Thursday, June 20, 2013
It happened. A rooftop party happened. More like "pooftop" party, if you know what I'm saying. The night was complete with loud, sizzly Latin music, a panorama of Vegas lights, my smokin' husband, my good underwear, and a cheap point-and-shoot camera.
I just hope I did it right. I ate every single appetizer that passed my way. That okay? And I walked around holding my chin up just so, as in, "You think I look like that girl from that one movie? Because I am her."
And to think I thought I didn't know the right people. Apparently I do. Or the hubs does. Or his boss does. Or boss's boss.
What was I doing anyway, making fun of rooftop party types a few blogs ago? (See Viva Las Vegas.) Because I am that type now. Well, maybe not now now, or tomorrow, or the next day - as I sit here, eating a bag of Raisinets and wondering how I'm ever going to get rid of this foot eczema.
But whatever man. I went to a rooftop party.