it's eight pm, and where are your children?

Incredibly indulgent evening in which, upon return from the nine-to-five, I stripped to my skivvies, grabbed my book and my box of Valentine chocolates and crawled into bed for an epic, century-ending bitch of a nap.

Now, sheet-printed and disoriented, I'm making myself a grilled cheese that I will likely eat (with carrot sticks and a chocolate pudding cup) in front of some less-than-intellectual DVRed television before stepping out into the night for tango.

I can't decide if I sound like a proud five-year-old or a turn of the century harlot.