1. I’ve collected cookbooks I’ve never used, and have instead random printouts of food and liquid-stained recipes that have been used multiple times.
2. I asked Luke if he was warm enough with just a quilt and a fleece, and was distraught when he said he didn’t need any more blankets.
3. I didn’t want to have friends over for dinner, because I thought the house was messy. (AUGH! A mom trait I swore I’d never copy!)
4. I get grossed out when the dog or cat sit on me, because all I can think of is their butt touching my foot, or leg, or pillow, or whatever.
5. I don’t want a dog because I don’t want to pick up after it.
6. I insist on not running the dishwasher until every possible free space is crammed with something. (I haven’t taken everything out just to rearrange them, though … yet).
7. I freaked out when Luke (this is a cardinal sin at home) stirred a pot of something too fast and splashed its contents onto the stovetop.
… That’s all I can think of for now. Why do I feel like I just wrote out a confession?
On a completely different note (well, somewhat related, since it was my mom’s brother who sent me the link) — I could so be this chick:
Or at least pull off her haircut? Maybe?