This might be a bold statement, but I believe myself to be the Queen of Bad Decisions. Or at least an integral member of her court. I mean, who schedules a dentist appointment, public speaking class (which deserves its own post because I am such a wreck) and a lady MD visit that required a biopsy in places you don’t want to hear about...all on the same day? I like to call that Wednesday.
Or purchases two LARGE pieces of furniture with the idea of refinishing one and upholstering the other? I have never done anything with furniture other than laze about on it whilst ignoring my child/husband/mother…really anyone. But I will now magically turn a tacky seven foot mid-century buffet into some unbelievably dope ass piece of furniture? And a busted light oak table into a tufted ottoman? Right.
Below are the "before" pictures. Lord knows when the "after" will be ready, but whether it works out or not believe you me, those pictures are going up on the Interwebs.
Sometimes I like to pretend that I am so scatterbrained because I am overextended. Or lazy (despite what you may think, they are not mutually exclusive). When I lie to myself (and to people who have just met me), old friends are quick to remind everyone that I have been misplacing my wallet since 1988 and just stopped caring. And so what that we bought a 100+ year old house on a lark...and I woke up this morning to the smell of small electrical fire? I think it's quirky to make questionable decisions until someone cries. Or gets divorced.
Where is this going? Well just recently I noticed my kid is a lot like me. I can't believe it's nurture because 1) I probably don't nurture him enough and, 2) He isn't cognizant of how much I suck at life from time to time. It's small things. Like his lack of coordination. Yes, he is 2.5, but EVERYONE jokes that when he rams his goat head into a wall, it reminds them of yours truly. Once I walked through a screen door. OK, more than once but who is counting? Or the fact that he stops mid-sentence and, with a quizzical look on his face, says "what's that called mom? Oh, an apple. Right." Similar to Mr. Swirley filling in the mid-sentence blanks for me, I step in for EK ... but I'll be dammed if I didn't pass on my jackass genes to my kid. Poor guy, he has a life full of "POW-MIA? [actually pronounced as if it's a word] What's that?", if genetics has anything to do with it. Good thing we have the stellar Chicago school system to supplement for my deficiencies.
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