I really wanted to prove with this picture I don’t have to have girls to have super cute Valentines outfits and family photos, but I’m pretty sure all I proved was that no one enjoys having his picture taken before 7am. Also that I really don’t know how to use Photoshop. Like I don’t even understand the tool that’s called ‘Red Eye Tool’, which seems like it should be pretty self-explanatory and user-friendly. And I sincerely don’t know how to fix greasy bangs or a red nose from excessive nose-blowing.
So… Happy Valentines Day from The Newlins.
(Additionally, in an unrelated manner:
Dear Dude Who Keeps Contacting Me About My BFF’s Mom,
I feel really bad that I can’t help you, but she is not the lady you’re looking for. She is from Illinois, but she’s about 10 years older than the person you’re looking for. Additionally, the name of your long lost love is her married name, not her maiden name, like the chick you were dating back then. Also, like I mentioned above, she’s not my mom, she’s my friend’s mom, so any resemblance you see in me of this person is inaccurate.
I can’t decide if it’s sweet or kind of creepy that you’re still harboring feelings for this woman after so many years, but you seem to just genuinely regret ditching her to sow your wild oats when you were 16, so we’ll go with sweet (unless you don’t take this hint and quit emailing). Don’t beat yourself up. None of us was really who we are at 16. Your lady-friend could potentially be the adorable and wonderful 60 year old version of the girl you remember, but she’s just as likely to be a 300 pound bingo addict who hoards precious moments figurines and beanie babies and works at the DMV.
Several years ago we were stuck in Illinois overnight due to a missed flight connection snafu and I decided to take the opportunity to drive past the horse farm my family lived on when I was between the ages 3 and 5. My earliest memories are of this house. I learned to ride a bike on the gravel road (and obliterated my knees when I fell). We picked raspberries on a neighboring property. On Halloween we only trick or treated to the one house on the other side of the woods because there was no one else even close who had kids or would have purchased candy. My Papa let us ride in the bucket of the tractor they used to shovel horse manure (I’m not sure why this was a treat).
The point is, when I tracked down this house, in a tiny (TINY) suburb (Wikipedia is actually calling it a ‘village’) called Big Rock and dragged my husband and children to the house, *SPOILER ALERT*, it wasn’t how I remembered. Everything was smaller and closer together. Some neighboring dude had an epic collection of hubcaps out front of his house. The lady who lived there thought I was a fucking weirdo when I rang the doorbell and asked if I could go look at the horse barn. It was a bummer.
The worst part is that now when I remember those years living in that house in Big Rock, the actual version seen by my adult eyes is there too, marring my memories. I’m pretty sorry I went.
I’m just saying, maybe it’s better your Jackie Disbrow lives in your head, lovely, flawless, 16 forever.
That said, if I haven’t convinced you, have you tried Facebook? Seems like that would be the way to go.
Your unromantic blogger friend with greasy bangs and a cold)