Every couple of weeks, I’m required to travel for the job.
(“Required?” I don’t think so. I begged to take the position. More like groveled.)
(Before I got hitched.)
(Now, when I’m gone that one night every other week, it makes Keith miss me.)
(Which is really good.) (For me.)
A friend of mine since 2nd grade recently opened an online boutique so I thought I’d do my good deed for the year and make a purchase. You know, I’m always willing to help a sister out.
(I sound like I’m trying to be all fancy schmancy using ’boutique’, huh?)
(I’ll be getting back to why I said I’m traveling. You know I bounce around like a hooker looking for a better street light.)
I ordered a purse. Or so I thought.
It came in yesterday….juuuust as I was starting to pull out the old dingey, black with old-lint-stuck-in-the-zipper luggage and the big, so-old-it-won’t-keep-its-shape-anymore dumb bag to pack for my one night away rendevous with a room service menu and hotel pool.
(Remember that little ditty there: So-old-it-won’t-keep-its-shape. Cause it’s gonna re-haunt us a few words later.)
SWEET MOTHER OF ALL PURSES HOLY! I HIT THE JACKPOT!
A purse? I don’t think so. More like the most perfect bag ever.
Not only did I choose the hottest bag in her boutique…it’s sheer perfection for traveling overnight!
Would you look at the colors?? Really, look. Enlarge the pic if you have to…but LOOK. Hot pink…zebra striped…what more could I ask for??
(Besides the ability to eat cake icing and there be no repercussions, of course.)
It is completely me.
A complete lifesaver. No more big old dingey, black with old-lint-stuck-in-the-zipper luggage OR the big, so-old-it-won’t-keep-its-shape-anymore dumb bag. Nope. Just me, all the crap I gotta bring from the office, and my new swanky bag.
And don’t think I wasn’t working it when I swanked right through the hotel lobby. The only thing missing was runway music and a fan.
Well, and a photographer. And an announcement of who I am when the sliding glass doors whizzed open.
I packed my whole life for one night in this bag. Clothes and all.
(I used to be a flight attendant so I can pack for a week and only use a brown paper bag. It’s a talent.)
(Or an OCDC thing or whatever those initials are of whatever it is everybody seems to have these days.)
(Ignore the room service menu in the corner.)
Go see all the great stuff she has at The RowdyBun Boutique. You are going to love it!
Now. Back to me.
I’m away for the night.
In a heavenly hotel room.
With a room service menu.
And a skirt that is snugger than it was 2 months ago. And a bra that has more boobage trying to blow out the top than it did 3 months ago. And a tattoo that used to look like a fresh, blossoming magnolia but now looks more like the whole damn magnolia tree.
So, what do I do?
I do what any God fearing southern girl would do. I order a sundae.
Yes. One with a big, moist fudgey brownie in it. And whip cream on it. And the best caramelized pecans ever mixed in it.
I ate it.
The whole thing.
And with no guilt.
I know. That ain’t right.
If I do this anymore, I’M gonna be one of those so-old-it-won’t-keep-its-shape-anymore dumb bags.
(Remember, I told you it’d re-haunt us.)
Maybe The RowdyBun Boutique has Spanx? Or a muzzle? Or maybe a little will power?