I apologize to the rest of you, but this is strictly for CaptainRon.
Looks a lot like what I like to think my college dorm would have looked like.
But I lived off-campus. Waaaay off campus.
Hereís another tip from your pal Outfoxed. Iím not much on giving tips, the last time I did so was when I advised you to never have kids.
And even though I know what Iím talking about, that didnít go over very well.
So for a sure fire follow up, hereís the next bit of worldly wisdom.
Never, ever, move out of the house youíre living in. Ever.
Find the one you like when youíre 20 years old. Make friends with the landlord or what-have-you. Offer to buy the place when he dies. Kiss ass madly and with reckless abandon.
But never move out. Especially to a bigger place.
I packed 50 coffee cups today. Wrapped Ďem in newspaper, sorted for color (I sorted before I wrapped, yes I did) and stuffed Ďem in a box.
It was a big box, but I got all 50 in there.
Then I opened the dishwasher and there were 6 more.
This is incorrigible. There are only 2 adults in this house who drink coffee, and one of them pollutes it with sugar products, so letís say thereís really only 1 and half of another (I wonít go into the logistics of all this, save to say that I make the coffee, and itís been recommended as a lubricant by a major automobile manufacturer).
But seriously, 50 coffee cups? I can see 6 or 8. Hell, we might have company once in a while and said company might be dipping the olí bill in the schnapps for a while, and may well need a coffee before taking to the streets, as they say.
50 coffee cups is just . . . damn. And I donít care who knows it.
Not to mention that every one of them needed a jacket of newsprint prior to being buried in a perfectly ordinary box, soon to be labeled ďTHIS BOX NEED NOT BE OPENED BEFORE ARMAGEDDONĒ in a flawless draftsmanís script, crisply done with the nearest available Sharpie.
I donít need this high pressure crap. Thereís got to be a better way.
And I havenít even gotten to the drawers yet. Where untold thousands in Pampered Chef stuff lies, silent and cunning, awaiting my feeble hands.
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