Picture and Story One
Last weekend Mom watched the kids while Tucker and I went out with some folks from Tucker’s intern program.
Tucker and I had a deal worked where he would buy me a new outfit once I cleaned the apartment since he was going to do a final walk-through with them that following Monday. Since I am devoid of clothing that doesn’t involve an elastic waist, I scrubbed that damn apartment until my face burned from the bleach fumes and I was walking kind of funny.
Tucker picked out a pink sweater with a short sleeved black thin sweater thing to go over the pink thing which all went over my black leggings. It sounds so stupid but it’s super cute. Really. It is. Promise. Along with the two sweaters, Tucker got me some knee socks to break up the black leggings and my brown boots.
We had a good time and I love my socks. I love my socks so much that when Tucker dropped by Target to pick up my medicine, he bought me these:
Picture and Story Two
I mentioned here about wanting to be like Martha Stewart or something and my biggest obsession–until yesterday–was the wreath that our front door was missing. I could have bought one a while ago and, based on the time I wasted looking at the blasted things, should have. And though I don’t have a problem spending money–Shut your pie hole, Tucker!–I did have a problem paying $50 for a wreath I was only going to see for about 15 days a year.
So I made my own.
The grand total for the thing was less than $20. I totaled it up for Tucker and have since lost the stupid receipt. It’s made of a cheap “blank” wreath, a couple of tubes of break proof ornaments and two “expensive” ornaments the kids picked out–one for each kid. And by expensive I mean they cost $1.97/ornament.
From the street this thing looks AMAZING!
Picture and Story Three
Know what happens when you buy a brand-new house where no one has lived and it looks perfect and stuff?
For fuck’s sake.
Tucker’s hypothesis is that the Sears guy unhooked the lines and then didn’t tighten them down enough when he was done fixing our washer. Did I mention our washer didn’t work and had to be fixed? I probably forgot that part. Instead of the washer being grateful for us paying–way too much–to get it fixed, the washer decided to spew its hate all over the sheet rock.
I never liked you anyway, washer.
Three pictures. Three stories. The end.