I'm irritated. And I don't know why.
It could be because I started a new blog entry about four days ago, interestingly enough titled "Committed," a piece about a renewed commitment to blogging, and I haven't finished it yet. It could be because the kids have not let Carlo and I alone for 30 seconds tonight and I'm about 'this close' to giving up on ever having a conversation with him again. It might be that no matter how many times I've asked him to turn it down, I can still hear Paolo's CD player from his room (and I'm not in the mood for KISS' "Destroyer"). It could also be that I didn't run today. I didn't exercise at all this week, for that matter.
TV isn't holding my attention. Raoul won't sit with me. I'm too angry to knit. The chance of me finishing that blog entry is slight. We should have had more than an assortment of Monster Cereal for dinner. There is only one beer left in the house.
All I'd really like to do is start baking Christmas cookies. I'll bitch and moan once I start that process -- it takes a lot of time and my back is usually screaming in agonizing pain by the time I'm on variety number six, but truth be told, my cookie tray (usually a mix of 8 to 10 varieties) is amazing. Everyone has their favorite -- my husband loves the cranberry-pistachio biscotti, Paolo is partial to the Hershey Peanut Blossoms (the peanut butter cookie with a giant Kiss in the center), Maggie loves my thin mints (which are a hard, laborious cookie to make) and I think my gingerbread men are the bomb. As are my rosemary-citrus cookies. And those are at a strong tie with my Mexican tea cakes.
I need to bake.