I met up with My Parasitic Twin for some coffee and scream this morning. Her dog, Gza (pronounced Jizz-uh, it’s a Wu Tang Clan thing) had a tumor on her … er … teat and just had it removed. So this morning was pretty much all about how much it sucks to be middle aged […]
Sideboob is a wonderful photographer she sends me photos and after each leg of the trip. Then I compare them to my photos of the same place and decide that mine are all shit and chuck them and use hers instead.
Sing it with me, Bain de Soleil for the Saint Tropez taaaaaannnnnn.
Nice is France’s fifth most populace city and has a very Paris-by-the-sea feeling, but with enough Italian influence that it is delightful shades of pink, yellow and terra cotta rather than gray.
Hey hey! I’m in France with Sideboob! Let me walk you through our journey with a delightful display of photos, pithy observations, and wrap it up with a fun semi-disaster.
I want to be 100% caught up before I proceed to spam my blog with smug posts about my fabulous European travel.
I feel like it is still best that I run my hobbies on a “better to ask for forgiveness rather than permission” basis and just fucking go for it while Loony is at work. Or out of town.
When you dream of having children (if you dream of having children) you usually harbor a best case scenario, a fantasy, an aspiration of a perfect tableau of parenthood. If you are lucky you will experience it 1% of the time.
They tried backpeddling like, “But you look great (for your age) and are so awesome and byeeeee!” as they backed out the door.
This time Sideboob was all drunk like, “I should text my husband!” and for once I got to slap the phone out of her hand and be all, “Yeah no. Texting your husband at 2AM from Jumbo’s would be a dick move” Yay me!