I let this motor mouth of mine override whatever common sense I have.
I'll be busy for the next few days because of a promise I made, and I have no one to blame for it but my own self.
You see, about a month ago, someone from my hometown called and asked me do a little favor. What I thought she wanted me to do was give a tour of my favorite historical home and tell the story of the Curse of Lorenzo Dow.
I yakked all about that HERE.
That's what I thought she was asking...
And so I said yes. She didn't even have to talk me into it. For one thing, I'm kind of remedial with that whole "just say no" thing. For another, it's a pretty easy fit for me, and it sounded fun. I love the story; I love the house, and apparently I love the sound of my own voice yakking about it.
Vanity thy name is Debbie.
And then, the other shoe dropped. It wasn't a tour, you see. It's more of a performance. It wasn't to be done safely sequestered behind the walls of the old house, either. Oh noooo... I will be making a fool of myself smack dab in the middle of town.
Right in front of God and everybody...
In historical costume no less...
Just not enough costume so as to render me incognito.
The Farm Sister has been making said costume since she's a better seamstress. Plus, she laughed at me and is trying to get back in my good graces. I told her she didn't have to make a bustle or hoop since I have those things built right in. I'm convenient like that.
Does anyone know if they still make those whale bone corsets?
Pull, Sister, Pull!
And practice it.
And lose 50 pounds, one of my chins, and the built- in bustle.
And of course, fit in time to highlight my hair. 'Cause you know how those historical women loved their blond highlights...
Can anyone relate?
Has your vanity ever gotten in the way your common sense?