January 15, 2013

Sort of like Miranda Kerr, just without the angel wings, and I'm not married to Orlando Bloom... yet.

     A few weeks ago, a bag full of pastel colored, lacy lingerie sat in my room at my parents' house.
When I got sick of not knowing where it all came from, I finally got brave and asked a question that could've made for an awkward situation.
     "Mom?" I yelled down the stairs, "Can you tell me what this bag of sinful lace is doing on my bed?" (Okay, I didn't ask it like that, but I think it adds something to the story, right?)
     She came up the stairs, and peeked into my bedroom where I held the bag of goods. 
     "Oh, yeah. Grandma sent that to me to give to you. She thought you might like it." I looked down at the contents of the bag again, exponentially confused."Oh, don't be silly," she continued, "she said she thought you might be interested in some of her old vintage delicates. She would be thrilled if you would take them back up to school with you." 
     "I see, mom. And... for what purpose, exactly?" 
     "I don't know. Just do it. She sent it all the way from Colorado, and you might as well."
     After the embarrassment wore off my face, I took the bag home and made my roommates watch me host my very own fashion show. Less Victoria's Secret, more frumpy, hilarious, and over my sweatshirt.

I am still unsure of why LaVonne Davis deemed me worthy of these precious heirlooms... I am also unsure of why Nance Kearns didn't question the situation at all. 

The point of this story is that my grandmother thinks I'm a harlot, but a classy one. 
So, that's at least good.
Feel free to make your own judgements about me and the cesspool of iniquity in which I live.


i like words. and you. write me a few?