Don't be grossed out – and don't swoon when you hear what it is – it's only one of the last jars of my rum pot. Smashed to bits as you see, thanks to Troublemaker, spelled with a capital "Z". It was a particularly snazzy move: she dropped the jar over her right shoulder in one of those "disappearing" acts. In her favor, she ran, screaming and crying, to put herself in time-out as soon as I took her glass and rum laden pants off. I wasn't mad, but she knew she done bad. A couple weeks ago, the kitschy NYC snow globe I brought back for the girls also shattered to bits when Z dropped it on the kitchen (hardwood) floor. I shudder to think what's next.
