• Holy Stars. (I actually do think in age-old-more-appropriate-to-an-eighty-year-old idioms.) Someone is building a house? Building? Wow. So much for my theory that within no time we’ll all be breastfeeding grown men, Rose-a-Sharn style.
• I love goose crossings.
• She looks like an Ent. Good grief. Probably in junior high and 5’ 9”. I will never ever be 5’9”, hipless and thin as a rail. Why the heck hasn’t that occurred to me before?
• And lookie here at this receipt. The thing is smudged with dirty mechanic fingerprints . . . and oddly, that is really lovely.
• Love that husband did the laundry. Hate that I am supposed to fold it. Hate even more that I will prolong doing it and the clothes will find themselves irrevocably wrinkled in the corner of our room. All my fault.
• I must discover my final destination. Lows no lower than 50 degrees fahrenheit. Highs no higher than 90 degrees fahrenheit. Little to no humidity. No more than an eight-hour drive from the Peter Hub. It. Does. Not. Exist.
• Winter is stupid.
• We’re supposed to be in Fall.
• It’s freaking October!
• I want to be a crack shot. I really like that it rhymes with crackpot. The Husband and I should shoot more. Shoot things that aren’t living though. I’m never going to shoot something alive. Unless it's a man invading my house. Then I'll blow 'im to the moon.
• It’s pretty hilarious that if you hunt it’s hun‘un. And if you don’t, it’s hunTING.
• What’s with the lady in the hybrid smoking? Oxymoron. Emphasis on moron.
• My darling folded the laundry. I’m a loser.
1 comment:
That was delightful. I would like to be in your head more often:)
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