Can I just say how sick I am of the snow? I'm so sick of the snow. There, I've said it. If you live in, say, the perpetually on-fire California, you just can't smell what the rock is cooking when people like me bitch about snow and ice and cold and freaking weather. Who wouldn't want to wake up to this every morning? Isn't the grey, foreboding sky cheerful?
On the flip side, it's supposed to stay in the upper 20's this week, which is downright tropical in contrast. And you just know some buttmunch is going to be walking around town in a tee shirt. Probably one of our infamous college hippies, walking to the Starbucks with his other stupid hippie friend in flip-flops, so they can talk about deeply philosophical things like how smoking pot actually makes you smarter.
I've been pondering my own deep thoughts lately and have decided I'm going to start doing some kind of give-away. ("Take my husband. Please." That was way lame. I blame the hippies for stealing my mojo.) The winner will be one of you lovely readers, who apparently have some sort of sado-masochistic tendencies to keep reading this blog. The giveaways will be something vintage in nature and may be seasonal, they may be monthly they may have themes. But most likely they'll have no rhyme or reason and I'll do them whenever the hell I feel like it. "It's Alexander Graham Bell's birthday! Celebrate by signing up now to win a prank phone call from me!"
So stay tuned in the next week or so and I'm going to announce what sort of vintage nonsense I'll be giving away! ("Announce". Ha! Like I'm Ed McMahon handing out Publishers Clearing House checks. I'm so fancy.)
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