Strawberry Vomit

So I slept on the couch last night because I had a drink or five ($2 Red Bull and vodkas, I have no self control) at Indigo, and I didn't want to roll over on Babe. Well Jeffrey, the super-de-dooper smart guy that he is, didn't wake me up before he left for work. He also neglected to put the gate back up to the cat's room and didn't lock the dishwasher. So by the time Babe finally got around to waking up Mommy this morning, she had already had a blast with the kitty litter and was walking around with a pizza cutter. Chewing on it. So anyways, I go grocery shopping with Babe and when I get back, I have at least twelve bags on one arm, Babe and a jug of milk in the other arm, and my keys dangling from my fingers. Whoa, run on sentence. I struggle the key into the door and the fucking thing snaps off. So cool, I can't get in my apartment. I drop all the groceries on my door mat and head back down those ridiculous stairs to hunt for the maintenance guy. I have a new key that I'm not allowed to keep (?) and I'm finally in my apartment. Woot! I put the groceries away and plop Babe in the highchair with a grilled cheese, a handful of blueberries and five massive strawberries. Not that it really matters but, she didn't eat her grilled cheese again. I don't know what's wrong with that girl. So yeah, Babe is done and I hose her down, throw her tray on the counter and walk to the bathroom for a nice pee. Mads didn't follow me, so I should have known something awful was about to happen. Strawberry vomit. Five piles of it on the carpet, a splash on the balcony door, a smear on the wall, blueberry chunks on the outlet cover, strawberry on her pony and Mr. Bear. It smells in here, and my carpet is pink.

Kill me.