There's something so sweet about the Boxing Day hangover, isn't there?
The kids are off with friends. The dog is basking in a tryptofan induced coma, farting to beat the band and making us all face the overindulgences of yesterday. My husband, caught breathless by a chinook arch that's filling our prairie sky like a giant smile from God, is off shooting pictures. The turkey is burbling away in its pre-soup spa stage on the stove.
I'm curled up in my new Archie Comics pajamas, nursing a coffee with just a splash of Grand Marnier. (Hair of one of your finer dog's, I guess).
And Liev is on the TV.
Who knew life was going to be this fan-fucking-tastic?
