1. Last Thursday I painted my nails pink. With SPARKLES. I kind of look like a disco ball if you close your eyes. (Though if you ask Husband, he'll tell you that maybe I just look like I'm trying to be 16. WHATEVER. HE DIDN'T CLOSE HIS EYES.)
2. Yesterday I was at Target looking at all the Valentine's chocolate I'd beg my husband to buy me when I stumbled upon a miniature unicorn. A miniature UNICORN, guys. Naturally, I decided I wanted it. NEEDED it. But COME ON, KRISTINE, you're a grown-ass woman, and a UNICORN?! So, there was only one way to address this problem, and it needed to be direct and brutally honest. So I asked my mother to buy me a miniature unicorn. AND SHE DID.
Cut to this morning when I remember about my mini-corn and start into a full panic when I realize it's missing and OHMYGOD I THINK I THREW THE BAG AWAY. After securing the children with a television, I went outside and eyeballed the garbage can that was rapidly covering with snow. I hear the first 48 hours after something goes missing are the most crucial so I flapped that lid open dramatically. Then I glanced furtively up and down the street for onlooking neighbors, quieting the clapping lid with my hands. That bitch was loud.
Just as I reached in to grab yesterday's trash, I heard the scrape and splatter of the plow guy barreling up the road. I dashed back into the garage for cover, standing flush against the garage wall to blend with the elements. It was in this moment that I had a realization. I, Kristine, was standing in the garage, the smell of garbage on my hands, the wet of snow on my pajamas, and the suspicious head-shaking stares of neighbors on my soul. What's wrong with me?! Becauase--LIGHTBULB!--MINICORN WAS IN THE BASKET ON THE KITCHEN ISLAND! Wa-HOO!
When I got inside and stroked it lovingly, Plus One immediately spotted my treasure and came scurrying my way. He was all, "Is that for Baby?" I stood there in the kitchen, looking like the deranged garbage-lady I am, and stared him down until he retreated to his bedroom. A unicorn! For baby?! KIDS, man!
3. (I have a toenail fungus.)
4. Remember when I awkwardly told you about those awards over at Studio 30 +? Well, despite the fact that I was so anxious about the nomination that I completely dropped the campaign ball, I WON! TAH-DAH!
That's right, guys! I'm...Most....Interesting...Blogger! HaHA! INTERESTING! That's...I mean, that's a compliment, right? Because, I gotta tell you, I'm having flashbacks of that time I told my therapist I sometimes eat my own hair.
5. (I mean, MY FRIEND has a toenail fungus. And stop dry heaving at your screen already because HELLO STIGMA! I AM NOT A DIRTY GIRL! I mean, you know, I DON'T HAVE DIRTY FRIENDS! And really, we've gotta get a campaign going or maybe a Twibbon or Facebook movement, because the false advertising out there aimed at these sufferers of the spores! FungiCare? The stuff the INTERNET says will take away all your embarrassing, flaky problems? That shit has a picture of a moldy toenail on the front (HI, NOT WHAT TOE FUNGUS LOOKS LIKE, ASSHOLE), and then when you buy it and bring it home the fine print is all, DOES NOT WORK ON NAILS. Plus there's the part where you ask the pharmacist if they carry the stuff and they have to forcibly hold down their lunch. Dicks.
Come to think of it, I'm feeling mildly inspired. My quest might be to get Kelsey Grammar to do a fungus PSA. I hear he's parted ways with the IBS people.)
6. I also won an award from the charming Didactic Pirate the other day. But this was before he knew about the fungus. Of my friend. Don't be an INDIAN GIV--- um, I mean, don't take it back?
7. Speaking of Native Americans! My son sat with his legs crossed yesterday and told me, "Look Mom, I'm sitting pigeon legs!" And I was like, "I think that means you need to see a doctor or something, my child." Then I walked over and looked and realized he was sitting INDIAN STYLE, except that it's been 30-ish years since I learned how to do that and they've up and changed the name. I came THIS CLOSE to blurting it out to my son who probably would've been stoned by his preschool class had he taught them how to be racist. Then he broke me out of my reverie because I SAID PRETZEL LEGS, MOM.
"Oh. Well that makes more sense. I'll cancel that doctor's appointment."
8. MY GOD, have you seen this commercial?
So, ahem, I think that's it.
We're still cool, right?
(Maybe don't answer that.)