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.