I died, I am ded.
The theme this week was "underwear as headgear" because, evidently, not everyone spends New Year's Eve asleep in front of bad western movies, waking up just in time to see a rerun of the ball dropping before crawling off to bed.
I can relate to the theme, however, because my head is the only place my underwear will fit now. Somehow, two weeks of baked goods, brandied eggnogs and fancy chocolates resulted in 6 lbs of horror getting packed onto my backside. Have purchased new athletic shoes, which I will use to... ah, massage away the cellulite while watching netflix.
The infink heard my mutterings as I mangled my 4th stuffed head at the sewing machine, and got into his "dyabba dyabba" undercrackers to console me.
That is his "I appear to have just dismantled my brother's toy and now face the options of either attempting to fix it, hiding the evidence, or throwing the pieces up in the air like confetti and dancing in them" face. Guess which one he chose?
Go see some shocking pantless stuffies over at craft corner death match.
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