Bert and Me

I have a sister named Bert. She used to be Ber, or to some Ber-Ber (which always made me wanna throw up, just a little, in my mouth), then my littlest Punk came around. Ber turned to Bert, and my sis took one for the Team and ran with it. Now she has passed the point of no return and will forever be known as Bert. Which isn't as bad as my lot. I'm Mimi. And Mimi is like GRANDMA. Only I got the name when I was a whopping 22. It stuck, and my self esteem flew right out the window.

Orange flowers for the lining, brown corduroy for the "outside part"

Bert is teaching me how to sew some stuff. And that is really and truly dangerous Webby Friends, dangerous. Because they don't call me "Grace" for nothin! This one time, when I was small, I sewed my baby brother's index finger because I didn't realize that the machine would GO REALLY FAST when you stomped with all your might step lightly on the super sweet, looks like a race car, pedal. It wasn't my fault- he just didn't move his hand out of the way fast enough. Geesh, Slow Poke!

The latest adventure is a corduroy dress thingy. And I say thingy because I've never been girly enough to learn what the different styles of dresses are. All I know about dresses is you better wear tights, Punk #2, cause otherwise we all get a great glimpse of your underpants. Which is an improvement over when she was potty training and didn't wear underpants for like 2 weeks. Nudie Patudie indeed. Baby steps, baby steps, baby steps. Baby steps to the door, baby steps out the door, baby steps to the underpants, baby steps put the underpants on.... Sorry, I was suddenly stuck in  a "What About Bob?" moment. If you haven't seen that movie, well, you should. Hysterical.

Bert sewing away. I always get the little people to do my work for me. 

Life is better that way.

Anywho, so Bert is showing me how to sew a dress. Only I can't actually cut fabric in straight lines. Oh, and I can't sew a straight line to save my life. But what I CAN do is pin fabric together. Now we are getting to the whole reason for this post! See, I have always been the Odd Egg of our family. Not quite fitting in here or there, not really fitting in anywhere. But, seeing as I got all the TOTALLY AWESOME genes I guess it works out.

Sewing, or should I say pinning fabric, brought out this contrast between my family and I once more. I like to point all sharp objects AWAY from my person. Bert likes pain, so does my Mother. They point the pins towards themselves. I mean really? How many times do you have to poke yourself before the light turns on and "OH! I could turn them around and not bleed all over this fabric!" And they think I'm weird. I also remove the pins just before that part of the fabric is sewn. Cause this one time I sewed over a needle and it broke and shot my eye out. Learned my lesson, yesserrriee Bob, learned it good. Remove pin = no flying shrapnel.

See how MY pins point IN!! No poking while sewing! Genius.

See how Bert's pins are just waiting to poke any finger that gets too near!!!!

Hurry B-Dub! Move your hand before the poking begins!!

Doh, too late.

I did ask Bert if she ever experienced the flying shrapnel. And she has, but still keeps on sewing right on over those pins. She isn't scared, bring it tiny metal fragments, bring - it - on! Some people will never learn. And that, Interweb Friends, is the perfect illustration of how I differ from the rest of the Quackers on the Quack Farm.

This nut fell far from the tree indeed. It is rather nice over here, on this side of the crazy line.

And here is Punk #2, in her new pretty poop brown dress. 

Closing her eyes cause if she can't see you, you can't see her.

And she didn't want to wear the poop brown. She wanted purple stripes. 

So, she is protesting. Closed eyes mean YOU CAN"T SEE HER EITHER!!! (did it work?)

And I think I made the dress a bit on the HOLY FREAKIN HUGE side. 

Social Darling Frock GROSGRAIN GIVEAWAY!!!!

Social Darling Frock GROSGRAIN GIVEAWAY!!!!

I seriously need this frock in celebration of the fact that we ARE APPROVED!!!! We have a place to move to! This, Interweb Friends, is freakin fantastic news. The last three houses didn't work out. But NOW we have one!! I really truly need this frock for move in day. Serious.

Christmas Parties are for Dorks.

I decided that Christmas Parties are only for people who know people. And we all know that people who know people are dorks. I know people, but the people I know are cool and none of them would be caught DEAD throwing a Christmas Party.

Or maybe, I know a few people and none of us have thought about throwing Christmas Parties. Maybe, if we were invited we would attend. Who says being a dork is a bad thing? I was informed that there is a Christmas Party at the local bar every night till the 25th. After that it turns into an "I ate too much and spent way too much- Regrets Party."

Probably, I would really like to attend any kind of party. It would give me an excuse to buy a sparkly outfit. Everyone needs an excuse to rock sparkles. I'm just sayin.

This year I can't party like it's 1999. I'm moving. And in the interim I'm hanging at the ol' parent's house. Not exactly your party like it's 1999 atmosphere. Not to mention that Charley isn't here. BUT HE WILL BE ON FRIDAY!!!!!!!!!! 7 months of separation will FINALLY come to an END! Whoot!

So lets review- because:

1. I'm a dork

2. I know people who know people

3. I had to move back in with my parents till our house is ready

4. I don't own any sparkle outfits

5. My hubby is almost here

6. I am the epitome of cool

It has been decided (by me, B-Dub) that I must attend a party of some kind. Hopefully not a "Regret Party," those are downers. So, SITSmas Party (2nd annual no less!) here I come!!!! And the best part it, I don't even have to straighten my hair. Cause hair means care, and I really don't do that on Tuesdays.

It's nothing personal, Tuesdays are just not a day for hair care. Or make-up care. Or even change out of my jammies before noon (who am I kidding- why change at all? It is only Tuesday after all).

So here's to you SITS! I'm crashing the party, and there isn't much you can do about it.

I Call Her "Pretty" But What I Really Mean is "Special"

Anyone else have trouble taking pictures of a three year old punk?

I mean really? I spent an hour trying to make her self-inflicted mullet look presentable.

And this is what I get?

I know you don't really like the headband. But look! It matches the cheesy white fluff trim!

Seriously, who picks out a dress with cheesy fluff trim? What was she thinking?

Oh-no-she-dident! Is that sparkles I see in that dress? Ew.

I don't care if you don't wanna take anymore pictures!

You are going to sit pretty in this chair and SMILE LIKE YOU MEAN IT!

NOW!

Cause SCREAMING always makes Punks want to smile pretty.

Works never ever, not in a million years but makes me feel more productive every time.

No, you can't take off your shoes!

Wait, what do you mean Momma B-Dub forgot to buy you shoes?

What are you, a street rat or something?

Who does this Momma B-Dub think she is anyways?

See how great you Brother is being?

He knows how to take a dang picture!

Are girls DIVAS from Day One or something?

I didn't read how to fix that in the manual.

I demand a refund.