If you have done your math correctly, you may have noticed that things around my house don't always add up.
Tonight, for instance, there is a band playing downstairs. Live music! In my house! I am in my pajamas on the upstairs couch and my children are fast asleep in their room. There is nothing like ska to knock them out cold.
If you had a band in your house, you'd be sitting in your pajamas blogging, right?
Well I haven't been blogging the whole time. When Chris came up a bit ago I was vacuuming the livingroom and knitting. That's what we people with robotic vacuums do. And then I ate a chocolate covered pretzel - which I received for Christmas because I was especially nice last year (or because I am the only person I know who hasn't forsworn junky foods in the new year and no one else would take it).
It in turn reminded me of the time I lived in a Colorado ski resort.
I worked for a couple years in an art gallery. I use the term "art gallery" very, very loosely. I had to move 2,000 miles away before I could put it on my resume. We sold things like this:
Not my cup of tea.
And sometimes the customers were not very nice. When the people were especially not nice I would mosey down to the Rocky Mountain Chocolate Factory and visit my friends. There was a couple who were my parents age and they were kind to me. I would tell them how mean people were and they would start loading up a bag with chocolate.
Sometimes they would bring me treats. Like when the chocolate and caramel covered pretzels they used to build log cabins would break. I got those. And sometimes cookies.
Fortunately I was skiing nearly every day, or I would have weighed 800 pounds. And when I wasn't skiing I was in my little car careening over a mountain pass - shouting at slower drivers and listening to Nine Inch Nails - whipping into a parking garage just in time to hurl myself from the car, dash down a hall and arrive, panting and disheveled, at my ballet class.