You're Still Living in a Paperdoll World....

I was very tired yesterday. I don't know if it was the ridiculous amounts of alcohol this weekend (I mean, at least four Mike's Hard Lemonades plus a little bit of some other stuff over the course of two days is a LOT, anymore. Shut up. It is!) or the busy schedule (hiking and drinking and sleeping will wear a girl out) or the long day (8-5) or what... but I felt exhausted by the time I made it home from work last night.

Side note:

Dear I-70,
I hate the big trucks as well as the drivers with a death wish. Please remove them to shave 15 minutes off my commute.
Love,
Princess G.

So I wearily heaved myself onto the couch. And then d-r-a-g-g-e-d myself up the stairs, to check on my MySpace account. While The Funasaurus made us some spaghetti.

My life really is rough.

Then I laboriously heaved one foot in front of the other back down the stairs, and ate the spaghetti, with one arm propped on the table (kidding, Mom, if you're reading this, it means I was sitting up straight with the napkin on my lap) and managed to devour more than my fair share. Then I laid my head down while The Funasaurus cleared the table. (I would have helped, but Sugar was in my lap, and I didn't want to force her to get up, having only just deigned to grace my lap with her fluffy presence two minutes earlier.)

*sigh*

I finally realized we needed to check the mail. It seemed like an awfully long trek. So in my best, maybe-there-will-be-sex-later-if-I'm-not-too-exhausted voice, I said, "Baby, will you come check the mail with me?" and he replied, "Certainly, as soon as I finish cleaning up this delicious meal I prepared all by myself." (That may not be verbatim. That may be my guilt adding a little somethin'somethin'.)

So we walked out to the mailbox and I leaned heavily on him.

"Good thing you're not melodramatic, baby," he said.

I nodded, too weary to reply.

We got the mail, and started the trudge home. (At least 40 feet.) However, on the way back, we passed one of our neighbors, (who we think we like and refer to as The Friendly Neighbor) but never actually get to hang out with. We chatted a bit, and Friendly Neighbor then says, "Hey, we're kind of having an impromptu get-together with some of the other neighbors, can you guys come in for a bit? We have margaritas."

Hello? Did he say margaritas?

"Well, o.k.!" I squeak, jumping up and down, clapping my hands. I make a beeline through his garage towards said margaritas. The Funasaurus follows behind, with the mail.

The margaritas were QUITE tasty, and I had a great time discussing the intricacies of the drywall on our particular model of house with the cute gay couple who live diagonally from us. I am also fascinated by the way the Friendly Neighbor's preteen daughter fluctuates from trying to act "adult" and comment on our conversation in a very elitist voice, and fix her zipper on her neon pink sweater so that it's a little more sexy (?) to playing "kitty cat" on the floor with a younger neighbor girl by "mewing" and rubbing her mom's calf with her head, at the same time.

12 years old is a hard, hard age. Too young for makeup, too old for Playskool.

We all made our exit as references started to be made to a certain young lady's bedtime, despite the young lady's protests. (methinks the lady doth protest too much?)

Sometimes, I am reminded there are advantages to being an adult. You can drink margaritas, and admit when you're tired. (It's good to remember that when you have to pay a bill, or take your car in for an oil change.)

Or, rather, if you're a princess, you can just have your Darling Funasaurus cook you some spaghetti and think deep things over a nice, strong margarita. And play "kitty cat" when you get home. So to speak.