Why our house will never be finished

Last weekend, Clint and I painted our living room Taupe. This weekend, Clint and I repainted our living room because our walls looked like we blended up liver pate and deviled ham, took the mixture to Home Depot to color match it, and foolishly purchased two gallons of the Taupe disaster because we didn't want to waste our money on a quart of paint to use as a sample. We applied one coat on the walls and stood back as the color began to dry. It was scary ugly. In hopes we could temper the color a bit, we convinced ourselves it would look better after a 2nd coat. After a full day of painting, it began to look eerily reminiscent to the color of cat food. We've spent the last seven days complaining about how much we hate it. Too make matters worse, I mistakenly painted all of our new baseboards, crown moldings, and casings with flat paint. I'd like to apologize to our niece for missing her birthday party. I'm sorry you're related to two anal individuals who don't think through projects as well as they should, and can't seem to live (not even one more day) with the consequences of their mistakes. I hope Emma did a good job being our proxy. We, however, are covered in Behr Antique Brown, that so far, does not look like anything edible.

Thanks a bunch!

Thank you Mother. Thank you for letting me invade your closet tonight. Thank you for letting me poke and prod through your wardrobe in search of church appropriate vintage dresses. Thank you for allowing me to take a few home. Thank you for not bringing up the fact that for the first 20 years of my life, I made fun of the vintage lifestyle you led. You said I would appreciate it all some day, blah blah blah. Thank you for not throwing that back in my face. You were right.

And a special thank you to my Nona's Thanksgiving stuffing, for affecting my ability to zip up my Mother's vintage dresses.

FYI

A word of caution if you happen to visit me this week at home:

The matter of the economy has caused my stress level to rise to a ridiculous amount, and my mouth is paying the price. I'm struggling with a doosy of a canker sore, and my constant companion, anbesol, just isn't cutting it. It's very painful when I talk, so I've been saving my communication for only the most important of situations, like "I thought the lunchmeat was on sale for $6.99 a lb. You charged me $8" or "Clint, I'm leaving and I won't be back for 43 hrs. Good luck". So, if you would rather not hear me yell at you at the top of my lungs, then please don't touch the bananas, because I've already told the 2 year old several times to stop touching the bananas, but he continued to try to pull them apart, and right now for me, each spoken warning is accompanied by a shooting pain, and after several excruciating pleas, I finally broke down and screamed STOP TOUCHING THE FRICKIN BANANAS!, which caused the two year old to cry with fright, in turn causing me to kneel at his side and silently gesture like Lassie that I'm sorry I scared him.

Fair warning.

10am on a Tuesday Morning

Asher's got it right. I can think on nothing better to do on a Tuesday morning than to study a caterpillar's act of gluttony, clutch fast to my fairy wand, and practice hopeful optimism that one day I can turn myself into a ravishing butterfly as well, all while sporting my sister's pink high heels.





This is the life.