Seventy Times Seven.

I love the number seven. It is the perfect number.

How do I know?
Well, first off, I was born on July 7th.

That's 7/7, to dispel any confusion.

And then, if that weren't fan-freaking-tastic enough, just think of this. I... had a birthday... in 200... 7.

07/07/07. Hoo-SHA!

In case you were wondering, Wikipedia informs us that '7 is the natural number following 6 and proceeding 8'.

We are an edjukated nation, people.

Know what else?

There are seven girls in my family. (Mom included.)
Snow White had seven dwarfs.
There are seven days of the week.
Seven wonders of the ancient world.
Seven brides for seven brothers.
Sailors sail the seven seas. (Say that ten times fast.)
Seven deadly sins.
Seven days of creation.
7-Eleven.
7UP.

Freak. I even stop the microwave at seven seconds.

Don't judge.

More?

The number of servings I had of my smothered burritos with Mexican rice. Or at least wish I had.

The number of times a day I admire my new shoes.

The number of times Davey-baby and Candy laughed when they saw their handmade wedding present from yours truly.

 

The number of times 'Da Twinneh' complained that I didn't have enough pictures of her in my room. -AND- The number of times a day 'Da Twinneh' proclaims how much she hates the pictures I chose.

How many times I doubted whether the ratty DI decoration 'Da Twinneh' scavenged would amount to anything adorable. It did.

The  number of years it took to convince my roommate that SPAM is second only to bacon.

And lastly, the number of milliseconds it took to realize Gem would absolutely capital L-O-V-E this pillow.

So when my nieces woke up at 7:00AM by screaming loudly seventy times, demanding seven different breakfast cereals and asking to swim AGAIN 7,000 times, did I forgive them?

Of course. Seventy times seven.