...not "diggin' for gold" like my 3 year-old would do.
Or "diggin' for gold" like Heather Mills (aka Paul McCartney) or the latest housewife of who knows where.
Literally digging for gold.
And when I say digging.
I mean digging.
I just need one of those metal detectors with the annoying "beep" sound.
Isn't it great when you are laying on the beach, trying to get your dose of vitamin D and one of those random beach gold digger people sends their little metal detector over near your head. Between that and the squawking of the birds that the kids next to you are enticing with their goldfish... I mean seriously... What do these people think this is?!! A beach?? A free world!?? Say what??
So ya know the hubs and his "collecting"???
That's my affectionate term for hoarding...I just know A&E is gonna show up one day and feature us on an episode....
Well, he really doesn't throw ANYTHING away. So I was trying to do a little "investigating"...aka digging for gold.
I ventured into the deep dark depths of our storage area.
I thought about tying a rope around my waist and having the kids pull me out if I got stuck.
I assured them Mommy was going to be OK though and if I wasn't out by the end of their episode of Good Luck Charlie then call the authorities!
You are probably wondering why I felt the need to put myself in such grave danger in searching for gold.
You see I stare danger in the face.
I battle it full on.
No box of 1982 Sports Illustrated or tote full of Legos circa 1985 can stop me!
Truthfully, I have been invited to a gold party.
No, not the type where they hand out gold bricks. I am still waiting on that invite.
It's a party where you can bring your old gold and silver and such and make money.
Now I am with you Aunt Edna, it does sound sketchy...
If I show up and we are lead to a back room and there is a black curtain and I am frisked by a guy named "Big Hoss" on my way in I may think twice about hocking the gold herringbones...
Which reminds me. That is what I was digging for. The hubs was known to sport some serious herringbones in his time. I mean circa 1990, turtleneck, button down v-neck sweater, peg rolled acid wash jeans, complete with herringbone chain.
Life doesn't get any sweeter. Or sexier.
He's lucky I met him AFTER that phase. Or I guess it's me that's lucky.
Anywho, we'll see how all this goes. I mean it has to be better than those infomercial type deals you see on TV where you mail your gold off to who knows where and they CLAIM they'll send you what it's worth. I had a girlfriend tell me she made 12cents. Hmmmm. Someone is getting the short end of the stick on that deal.
In the meantime...like I said...If I go in here and don't come out. Y'all know where to find me.
That is if you can find me.
Just look past the 26 totes of Christmas.
The box of the stuff belonging to the lady that used to live in the house before his Mom 15 years ago.
I might be right underneath the box containing the "1 of 6, 2 of 6, 3 of 6...etc" collector's cans of Planter's peanuts.
Again, I kid.
OK, not really.
Just call A & E now.