Picky Pants

Disclaimer: I have been busy. Nuf Said.

I may or may not be trying to sell a house I might or might not live in. People who come to my house either to look at it to buy or to visit have been trudging through, or not. Demands on said dubiously existing house have been taxing on my level of tolerance and mood swings are possible ranging from mildly happy to annoyed. This may or may not become a problem if I don't get control of it.

Why all the legal shpeel? I can and cannot tell you that. What I can say is: We live in a picky pants world.

Can I get that in a tall? I want that in brown instead of black. I want that bigger, smaller, rounder, flatter, shinier... take your freaking pick! Everything is perfect... excluding this one tiny little thing that I have to have or you can go stuff it up your nose.

It makes me want to hide in my studio with my dog and soothe myself with a pound of chocolate. If I wanted perfect, I would have asked for another five inches on my height, ten pounds less on my backside, and a filthy rich millionaire athlete husband. What do I have? I have two totally awesome boys, a freaking rock-star awesome husband and I am short, roundish, and in debt. Sweet.

Go to hell picky pants.