How shall I treat our house more like a garbage pail?
Let me count the ways.
With dirty socks and underwear tossed to the depth and breadth and height
A hamper? What? Pff. Please. I’ve got stuff to do tonight.
Like (for example) I’ve got to take these sticky double Popsicle sticks
A year or so ago I subscribed to The New Yorker, after reading an amazing article in the online edition about Americans’ refusal to accept illness and die with dignity. And in honor of that one fantastic article, I am allowing my subscription to die with dignity.
As of 5:30 this morning, when I was running (Shameless bragging! BOOYAH!) past the Country Music Hall of Fame, enthusiastic fans were already lining up to partake in the CMA Fest-ivities.
The problem with me (or at least the one we will be discussing today) is that when I stink at something, I want to know why.
It's important to me to understand.
Why do I stink at this thing?
I demand a diagnosis.
I have to admit, I don't really understand the engagement portrait.
I see this all the time now, when I’m running in East Nashville. Gooey-eyed couples canoodling to the click of a camera, wearing outfits they perceive as “fashion-y”, on a background they perceive as “artistic” (bricks, weeds, wildflowers).
WHAT ARE YOU DOING?
To the Woman With the Furry, Furry Mustache:
If you can not wax-
Or otherwise depilate-
You must shave that facial beast.
For the good of eyeballs everywhere, you must.
I know what you're thinking.
You're thinking about what your mother said.