I really should be working on writing my autobiography.
No, I'm not writing a book. Although it feels like it. It's for our adoption agency and there are four...yes, I said four...pages of questions to answer. And that doesn't include all the discussion questions to make sure I really know what I'm getting myself into.
Yes, I do. And yes, I'm doing it anyway.
But since I'm not even sure I know four pages of stuff about myself and my mind can't seem to stay focused on how my parents showed affection to each other during my childhood...and I'm not sure I WANT to stay focused on my parent's affections toward each other...here I sit. NOT writing my autobiography.
Instead my mind keeps wandering to random things that I really like. So, since I'm procrastinating, I'll tell you about them.
Going to the store alone. It's the little things, really. I'm particularly anal about making sure I'm getting the best deal and using all my coupons to the max. Which is why I came home last night with 4 pounds of peanut butter. All this can be done much more efficiently when I'm not having to explain why we can't have Nutty Buddy bars for breakfast. Or that we don't need any more pop tarts because our cupboards already overflow with their processed goodness [insert sarcasm]. And yes, you can push the cart, but please try to avoid ramming my poor ankles or the little old lady that isn't going fast enough for you. I get to push when it's just me.
Loud country music. Unfortunately, I can no longer listen to country music with the boys in the car. Charlie listens to E-V-E-R-Y-T-H-I-N-G and is the most literal kid I know (post later on that). Except when I'm actually wanting him to listen, but that's typical kid, right? I have no intentions of explaining the facts of life to him because he's listening too closely to Brad Paisley songs. "I don't know why we need to check each other for ticks. Ask your daddy." So when I go to the store by myself, I crank up the country music and don't worry about explaining why it's better to save a horse by riding a cowboy.
Riding with the window down. Now before my husband flips out, let me clarify. Riding with the window down when I have a hat on. Because one of the things I absolutely hate is having my hair in my face. Which will obviously happen if the window is down and I'm sans hat. But give me a hat and the sunshine and roll 'em all down!
Speaking of my hat...if I could get away with it, I'd wear it everyday. The one I'm currently sporting is actually Katie's old crimson Alabama baseball cap. I really don't like fixing my hair. I don't know why. Between drying and flat ironing, it's just 15 minutes of my day I could use to do something far more entertaining. And a hat remedies that. That is, if I'm going somewhere that doesn't dictate something more formal than a girl in a hat. Which honestly, isn't that many places. Sad.
Amazon. Not the river or the rainforest, but the website. I don't do a ton of actual shopping on Amazon, except at Christmas when I take full advantage of the things they ship free to avoid the road rage that will surely dampen my cheery mood. But I do use the site to comparison shop A LOT. If there's one thing I hate, it's not getting a good deal on something. And since Amazon is like a virtual Walmart on steroids and you can literally find anything, it's the perfect place to start.
Fonts. I know what you are thinking...what's a dork. And I know, I agree. But there is just something relaxing to me about playing with different fonts, shapes and sizes when I'm having to create a handout or I'm updated the blog header. I also feel the same way about editing pictures. Taking them is not that bad, but I love messing around with them once they are actually out of my camera. Most of them I never do anything with. The really good ones end as my background on my computer.
I should probably get back to my autobiography...anyone else notice that I just sat here and wrote about all the stupid things that no one really wants to know about me instead of things like describing the family rules and responsibilities I had while I was growing up, all the jobs I've ever had or which sibling I get along best with?
Ahem, cough, cough...don't tell our social worker.
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