Thursday, November 10, 2011

Firing Shoes

This morning I had to put on my firing shoes. Ugh.  I don't like wearing my firing shoes because they mean I have to, well, fire someone...and I would rather do just about anything else than fire someone.

I am not meant for this.

Raising boys?  Yes.
Cooking supper?  Yes.
Lighting candles and making things pretty?  Yes.
Telling someone their life as they know it is over?  No.

My firing shoes?  Back in my closet.  Buried.  Where they belong.

When this job is over...they're goin' in the trash.


For supper last night that guy that I like so much made margaritas and I made enchiladas.  They are totally unauthentic enchiladas, but they fed a crowd of hungry men-folk with no complaints.

Though the following was overheard:

"Wow, Mom.  Your enchiladas aren't normally good.  These are!"


The mornings have been soooo cold 40 some degrees cold, which for us SoCal peeps is FRIGID.  

I had to leave at dark o'thirty this morning to met my boss and midway through complaining about how cold I was, I looked up.

And saw a glimpse of heaven.

 Tonight was simple.

Pasta with sausage and broccoli.
A fire in the fireplace.

I like simple.


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