Leprechauns Strike

There's nothing more dangerous in your washer than the contents of a man's pockets. Here I was protecting my turtlenecks and capris from fresh spackle and caulk guns, when it was really the laundry room I should have minded. In our months of marriage, a number of our clothing and sundry items have been sacrificed to the growing appetite of The Blueberry. First, there was my beaded Nordstrom sweater I foolishly wore while stirring shingle stain. Amateur, I know. Next, in my joy of Clint's painting of trim, I leaned against it wearing a dress coat. I still wear the coat, just not when I plan to meet friends.

That brings me to the lime green highlighter. When I threw a batch of laundry in last week, the load was quite small. I added a navy hoodie from Clint's pile. After a towel came out tie-dyed, I closed the drier and practiced good ol' denial. It was three days before I opened it again to assess the graveyard of wearables. That said, we are defiantly planning on wearing these neon splashed goods to a 90s-themed New Year party.

Turn Right at the Trailer Park

As stylish as Clint's turquoise Mustang convertible is, the vehicle cowers at the sight of Lowes. After Craigslisting for hours, we found a truck fitting all of our criteria. We drove 7 hours round trip to a dealership in Oregon. Google maps gave us our first warning about the deal. "Turn right at the trailer park" the instructions read. Big clue. The used lot was shared with a wrecking-ball-ready home, accompanied by a number of shady individuals. Clint opened the door to a pungent smoke and mold medley. A week later, a former contractor sold us a similar truck. We aren't persnickety. We overlooked rips in the seats for an reliable engine and a cab that's easy on the nose.