This morning, we're packing up the car and driving to Austin for a much-needed weekend away. The primary purpose of our trip is the wedding (the very one I was sure I needed a cool weather outfit for and here it is, middle of November, and eighty-three degrees. Oh, Texas. You varmint) but spending some time being silly with Stephanie and Phil by no means comes in second on the list of highlights for the next two days. I just hope we don't play Upwords this time. Because, it's not Scrabble, dammit, and Stephanie makes me look like an illiterate, drooling half-wit.
The Dork Lord hasn't met any of my New York friends before. Not that they're so very different from my Dallas friends, but I'm pretty sure that a weekend of air kisses and "lovey!" and "remember that night we double fisted champagne and I fell in a snowbank/had to have the cabbie count my money/got lost in my own apartment" stories will make him wonder just who he sleeps next to at night. The woman he knows has two cocktails and is ready for bed. Yeah, his girl likes to party all the time, party all the time.
And on that note, my most sincere apologies to Butterfly for the apparently vomit-inducing displays of domestic contentment lately. If this weren't a family friendly site, I'd tell you what you could do, and how it would involve certain sunless areas of the anatomy. But as it is, I'll just say, I'm sorry you're so unhappy and I sure do hope your tummy feels better.
Who knew crock pots were so offensive?
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