Proof

I love it when research backs up my life! 


Facebook makes you sad.

Fun with numbers

Yesterday a fun blogger wrote about how her husband will turn 36 on 12-12-12.  I was telling S and we wondered if our birth dates will ever add up to our age.  This was kind of a silly thing to wonder, you'll see why in a second.

Guess what!?  This year I will turn 30 (yay, 30).  I will turn 30 on 3-15-12. 

What was that?  Oh yeah, 3+15+12=30.  Whoo-hoo!  Yay for 30! 

Then I realized, I must have turned 29 on 3+15+11=29.  And 28 on 3+15+10=28.  The sum of my birth date has equaled my age since 2000.  Fun, right?  But not the super special 30th birthday thing that I thought it was.

Did anyone else turn the equivalent of the sum of their birth month and birth day in 2000?  If so, you get this extra special treat as well!

It arrived

“So you see, imagination needs moodling – 

long, inefficient, happy idling, dawdling and puttering.”   

Brenda Ueland

My new tool for puttering arrived!

 

(It's a sewing machine, in case you can't tell)

I do not know how to use it.  I'm trying to learn slowly and properly since there is a sharp needle involved.  I've been cross referencing books and tutorials for two days.  This is serious business. 

Goodbye, Old Paint

An ode to singing cowboy Roy Rogers.

Or a fond farewell to the house that we thought we were buying.  Goodbye house, it was moderately swell but mostly frustrating.

There are several reasons that we're walking away from the house.  Here they are, listed briefly:
1) LBP.  Not little black pants, lead-based paint.  It costs a fortune to get rid of this stuff.
2) The roof.  The roof.  The roof is (really, really expensive to completely replace even if it's not on fire).
3) How firm a foundation.  Except for the foundation in this house, which is collapsing.
4) It's electric.  And not grounded.  And dangerous.

The sum of the above: twice as much as the house it worth.

So, goodbye, old (lead-based) paint.  It was nice while it lasted.  No hard feelings.

Too many words

I live life with too many words.  Most of them in my head, some out in the world.

Talk myself into things.
Talk myself out of things.
Explain myself.
Excuse myself.
Express myself.
Freak out.
Be intellectual.
Try to impress.
Talk others into things.
Talk others out of things.
And LOVE ME!  LOVE ME!  Please?

A few years ago I decided to embrace monotasking.  I do okay.  It's kept me from getting a smart phone because I am convinced that everything can wait.

This year: more imagery, less monologue.  More living life, less talking about living life. 

Ironically, I have no images to share.

I would love to stay and chat,

But I really

Dear Ironic Mustache,

You think you are so clever with your pervasive presence on Pinterest and your appearance at weddings and parties.  "Look at me!  Wear me with glasses and a top hat and I am humorous just like the 19th century because the 19th century was so hilarious!" 

Well, Mister Mustache, you are not humorous.  To a dark haired female who spends just as much time with her tweezers as she does with her husband, you are simply my worst nightmare.  I believe that I speak for dark haired beauties everywhere when I say, STOP TAUNTING US!  See that girl up there?  Yeah, she's Asian.  So she doesn't understand that those mugs are not ironic, they are a method of psychological torture. 

And now you are not only trying to ruin parties and my morning coffee, you are infiltrating my bedroom!  The sacred place of sleep.  You know the place without judgment?  I will not sleep in this bed of lies.  Plus, your popularity made this possible.

Mustaches on baby booties?  Why, exactly, is this desirable? 

And why can't you just leave us alone?

Sincerely,
The female losers of the facial hair lottery