|Am I really too sexy for my body?|
This is what I've learned about myself:
There is no reason for me to have 45374856 coffee mugs. No reason. I know, with absolute certainty, that I will never be in a situation where I need to serve coffee to 45374856 people. Never.
I have an unfortunate habit of using salad dressing one time, forgetting I have it, and buying a new bottle every time I go to the store. Because everyone needs 13 bottles of the same kind of salad dressing in their fridge at all times.
I have never, in my lifetime apparently, finished an entire jar of pickles. I seem to get bored with the bottle when there is one pickle left and then buy more without bothering to toss the lone pickle in the jar at the back of the fridge. This is why there are no less than 7 jars of pickles in my fridge where one sad little dill resides.
I have 7892746 socks but only 12 of them match. Not twelve pairs... twelve socks.
It turns out I left a box of Christmas ornaments on top of the fridge, conveniently hidden behind a large Betty Boop cookie jar. Who knew?
I seem to have bought a bag of potatoes (which I never do... we don't eat that many potatoes) at some point in the past year and am now growing my own in a dark hidden corner of the pantry.
My dogs will never, ever, run out of Pupperoni. It's another thing I seem to buy every time I go to the store and then forget I bought it, so I buy more. I'm pretty sure this means that Javi and Maisy have to live forever, yes?
I'm a book hoarder. I can't get rid of books. I'm like one of those awful people on Hoarding: Buried Alive who sob and cling to a slice of bologna that expired in 1987 and can't bring themselves to throw it away. Only with books, which is less disgusting but takes up a whole lot more room. I've been packing books for two days and I'm still not finished. (It might go more quickly if I'd stop reading them as I pack them but that's neither here nor there.)
After packing all 657 pairs of Dan's underwear, I can safely assume he will never need to buy any again, ever. I have no idea why I keep buying underwear for him. I'm sure there's hidden symbolism in there, somewhere, but I shudder to think what it might be.
I just killed 23 minutes writing this blog. Which indicates that I may or may not be a huge procrastinator.