, functional refrigerator with an awesomely curvey one, and install a spice rack that can double as an ashtray holder.
I already own a tutu-esque garment, thanks to my grad dress shopping forays into Winnipeg's Ragpickers. All I'll have to do to fit into a supremely delicious green checkered dress is tensor my breasts, and wear roughly five pairs of spankies, plus my mother's handmedown girdle from the 1970's. And not eat for the next fourteen days and nights. But that's what the cigarettes are for. I'll throw my red valaise atop the voluptuous fridge so that I can dash away at a moments' notice. I'll leave the door thrown open.
It's going to be divine.
Maybe I'll have time to start after chauffeuring the kids' basketball team; Saturday.