0 Obsessions / Addictions

When I was 5 or 6 I was addicted to these creepy little baby dolls that crawled... and Barbies. Obviously. The thing that is hilarious to think about is that the babies were about twice the size of my Barbies. Yet, I would have the Barbies carry the babies around. You know Barbie's arms - up ... or down. That's all you've got to work with. The babies were in a perma-crawl position. I would jam the over-sized babies onto Barbie's poor toothpicks arms. Luckily Barbie is made of rubber.

 

When I was 10 I was obsessed with American Girls. Molly and Samantha to be exact. I got Molly first - and while I hated to admit it, she was the one most like me. She was the nerdiest. 

Over time, I tried to convince myself (and others) that I was a girly girl by asking for Samantha. (Plus she was the one EVERYONE wanted. The popular girl.) Note the attire... the bow, the purse, and the velveteen hat in particular. All I can say, is thank God they didn't make "big girl" sizes because we all know I would have had my own matching get-up. 

I just recently looked at a catalog with Lindsay. In case you were wondering, they don't even make Samantha anymore. The "popular girl" fades away once again. Just like high school.


When I was 12 I was obsessed with acrylic nails. There is something VERY wrong with this, I know. My whole life, up until college, I chewed my nails down to the quick. I always wanted nails. (The obsession with nails in general actually started much earlier in life with the stick-on nails from Drug Emporium. It would go a little something like this. I would beg and beg my mom for the $3 nails. I would go home, put them on myself. The left hand always looked much better than the right, as you can imagine. I would wear them for 5 minutes, pry them off and stick them in my pockets. My mom would of course wash the pants with the nails tucked away in them... with my dad's underwear. My nails would then end up on my dad's underwear, and then on my dad's ass.) My grandma would go to the "nail place" and get a set of acrylics put on. I actually convinced her to let me get them. (The difference this time is that it wasn't a little pasty of glue attaching the nail to my miniature and damaged nail bed. They were soldered on. I was stuck with them. For at least 2 weeks. I would then paint them. Myself. We all know that a 12 year old is not patient enough to let the paint dry. They'd look a little something like this... (The pinky finger is my favorite.)

  
Moving onto 15 years old, I started my addiction with J.Crew. Boot cut jeans to be precise. In 9th grade I ordered them and they were back ordered for about 6 months. Every day, I would check the mail desperate for these jeans. My addiction with this store continued up until recently. Recently, as in this time last year when we decided to buy a house. 


Which brings me to my most recent, most expensive, most distracting addiction of all. 

Need I say more? 

People. Nobody warned me. I wait for this catalog (weekly, thank you PB for adding feul to the fire by publishing about 15 new catalogs per season) just like I waited for my American Girl catalog when I was in Elementary School Junior High. (OK, I admit it. The addiction carried on a little too long.) I flip through it, folding corners, just as I did with my J.Crew catalog. The difference this time is that I don't have to get to go ask my parents to place the order with their Visa. Instead, I place the order. I drive to the store. I carry the bags (and bags) of goodies into the house. All things I need of course. Like the decorative pillows in all three of the bedrooms. Or the lantern that holds a candle in it you can never burn because it will stink up the house. Or the three tier hoer d'erve holder I just recently found in a closet because I use it so much. The thing that I find most annoying about this addiction is it's never ending. You could buy everything in the dang catalog but your house still won't look like freaking Pottery Barn. They're pretty smart. They must know that 90% of their shoppers aren't Martha Stewart. They must also know that 90% of their shoppers WANT TO BE Martha Stewart. And there it is.   




I can't imagine what would top this addiction. 

To be continued...