7: cans of paint bought in the last 2 weeks
9,284: cans of half-used paint found in my basement, all of questionable color and/or origin
2: light fixtures bought in last two weeks
2: light fixtures that need to be disposed of in such a way that NO ONE will ever know they came from my house.
1: little girl who is determined she will be a “big three” as opposed to a “little three.”
0: times that has made sense to me.
15: bags of lollipops purchased to make topiary trees.
10: times I was given the stink-eye by the cashier who is probably suspecting that I have a hoarding problem and is therefore looking for evidence of dead cats somewhere on my person.
0: dead cats in my house.
0: percent certainty this is, in fact, true.
12: cupcakes eaten to fuel the sugar-rush that this level of cleaning and renovation requires.
36: cookies needed to back up the cupcake sugar rush
9: number of wrong cuts made by The Guy On My Couch while replacing mouldings
13: length in feet of wasted moulding caused by those cuts
2: people who think it’s hilarious that he can’t remember which way the angle goes on some of those cuts
0: times I have believed that “moulding” is a real word.
1,028,928,002: times I have been certain that “logicate” is a real word.
30,000: number of people who are probably showing up at my house this weekend.
30,000: number of people who are probably going to criticize my bad taste in decor and/or inability to make my house look like a magazine.
30,000: number of people who I will try to pawn aforementioned light fixtures off upon.
0: times I have understood why boob lights are all the rage.
0: other types of ceiling lights available for those of us who do not want to think, “HOLY FUCKBALLS, CHECK OUT THAT BOOB ON MY CEILING!” every morning.
9,726,043: minutes I have spent trying to understand boob lights.
Your turn, Pranksters. Pull up a nice glass of vodka and tell Your Aunt Becky what is going on with YOU today.
I am not a crafty person.
See also this:
Yes, yes I made that. And I wasn’t trying to suck AT ALL.
I know, understatement of the year, right? (why I just joined Pintrest is beyond me – prolly so I can feel bad about myself MORE often)
That’s why it’s beyond me why I decided to do a themed birthday party. Frankly, I could’ve just thrown a few bottles of vodka and a couple of shitty take-out pizza boxes out and called it a day and everyone would’ve been all, “sweet ass.” But no. I had to renovate my fucking house.
Then I had the brilliant idea to do a CandyLand themed birthday party. Seems simple right? A couple of bags of fucking candy WITH some pizza and beer.
Not so much. Because I turned to Google and was all, SHOW ME YER CANDY THEMED PARTIES. And then I cried. Because they were so awesome and I couldn’t recreate that kind of awesome without the aid of the Lollipop Kids. And it turns out, the Lollipop Kids are like dead now.
And the more I thought about it (and the more I realized I hated the cartoons from the game), the more I realized that I’d be stuck as Gloppy, so CandyLand was PROBABLY a bad fucking idea. I mean, who wants to be covered in Gloop half a day?
So I decided that a generic Sweet Shoppe themed party (oh yes, I went there with the “e” on Shop) would a) be adorable and 2) be easy.
Lollipop trees? I figured I’d be able to quickly throw some balls on a stick and poke suckers into them. Turns out? You need a fuckton of lollipops. I’m pretty sure the guy at Party City thinks I’m now a hoarder – of lollipops. I keep coming in to buy more. Turns out that lollipop topiaries take about a hundred zillion lollipops.
And the garland I’ve decided to make out of Froot Loops and twine? The sugar dust that is now coating my house is slowly turning me into a diabetic.
Great. Now I’m a diabetic hoarder.
Tell me that doesn’t look like unicorn poo.
I sure hope my kid appreciates her party. Thanks to my new Type 2 Diabeetus diagnosis (self-diagnosed!), my foot might fall off for her and I’ll never be able to find it in the gobs of lollipops now living in my house. See also: hoarder.
At least I have what appears to be unicorn poo living on my table. Things can always be worse. Even if my foot falls off.
This may win for most epic picture of the year. Altho, it’s still January and that picture is butt-ass old, so far, he is NUMBER ONE in my life.
Also number one, these posts (a lie):
I wrote about my new obsession. And it would be RAD if you could comment on it.
I also wrote about Amelia. I’m wicked proud of it.
We’re doing a birth defects/birth injury/birth trauma carnival on Sunday on Band Back Together if’n you want to join us!
So go read, then come back and tell Your Aunt Becky what YOU’VE been writing about this week. Let’s do a link-up, y’all.