I tell people Aspen painted my fingernails because they look so bad.
Apparently all of those years of not painting my fingernails paid off in a severe lack of skill that I have yet to overcome. I suppose that if I keep doing it, I will get better, but I think I ultimately lack the patience to ever be a passable nail stylist. Or even keep the paint confined to my nail beds. I hate using red or any shade thereof because I inevitably end up looking like I just got done with a record breaking finger jello eating contest.
I also collect shoes.
Aspen was helping me pack my bedroom and I gave her a Very Large Box to put shoes in. Her first comment: "Are you SURE we will only need one?" No. No Aspen, I am not sure. Actually I am fairly certain we will need three. But just pile them on there for now. Except those. I want to wear those. Oh, and those! I forgot I had those! And that one pair there. I haven't even worn those yet. They can go in the next box. You know what, nevermind. Just pack these towels.
Another thing that I do is change my clothes at least three times every morning.
This habit of mine makes storing my clothes on the floor in front of my dresser a more sensible habit. Then all of my options are on display, waiting for me to try repeatedly and then cast aside. Like that one shirt with the lace in the back that is So Cute, but every time I put it on I feel fat. Instead of realizing that the chocolate cake I have eaten Every Night This Week is sitting right there on those shelves of fat above the top of my jeans (I won't call them muffin tops because I haven't indulged in a muffin in ages), I blame the shirt. But it goes back into the array of choices strewn out around the core of three or four pairs of jeans settled in the middle of the floor. I like to work from the base outward, like a color wheel of texture and style fanning out from the denim that I have to work with. I punctuate my fantasm of fashion with little dots of sundress piles and hoody wraps. It's all right there. Easy access. Calling to me to try it on.
I am a terrible packer.
I am such a bad packer, that I have intentionally decided to wait until my mom comes next weekend to pack Granny's china, even though I have all these specialized zipper pouches with foam and stuff that my grandma got for it and it should be simple. I will find a way to shortcut, and will, unquestionably, break something. I just packed the entire closet, which includes everything that Josh hasn't worn in the last six months, into two boxes complete with hangers, dust bunnies, and rolled into nice little multi-garment wads that will definitely need to be ironed someday, if anyone in this house knew how. I packed a (one, singular) box up in the kitchen, and I wrapped some things in newspaper, and stacked other, mostly unbreakable (ha!) items precariously throughout the rest of the box. It now sits in the garage "ready to go" like a yard sale treasure trove of kitchen wonders. I just hope that the people loading the truck (i.e. Josh) are intuitive enough to nestle that little gem of a box in a safe spot near the top of the load...
I bought my 13 year old daughter a push-up bra.
Accidentally. Hey, it was a Victoria's Secret Pink bra at a thrift store for like a buck. So the 4cm thick padding escaped my attention. Lucky for me she put it on and was mortified so I quickly tucked it away before Kizzie found it. I am sure I can sell it on eBay. To some other unwitting mother trying to prostitot their daughter out like I am. Sometimes I really question my own judgement as a mother. Although when Kizzie came home from school in a skirt that just grazed the bottom of her cheeks the other day (and not the ones on her face), we had a conversation about length appropriate attire. And why bike shorts were invented. So they don't all sneak by me. Just some.