I've been crabby lately. Not that that is unusual for a perimenopausal woman with two small children and whose husband came home last week from work and informed me that I would be hosting a "small cocktail party" for a "few" of his employees and subsequently 67 people show up to this "small cocktail party" and since I am the hostess, I am the last one through the buffet line and there is only 4 green peppers, a handful of onions and something that might have been "beef" left in the fajitas and once I ingest my so-called fajitas I still have to address 16 valentines for my daughter's pre-school Valentine's Day party. No, crabby would not be unusual.
So my husband has determined that I need another Attitude Adjustment Weekend and is sending me off, once again, on the trail that was originally blazened by the likes of Ponce de Leon or Chi Chi Rodriguez or somebody like that, to the Fountain of Youth.
Gulfstream. Prime rib. Nobiz Like Shobiz. John and Pat, if by the grace of God they are still alive. Adore The Gold. Sun. Surf. Bellinis.
So, friends, in the morning I will slap a FedEx shipping label to my backside and head to South Florida.