(from the book of faces) All couples – make this your status and answer honestly!

I love you, Tom. You mean everything to me. You’re my person, my rock, my home, my ollyollyoxenfree and you will be forevermore.

Who’s older?
Him. 47 on 1/14.
Same high school?
Nope. Him: Solon High School. Me: Coldwater High School. 377 miles apart. And somehow we found each other. ??
Most sensitive?
Flip a coin. He’s more outwardly sensitive, and I’m more inwardly sensitive. We’re both a little paranoid and tend to overanalyze social cues. I’m worse.
Eats out the most?
Him. He loves restaurants and trying new things. I like comfort food and eating what I’m used to.
More social?
Him. Emphatically, him. He has to drag me out of the house.
Most stubborn?
Flip a coin. I might say he is and he might say I am.
Who’s the funniest?
He is definitely more witty and funny. I roll my eyes a lot, but he really is.
Most temper?
Flip a coin. He goes off like a firecracker but then he’s done. I let it fester until I blow up and then hold a grudge an hour. Ok, sometimes a day.
Wakes up first?
Him. He’s an early bird and I’m a night owl.
Bigger family?
Me. But only because I’ve got extra parents.
Said I love you first?
I honestly can’t remember. Probably him.
The hoarder?
Me.
Better driver?
He’ll say he is and I’ll say I am. He’s more fast and decisive. I’m more careful.
More Siblings?
HIm.
Better cook?
Him.
More talkative?
HIM. Thank God. He does all the talking for us.
Shops more?
Definitely me. Amazon and I have a close, personal relationship. God bless Prime shipping.
Best dancer?
Him.
Pet lover?
Both of us. He’s happy with his dog, but I want a barn full of rescue animals.
Who’s taller?
He used to be 5’7″ and I used to be 5’5″ but I think we’ve both shrunk in our old age. ?
 
I love you, Tom. You mean everything to me. You’re my person, my rock, my home, my ollyollyoxenfree and you will be forevermore.
tom,jenness
tom,jenness

It appears I have waaayyyyyyy too much time on my hands. And that I also have spent almost all that time with Adobe InDesign. He’s, like, my boyfriend.

Oh, yeah, I have a blog! *waves*

Oh, it was about time we demoted that creep down from the top of the page, right? Of course, right. Buh bye then. You AH the weakest link; good-bye.

NEXT.

So I still have no job prospects; which means no income.

I went to a Passion Party. I decided to see if I could make some income at that.

So I joined Passion Parties. Which meant that I got to design a business card. *claps hands excitedly*

But. (There is always a but. And sometimes a butt.)

I can’t decide which I like better; I put it to you, Mah Peepull.

1- Do we like the open rose or the closed rose better?

2- Do we like the green stroke around the text or not?

Post title that has nothing to do with the content which is something funny found on someone else’s blog in lieu of taking the time to create some quality content of one’s own

(Failbook WIN. Check out the comments on the original post [click the image] because they’re almost as good as the post itself.)

AD (that will garner blogger less than a penny per click through)

Obnoxious comment making a flimsy excuse for not posting lately.

Mind-numbingly boring description of mundane goings-on in blogger’s life.

Thinly veiled passive aggressive mention of gratuitous drama interrupting the relative peace of the blogosphere offering up support for one’s bloggy BFF whilst slamming another underdog blogger whose content was taken out of context anyway, thus encouraging continuing drama even as input is calling for an end to said drama.

Shameless begging for readers to join the Google Friend Connect and/or Facebook page using the badge on the sidebar.

Cheesy, oft-used sign off to match the brand of the blog

Cutesy graphic of the blogger’s name

EVEN BIGGER AD (that will garner blogger less than a penny per click through) that has no point for existence since if readers didn’t click the first ad, they aren’t going to click the second ad.

Not Another One About Her Stupid Hair?! SERIOUSLY.

On April 7, I wrote this post begging Mah Peepull for hair advice. You voted to bravely soldier on, and I did, Mah Peepull! I did! For another THIRTY FOUR WHOLE DAYS.

Then Tom told me to shut the hell up about my stupid hair for the love of pete I considered my options carefully and with no malice aforethought, I called my hair-cutter gal and told her to HACK IT OFF ALREADY.

She did my bidding and spun me around in the chair and what to my wondering eyes should appear…

I’m back! I’m ME again!

Next time I ask you for hair advice, please feel free to squeeze my lips together and flick me in the forehead. At the same time. It’s why God gave you two hands, Mah Peepull.

The One Where I Assert My Hair is as Important as Life-Changing World Events, I Request the Input of Mah Peepull, and the Blogosphere Rolls its Collective Eyes and Emits a Snort of Derision

Listen, I realize there’s important events happening all over the world at the moment. People being born, people dying; natural disasters, large and small; nations fighting, governing, and signing treaties. I acknowledge the significance of all these life-changing activites.

But we need to talk about my hair.

I’m thisclose to ripping it out and setting it afire upon the altar of cosmetology. And, I should add that I am not averse to gluing it onto a chicken beforehand if it would help.

In November 2003 i had long curly hair. I felt cute and perky and a little ditzy. One day with no warning, I cut off 12 inches of hair and gave it to Locks of Love.

(You’ll have to Google that if you don’t know what it is; I’m composing this post on my iPhone and can’t be bothered to go through all the rigamarole of looking up the link in Wikipedia and adding HTML to link it.)

(Although factoring in how long it took me to type that last sentence, I might as well have taken the time to just do it.)

(Whatever.)

Anyway, it was short. Like, an inch to two inches long on top and a 1/4″ on the sides and back, depending on if I was getting it cut every four weeks or six. Which, by the by, gets expensive.

I love having short hair. It’s easy. I put a little mousse in it, play with the top for a minute to get it just the right amount of messy-on-purpose, and I’m out the door. It looks professional yet playful. It makes me feel sassy and confident.

Events transpired and conspired.

Everytime Tom looked at pictures of me with my long hair, he remarked on my curls and how much he missed them.

My beloved hair-cutter-gal decided to quit and go back to school and I couldn’t imagine anyone else getting scissors within a two foot radius of my person.

My last haircut was by hair-cutter-gal in her last week in her salon; the second week in August.

I almost sobbed on the way out that day.

My hair and I decided to go into mourning, just a step short of wearing sackcloth and piling on smoldering ashes.

We made a deal. I would let hair grow, and hair would not get in my way.

Hair reneged on the deal like the lying wench she truly is.

Hair staged a full-on mutiny, flipping up and out and in angles only previously achieved by a cirque du soliel performer.

I persevered. I fought back with gel and mousse and headbands and tiny barrettes.

In the best case scenario, Hair reluctantly complied to the smallest extent absolutely necessary. At worst, a beastly temper tantrum reared its ugly head and Hair was beaten back into reluctant, pouty submission.

I am growing weary of the battle. Hair has proven to be a tough and worthy adversary with plenty of fight left.

Tom says he doesn’t mind one way or the other, although I suspect he secretly harbors a preference for long curls.

What say you, Mah Peepull?

Give up and get shorn? To recap; expensive, sassy, professional, with a husband yearning for curls?

Or bravely soldier on? To recap; cute, perky, sexy, ditzy, with a husband happily twirling ringlet curls around his fingers?

Mah Peepull shall be heard!