though clouds do appear
(after the dog vomited on the living room carpet……)
“Hey Luke, would you eat that for 1 million dollars?” asked Jacob
“Yeah, heck, I might even do it for $10,000.” he replied
“Hey Luke, would you french-kiss Jacob for 1 million dollars?” I asked
“No” he replied “That’s disgusting.”
Yesterday was my birthday, and I believe that I’ve finally reached the age where it’s inappropriate for someone to ask me how old I am.
Simply put - 23 sounds terribly close to 30 and I don’t like the sound of it.
Long gone are the days of “18″ when people look at you with the longing in their eyes of when they too were 18 and all was right with the world.
Now, I’m old enough to sound too far gone for my teenaged siblings to catch up to me. “You’re old” they say, and mean it, even though they chuckle to ease the sharpness of the pain from the knife they just plunged into my heart.
If I were the type to get drunk, it would no longer seem appropriate (In my mind, because really seeing someone get drunk is pathetic enough, but when you’re beyond 21 there’s a special kind of pitiful associated with it) since I am 2 (two!) years older than the “official drinking age”.
What happened to the years of pin the tail on the donky and spin the bottle? They’re only now retreivable when I have children of my own. Which, as an aside, I am able to (responsibly) do now as well. I remember when having children seemed like such a foreign concept, something I would never get to do (right up there with getting married and having sex), but alas, those things aren’t out of reach anymore.
I’m such an adult, and yet, I remember my childhood with such clarity sometimes that I feel like I’m not so far removed from that awkward girl in high school with the glasses and braces (oh, the torture!) looking out into the world and wondering what it had in store for little ol’ me.
Yeah, it’s me, Fancythis.
I know, I know. You’ve all been wondering, worriedly biting your nails waiting for my return.
And I’ve been nothing but a dissapointment.
The long and short of it?
My husband was deployed, and there’s just something about that life-altering event that re-prioritizes what you do on a daily basis. I gotta be honest, blogging wasn’t even on the radar. In fact, it was so far off the radar that when I finally picked my sorry rear out of my state of “Whoa is me!!”, I still didn’t want to blog.
Now, I do.
Funny how it works, no?
I don’t know where to start really. This is like that awkward first date moment when both people just sit and stare at one another until someone mutters, “So….this is nice.” Which leads to a “Oh, we’ve decided just to be friends.” moment with your mother, who tries to hook you up with every man she meets, because will you just get married and move out of her house already?!?!?!
Anyway!
Y’all know this is just my favorite time of year, and this time, my husband isn’t here to reign in my spending. Which is just great for all of you! (who know me, that is. heck, if you’re nice enough to me, I just might buy you a present anyway!)
Retail therapy is legitimate therapy people. Why, I couldn’t imagine a better way to fill the void! You want that Tiffany’s necklace, SIL?* Got it! A new house, best friend?* Done! All of your school loans paid off, Em?* It’s on me! Seriously, I’m on a roll! This shopping stuff is great!
In other completely unrelated news……
I “met” another person who reads my blog. It’s funny how you find these things out. Her method? Laughter (Hi Lynne!)
As she walked by me: (chuckling) “I’m a closet blog reader of yours.”
NO!!!!
Now I have to go through and clean it up again!(kidding)
So, now that you all know I’m alive, you can start celebrating Christmas in full force. I know the sadness was too overwhelming until now.
*Please do not really expect this from me on Christmas
