1992 Called and it wants its frog collection back!

As some of you're keenly aware, this new year has been one of great awakenings for me. Typically said "awakenings" occur when waking up from a dirty martini-induced coma, yet this particular stirring was one that crept deep within my consciousness and rested with a level of comfort that surprised even me.

Yes, it's true. I've been ransacked with the need to clean house--literally. I'm on a mission to trim the fat from my overly materialistic desire to keep things for no other reason but to collect dust.

So far I've parted ways with a handful of used check registers (you know, those things we used in the 90s to track our finances?) and some chintzy hand bags that wouldn't even sell in El Centro's finest Salvation Army. Why such minimal purging? As I sorted through boxes of nic nacks and stacks of photos I got nostalgic. I mean really. How does one tell a beautifully ornate and incredibly extensive collection of frogs that it's simply not good or important enough to occupy the space under your bed (Don't worry, my faux frogs have yet to talk back).

So yea, I kept the frogs. I know it's a little pathetic and I do understand that the likelihood of my ever designing a retro-style powder room adorned with my precious menagerie is highly improbably, but what if? Plus, what's wrong with a little pack-rattin' every now and again?

Also, I'm pretty sure that my dope-ass and irreplaceable froggen caboodle is highly valuable, so when 1992 called Friday to tell me it wanted its frog collection back, I told it to shove it, while offering up an old pair of Holly's franken floppers* to ease the pain.

*Check back soon for a follow-up on Holly's franken floppers. :)