Everyone posts these beautiful blog entries about the things that matter to them. I think I will, instead, tell you the things that I couldn't care less about, that I get the impression I'm supposed to, somehow.
Seasons. I don't need 4 of 'em. Winter is for crap, I tell you. If we only had the other 3, I'd be pleased. Work on that, will you?
Square Footage. Poky Redhead asked me yesterday, how big my house is. I can't remember. I could look it up, but who cares? It is cramped in here, now, and will feel palatial when the Sons are grown and gone. That's all I know.
Home Decor. Bah. Aside from an ill-advised foray into colorful walls (screw you very much, Sherwin Williams guy), I don't care. Hubby picked out the new carpet. He decided we needed blinds. If he wants new furniture, we get it. I love the stuff he chooses, and we have very similar tastes, in a furniture store, but I suspect that if I were living alone, I'd be sitting on the floor. Maybe I'm just lazy and cheap, but I don't understand how people can get all excited about choosing cabinetry and furniture and coordinating things, when they have perfectly good, useable stuff right there already.
What's On TV. I put the news on while I'm in the kitchen. But if the TV is otherwise on, Hubby or the Sons turned it on and chose the show. I sit through whatever they're watching, generally attempting to tune it out and listen to my own thoughts. If I can't, I aim to sleep. YES, there are shows I enjoy. But not enough to seek them out.
Hair Grows. The Sons are inching toward long hair. I don't care. I gather them up every once in a while for a trim, just so things look orderly, but if they all end up with rocker hair, I won't care. Just, you know, no product.
Gadgets. I have a ton of them, but I keep going back to: a knife, a saucepan, a skillet, a spoon. Maybe I just am tired of the additional noise of powered things. Maybe I miss the counter space under those gadgets.
Fancy Brands and Glamor Foods. I've had caviar and Brie. Ick. Those purses with the logos all over them look tacky as hell to me, too. I try exotic things, and I appreciate well-manufactured goods, but I am not going to buy anything to make a statement.
Being Fashionably Late. If I want to go, I want to be on time. Sometimes, in my eagerness, I even arrive EARLY.
I feel like a curmudgeon, so I think I'll stop here. If you all decided I was just a cranky bitch, well, I'd care about that.