26 more days until we fly out of this frozen hell.
I haven't lost 26 pounds and I don't even care.
I may have accumulated nearly 26 bathing suits, 26 summer dresses, 26 tank tops, and 26 skirts. Probably not though. That sounds so excessive.
Roughly 26 x 6 are the dollars I spent on a dyson vacuum cleaner that I found on kijiji. I want a dyson for my carpet downstairs because of all the cats and the kids and all the stuff that I imagine imbedded in that carpet keeps me up days. Not nights, because goodness knows I need my sleep.
It sucks ass. And by that I mean to say that it doesn't suck as well as my $35.00 windtunnel that the thrift store sold me. I'm upset about it, but I don't want to talk about it. Which is why I'm posting it on my blog.
I could have bought a bunch of swim suit tops and some skirts for that kind of money. Or wine.
Minus 26, the temperature in these parts. That's just stupid, no matter how positive your attitude is or if you are one of those people whose flatulance is purple glitter and you think that people who live in Manitoba shouldn't complain about the weather because "it happens every year". You know what? Go make glitter art. I don't even like you.
Half of 26. The amount of people Brian made ribs and wings and mashed potatoes and cinnamon buns for last weekend. Daughter #1 and 12 of her closest friends. It was way too much fun. waay. If I hadn't have just had such a rotten, stinking, awful day, I would write all about it. But I'm too miserable for that.
26. The age of me when I birthed that wonderful daughter. I may have told the story of her conception to her twelve friends. I may have mentioned that it was a Thursday afternoon study break, and that they should all practise safe sex. Which is when they thought Arianna was conceived when I was 7, which would currently make me 26, which I'm not.
Twenty-six: The number of blog posts I was going to attempt before we fly away. It could be stupid, terrible writing, but just to commit to writing every day until we leave. I rarely write any more and that's just stupid. There's no reason for it except that I now live on my phone texting people and pinning thousands of things on pinterest. I didn't say it was good. Although Pinterest is good. Very good. As is texting friends.
In 26 more sleeps, my Brian-ator and I will board a big old bird out of Winnipeg and do something everyone else does and we don't do. Fly to Mexico to become Great White Whales who survive on cervezas and nachos and occasionally dip their large white toes into the ocean, then require a bit of a read just before a big old beachy nap.
26. Twenty-six days to make myself get out of my cozy bed in the morning, hurl myself sobbing into the shower, darken my canines with black coffee, snarl at not-so-innocent preschoolers, make 26 more batches of rhubarb muffins, vacuum way more than 26 times- NOT WITH THE DYSON, notthatIwanttotalkaboutit. Pluck frozen dog poop out of the walkway out of consideration for my customers, fight with Micah to get the *6&% out of bed in the morning, suggest to Sam that he occasionally shower, disinfect the toilet that boys seem to consistently miss, feed the babies, pet the kitties, and pin the cat pics.
Twenty-six more times.