You know, when it's dead at work, the question "what's with your voice?" gets really old, and you just can't wait until Friday? Then, when Friday arrives, you come home and see what terrifyingly godawful condition your house has somehow arrived at, and you're bitten by the MustCleanItNow bug while simultaneously making dinner and fending off the "what's for dinner" questions from a 4 yr old who would eat sandwiches morning, noon and night if you let him make the family meal plan (ha! meal plan. Like I have one of those!). And, when you dare to drag out the vacuum to suck up the evil dust bunnies that are taking over every nook & cranny available, your husband makes a comment about how his nerves are almost shot and he runs for his personal hidey-hole. This, after he managed to go on a 4-day ski trip (free) last weekend, then worked a whopping 1.5 days before taking his leftover 2006 vacation days (that he didn't know he had. Dumbass.) to recover from the stomach flu and what can only be called the weeniest "cold" imaginable. Then, after you've managed the least amount of sympathy that classifies as being polite, informed both children they will not receive any more food this evening because they didn't eat their dinner, washed the dishes, and started the dishwasher, you're expected to listen to your husband bitch about poker.