I really don't like to scrapbook. It's detail-orientated and fussy and time-intensive. Basically, it's the crafty version of bamboo shoots under the fingernails.
However, I had plunked down a large amount of money for the digital scrapbooking software, a fact that Paul has pointedly shared with me many times. My reasoning was that if I must do the odious activity, I would rather be clicking a mouse than slicing off the top of my finger with a paper guillotine. (I'm sure there is a proper term for "paper guillotine" Those-Who-Scrapbook, but I don't speak your strange language very well.)
I had run into the woman who sold me the software at the gym, and we determined that if I was to get scrapbooks-as-presents sent by Christmas, they must be made by Sunday. And so, as with most things in life, I had a deadline, and sudden motivation.
I must confess, I liked it. It was relatively painless. The pages are already made, and all I needed to do was choose the pictures and plunk them in the templates. It took me about two hours total to complete a 21 page book.
I feel so not bad-ass about this whole thing. But, yet, when I look at pictures like this...
Speaking of recording history, I'll record some the fragments of my week, courtesy of Mrs. 4444's Friday Fragments.
Owen is planning on asking Santa for a "kid mailbox." I don't get it. What's so cool about a mailbox? You can put the letters in the mailbox...and take them out. Maybe get some toddler bills or toddler junk mail?
I mean, how cool is this?
One of the neighbor's chickens broke free and was running around my back yard last night. Joel stood by the window, hands pressed flat against the window pane, yelling "Quack, quack, quack!"
Owen said, "No Joely, ducks don't live in our backyard. Just chickens."
Yeah, Owen. For now. Who knows what neighbor Jimmy has up his sleeve? Thanks to him, we have five random cats, twelve chickens, and all sorts of feral teenagers running wild through these parts. I'm just waiting for the donkey, or better yet, the Emu.
I will say I appreciated the dozen fresh eggs this morning.
Finally, I had the brilliant idea of doing a post about a trip to grocery-store Nirvana, aka Wegman's last week. For those unaware, Wegman's is to Safeway as Ann Taylor is to Old Navy. Same product, worlds apart.
(And by the way, Trader Joe's is not that awesome. It's just...okay. Yes, I said it.)
Anyway, I was taking pictures of the heirloom tomatoes, sushi bar, and imported fine cheeses before an employee told me to put the camera phone away. The "or else" was implied, but present.
I dutifully put it away, but not before asking the employee for a sample of her lovely goat cheese.
If looks could kill...
Who know the grocery business was so cutthroat?
I'm off to enjoy some goat cheese, and then sell a bunch of secretly-obtained film to Safeway. Happy Friday to you all!