Signs of the Apocalypse

I tried to figure out what I was going to wear tomorrow night ahead of time, rather than choosing my usual method (hitting the panic button about 30 minutes before I am supposed to leave).

Signs of the apocalypse:

1. I tried on leggings. No, I am not kidding, and if I had any balls whatsoever, I would have taken a picture of myself wearing leggings and a mini-skirt to include here, but I was laughing too hard to hold the camera anyway. Yep, I tried it on with heels, a la "Desperately Seeking my 20s."
   
2. After taking off the mini-skirt, I tried on a jean skirt from last year (still with the leggings). It made me look like Hope from Thirty Something (Oh, wait. I am thirty something. Shit.) I came this close to taking the scissors to it as if it was every pair of denim I owned in middle and high school. Luckily, I caught myself, called Lisa for support, and she talked me down.
   
3. I failed to go to the grocery today, even though I had it in the back of my mind that there was a reason i needed to go. I realized as I sat down to my dinner after putting both kids down to bed (Auburn game on Thursday night. . . Fuck me, the football widow) that I failed to buy wine or beer for my evening on the couch alone. What the hell is a married with children woman going to do on a Thursday night if her husband goes out to watch football and she forgot to buy alcohol? What is she going to do to numb the shame of watching Laguna Beach episodes on tivo? That's right. When the going gets tough, the alcoholic gets creative. I didn't invent the White Russian, but I sure as hell haven't stooped to having one in fifteen years.
   

Now that I think about it, the White Russian might go really well with that stale birthday cake in the fridge. And I still might butcher that skirt tomorrow. Just for old time's sake. But I'm going to need to get to the grocery store for wine or beer for support.