I mean, if I were to share something intimate and private you could keep that between the two of us and, you know, not spread it to the farthest corners of the world. Right?
I knew I liked you.
Anyway, there is something I've been wanting to get off my chest.
That's a funny expression. To get something off one's chest. Where did it come from? I always picture a man with with lots of chest hair making grand motions of taking all his invisible cares and throwing them upward and outward.
Not sure why the hairy chest. That's weird.
But I digress.
My friend Jill says I digress too much. There are all these little conversations I have with myself when I'm telling a story, sometimes I keep them to myself and sometimes I think you'll want to know about hairy chests.
Where was I?
Oh yes, secrets. I wanted to tell you something you can't tell anyone, especially my mother-in-law. With this I am sure she will disown me and never ever again buy me Vera Bradley purses. Which could mean the end of my world.
So....here it goes:
I know, I know, I know. This is bad. This is SO bad. We have a literal mountain of laundry that towers over our bed. Poor Corey can't find matching socks anymore; I'm not entirely sure he isn't wearing one black and one blue right now.
Or at least one spotted black sock and one striped black sock. Still so sad.
But in my defense....it's the felting. People enjoy draping themselves in felted wool beads. I can't fault them for that, I can't. And so I must sacrifice that precious laundry folding time to give the people what they want.
If that makes me a terrible person who shall never own a beautiful Laptop Travel Tote in Portobello Road then so be it! At least my conscience is clean!!
...just like our unfolded laundry.