Inked

We are spending the weekend in a house that looks like the "after" shot in a HGTV show.  Very nice, and the food is straight from the cooking channel as well.  My sons are a little older so I don't hover quite so much in fear that they will leave a trail of dirt, blood and food; and they do need to learn to be responsible for themselves at somepoint.  While I was a little upset when I saw the fist print of marinara sauce on the cushion of the dining room chair, I didn't feel as personally at fault as I normally would.  A slight weight lifted; I don't need to feel the guilt over every error of my progeny.  Needing something from my car, I went to retrieve the keys.  When I picked up my purse from the white apolstered chair in the guest room I found an inkspot worthy of a Rorchach test.  A pen had leaked.  If I had to interpret what the ink blot said about my emotional and reasoning functioning, I would say that it's time to worry about my own messes.