Desperate Housewife

Teri Hatcher has no idea, really, what it means to be desperate.

Desperation is sleeping as late as possible, getting up to put on clothes, wrapping your hair into a ball on the top of your head, slapping on your glasses and crawling back into bed until the baby calls your name. Desperation is bacon and eggs for dinner. Desperation is a rainy, dark trip to Target to buy decongestant for the unable-to-breathe among us. Desperation is wearily staying up until the late, local news ends because sanity demands two hours alone, per day, without kids.

But the day is over. The plague has passed. Saturday! A Saturday which will not be followed by a Sunday involving company awaits me. Glory be.