Last year, it was my 39th birthday that prompted the madness. This year it is the paparazzi.
I've had no time to get my pullovers in a knot about it. Its been that kind of a week.
I took a good , hard look at the couch. Well, what I could see of it through clouds of dust and flying straw. Yes, that's right. Straw.
I pushed, pulled, and dragged that monstrosity through the kitchen, out the entry way, and over the edge of the deck. I saw it laying there covered in leaves, torn, abandoned.... And I just knew that Brian would kill me if I left it there for more than fourteen seconds. So, I went after that beast, and hurled it continuously, ass over tea kettle, til I could slide that motherload into the garage.
(and hey, if we need an overflow area at the party on Saturday, November 24 at 7:00 pm at my house, bring your own nummie, dwinkie, and sweater.... that couch in the garage may come in really, really handy.....)
I meant to recover the remaining worn furniture in old sweaters, but GEE! Where'd the time go?!
So, you're fresh out of excuses. In fact, you badly NEED a party. I've got two spare nasty sweaters upstairs in my closet, Brian has just done a big party run in the stadt, and the now infamous couch has been replaced.
Did you ever stop to wonder what kind of parties the next generation is likely to throw? Well, repeated bending-over in my line of work, combined with the utter lack of tact and discretion in the preschooler population, has led me to believe that the next generation will be scouring thrift shops for slacks to wear to the Butt-Crack-Pants parties that they are most likely to host.
Aren't you glad you only have to find a sweater?