So my house is kind of falling apart.
Yep, the exterior is rotting, we have mice, and there is a funky stench lingering in the basement. Only kidding people.
Actually only kind of kidding, because our fridge is broken, which means that our house is pretty much falling apart. If not the actual appliances, then definitely our overall household sanity. I am way past the point of daydreaming about eggs and cheese and everything else cold. Last night I caught my mom staring at the inside of our {old} empty fridge for about two solid minutes. We just want fresh produce people. We have been fridgeless for about five days and will continue to be fridgeless until Friday. Sooooo we’ve been storing what chilled goods we could salvage in coolers all over the garage.
At this point it would be completely fair to call us hillbillies. Fat hillbillies.
Okay, that’s harsh. My family isn’t fat. That’s just me.
I guess this would probably be the appropriate time to also tell you wonderful readers that I kinda sorta broke our scale on Saturday….
What?? Who breaks a scale? Like who am I? Two Ton Tilly?? This week has been a serious time of self-evaluation…
But waiiit a second. Before I get stuck with the title of Big Bertha, let me explain. This scale was getting old[er]. As in one year old. As in me stepping on it like every day for 375 days, sometimes even more. As in me PLUS my five other family members who used it. Can’t you see how a year could be old?????…..
Lately, I would step on and the stupid little screen would stay blank. As flattering as that was to see, I am not silly enough to believe that I am weightless. Come on, I just ate three dozen of these cookies last week…
I figured the old geezer of a scale simply needed a little jump start. Literally.
So I jumped on it. Nothing more than a little hop. And what happens? The entire bottom of the scale shattered into a million little pieces.
You just can’t make this stuff up.
Infinite x’s and o’s
