I am 34 years old. I have been wearing mascara for roughly 20 years now. I would say I apply mascara at least 360 days of the year. That allows for 72,000 mascara applications (I'm not even counting the days when I reapply or go out at night and put it on twice in one day). I would think that this would be enough applications that I am able to do it without poking myself in the eye with the mascara wand. I would be wrong to think that.
I always wonder why it is so easy to get out of bed at 5 am to go fishing, but it is so difficult to get up at 5 am to go to work.
You really know you're nearing forty if someone asks, "Is that a tattoo?" and you reply, "No, it's a spider vein."
My son has decided that sleep isn't necessary, which means my mind has concluded that forming complete sentences is also not mandatory.
Wearing thong underwear makes as much sense as using a strip of scotch tape instead of a baggie to protect your sandwich.
I opened my eyes to see her looking at me so intently. She was taking in every angle of my face as if trying to memorize every line. It took my breath away to realize how closely she watches me, how often she copies what I say or do, and how much we love each other. There is an incredible bond that exists between mothers and daughters. She held my face in her hands for a few more seconds and gently said, "Mama?" "Yes, baby?" "You have a big hair growing out of your chin."
Whenever I go barefoot in the house, my feet seem to be magically attracted to anything on the floor that shouldn't be there, like needles, thorns, teeny pieces of glass, staples...If something little is lost, I know all I need to do is take off my shoes, and I'll find it in no time. Who needs a metal detector when I have foot-radar?
How to tell when your writing career has completely stalled: You have started putting your byline on the grocery lists.
I'm convinced toddler ears are tuned to a special frequency that allows them to hear the opening of a package of candy from anywhere in the house.
What's the difference between love and hemorrhoids? Hemorrhoids last forever.
iPology n. 1. Spontaneous display of remorse following the confiscation of a teenager's mp3 player.
I spent Saturday afternoon spraying wood stain on the new swing set. Balancing on the top of a ladder with a sprayer isn't the safest process and to make matters worse, I was downwind of the spray. I ended up with red highlights and a spotty fake tan. A girl's gotta multitask when there's no time for pampering.
One of life's great tragedies is the inability to pursue all that stirs the heart.
I wasn't feeling well last night, so my husband offered to get some take-out for dinner. He then asked our five year old son what he wanted to eat. Our son replied, "Pasketti." Then he corrected himself and said, "No, no, not pasketti. Sasketti." And again, "No! Not sasketti. I want Spapetti." We were just sitting there, waiting for him to come up with the right word, when he walked over to my husband and said, "Dad, I want chicken."
I wake up with blog entries like others wake up with dreams.
Rockin out to "Bohemian Rhapsody" just isn't the same in a minivan.
My daughter is grounded, and it's way worse on me then on her, I do believe. Anyway, grounded from TV, the phone and video games, she is pretty bored and is spending all her time baking. And making marshmallow fondant, which I find inexplicably irresistible. I may have to unground her just to save my waistline.
The washing machine does the watusi in the spin cycle so bad I have to sit on it to keep it from moving into the kitchen.
I slept through my alarm this morning. I woke up exactly five minutes before class started, shoved myself into the clothes I was wearing yesterday, took a brief moment to channel Flo-Jo, and sprinted. I was still late, but at least now I can convince myself I worked out today and eat a slice of cheesecake.