Well, it's official: I have watched my last action movie ever. And it's not you, Edge of Tomorrow, it's me. I've just reached an age where I can comfortably say that I've given you and your genre a fair shot, and I legitimately don't like you.
The plot was actually pretty good. If Edge of Tomorrow was a book, I'd be all over that. It's just that I hate noisy battle scenes, which always drag on for infinity.
After 3 explosions my eyes glaze over, and after more than 15 consecutive seconds of gunfire I go into a catatonic stupor. Somehow it's both sensory overload, and incredibly boring at the same time.
My oldest daughter went to church camp for the 12-17 year old girls in our area, and had a great week. Her two favorite activities were making things in the craft barn and the archery range. Oh yeah, and all that spiritual stuff.
She also brought home this hawk feather she found, which I have to admit looks pretty cool, but I unfortunately inherited a visceral revulsion to bird feathers from my mother.
|Makes a fantastic quill pen AND can give you bird mites!|
My kids can get dirty, catch frogs (that sometimes pee on them), have ticks hitch a ride on their scalps and I won't bat an eye. But for some reason I can't stand the thought of carrying around a bird feather. In my mind, those things are just crawling with disease.
Like, I am 99% sure they will catch the plague if they touch their face with it. And they always seem to touch their face with it.
Anyway, I'm trying not to overthink the bird feather and just be cool about it.
I remember finding a peacock feather as a child on the ground at a petting zoo and bringing it home, where I kept it in my room for several years. And I'm not dead yet.
Although my mom was probably in the other room having heart palpitations until the day I finally threw it out.
The day after my daughter came home, I had to pester her a few times to get her to unpack her duffle bag, hoping the whole while that she wouldn't notice the mostly-unpacked suitcase in my room from our Utah vacation two weeks ago.
In the last few years I've learned that's what parenting is all about: training your kids lovingly to do the right thing, while quietly ignoring your own good advice at least half the time.
The pack of disposable diapers I'm currently using up on my son may be good (or at least less bad) for the environment, but they sure do look gross.
They're unbleached diapers, meaning that they basically look like sheets of mottled off-white recycled paper versus crisp new sheets of white typing paper you'd buy at Staples.
Or, as Phillip said when he pulled the first diaper out of the package, "You bought the pre-pooped kind!"
Yes, it looks like the diapers are full of poop before you've even put them on the baby. (I debated including a picture in this post, but I thought that was kind of weird and decided against it.)
The thing is, I bought them because I found them in the clearance aisle at CVS for dirt-cheap, so maybe they really are pre-pooped. I guess that would explain the steep discount.
I've seen a lot of variations of the vinyl stick family you see on the backs of minivans, including zombies and Mickey Mouse, but this is probably the best one I've seen:
I'm still laughing over the little hooded Jawa that is their child. Every time my toddler walks around wearing a towel after his bath, that's what I'm going to see now.
Saw this sign sitting outside of our local lawn, garden, and pet supply store and wasn't sure it came across the way they wanted it to:
I'm assuming they're advertising to sweet old ladies with a chicken coop in the backyard, so hopefully their sign didn't attract any unsavory customers.
Finally, Phillip tore out our porch railing. This is something we've been talking about doing forever. The railings were only there for aesthetics, but since they were supremely ugly it kind of defeated the purpose. We were okay with ugly, though, it was just that they'd also started falling apart.
One minute they were holding up okay except for one loose part, and the next minute entire sections of the railing were sagging and buckling until it looked like we lived in a haunted house.
I'm not even exaggerating, it was seriously unsafe. My mother-in-law leaned against one of the railings when she was here visiting after the baby was born and almost fell through.
And while we were at it (that's a lie, only Phillip was at it,) we decided to pry up the faded floor boards and replace them, which was hard, hot, sweaty, time-consuming work.
Not having a nail gun, Phillip pounded each individual nail with a hammer. Even though the porch isn't big, it was a lot of nails. So many that this happened halfway through:
|At this particular point in the project, Phillip is contemplating blowtorching the entire porch.|
Phillip was less than thrilled, as you can see from this picture. At least it's (almost) done.