PMS and the Bottomless Pit

I am PMS-ing today. I think I could eat my own body weight in Starburst jelly beans...and that is a hell of a lot of jelly beans. I am sitting here watching Antiques Roadshow on PMS. I love this show. Don't judge me. I have dreams of stumbling across an old family heirloom worth hundreds of thousands of dollars and retiring to a lovely villa in the south of France. Unfortunately, I have no family heirlooms of any sort. And my oldest possession is probably the underwear I have owned since before Lucas was born. That's probably all well and good as I don't speak a word of French anyway.

I put the children to bed about fifteen minutes ago, but they have yet to settle down. Sophie settles quite nicely, looks at story books quietly in her bed, and eventually drifts off the sleep. The boys? Not so much. The boys are chatting away at full volume about one idiotic topic after another. I keep telling them to quiet down. They act as though they do not hear me. Despite the noise, they are staying in their room. So I don't really have the energy to get up from my chair to fuss at them.

I am thinking right now that I need something salty to counteract the sweetness of the jelly beans I have been shoveling into my mouth for the last fifteen minutes. Hmm....popcorn? No. Pretzels? Naw. Triscuits? Hell no. I think the only item salty enough to adequately counterbalance the sweetness of the jelly beans is going to be potato chips. There is no getting around it. Nothing else will do at a dire time such as this. As luck would have it, I went grocery shopping this past weekend and I have a brand-spanking-new, unopened, shiny white bag of Ruffles sitting in my kitchen cabinet as I write this. I bought them for the kids. Considering that I recently started back to Weight Watchers for the umpteenth time, I really have no business buying Ruffles at all. But I told myself I was buying them for the kids. I am thinking that the kids are going to be extremely lucky if there is a single potato chip left in that bag tomorrow. What can I say? Mother Nature is a ravenous old girl.

Holy shit! A little old lady from Palm Springs was just told that the hideously ugly oil painting she hauled out of her attic was worth half a million dollars...at least. On that note, I am heading to the kitchen for the Ruffles. If I can't get rich off of a priceless family heirloom, I can at least get bloated off of some salty potato chips.