Sorry. My hands are full.
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That little Bible? I had to rescue from a box I was about to transport to Goodwill. I had to confiscate my brother’s and my favorite dinner plates from childhood. A little cute Christmas China set whose home was in the coveted fancy dish display? Worse. Headed to the trash. What the…? I didn’t want the home interiors. It was in its rightful place; headed to haunt someone else’s house with the ghost of 1989.
It’s a child-free Friday night on the heels of my serendipitous discovery that one of the neighborhood moms was a “specialty” baker. By serendipitous, I mean I went over there for something totally unrelated and smelled the scent that needs no introduction and the unmistakable smell of baked goods. I know a cake when I smell it.
Don’t piss me off or get on my nerves. I repeat this mantra daily—sometimes in my head, sometimes out loud, sometimes directly to the person teetering on the edge of doing one (or both) of these things. It’s a simple request, really.
Maybe I just needed a creative one-night stand. And okay, perhaps that wasn’t fair to you, but boiiii we had A TIME!