In other news, Champaign Bars and Restaurants are now smoke free. It's been a controversial issue, and I run the risk opening my front door to find a bag of flaming poo onwhen I say this:
Marcy's preggerz as you may know. Since she conceived in October she's sacrified Esquire pizzas and burgers, so that she won't deliver a baby with a second-hand smoker's hack. Hooray, her hiatus is over, and we hit the bar last night, to let her have at it.
Marcy drank ginger ale:
And we, in a show of support, drank ginger ale too.
Big lie. We drank beer.
I myself had something monumental to celebrate yesterday: Here I am. Don't look at me, just look at my shirt:
And here are my socks! Looky! Looky how my sox match my shirt!!!
I know that's not a big deal to some of you folks. Melissa, for instance. Her drawers match her outfit every single day. I purposefully used the word "drawers" because it's the least sexy word I could come up with, and I don't want you thinking about Mel's
Anyway Mel folds and irons everything. She and our friend Tony sat at this very table one evening, comparing their OCD habits: their closets, they claim, are organized by color, and length of sleeve!! Their sox and undies folded and alphabetized. Mel changes out her PURSE with every outfit.
I merely sat and listened, wondering how I'd managed to secure a table with a couple of aliens, and what planet they came from. I have BASKETS for that stuff. A sock basket, for instance, and I give myself 3 points if I can toss the socks into the basket from my mental free-throw line, which happens to be wherever I'm standing when I fold the clothes. My a.m. choices, thus, are grab-bag style. I do NOT coordinate sox to clothes.
Well, rarely. If I do, it's worth celebrating.
So, raise your glass to my socks tonight, people. It's Friday!