The thing is, I am and always have been a clog girl. A sleepover camp staple if there ever was one. Until they were banned. ‘Cuz all the girlies (and some boys) were tripping over their feet and spraining their ankles. But still, dragging your heels, clip-clopping along in your clogs…nothing beat it.
Is it just me, or is American Idolâ€™s result show getting more boring? Last night was a yawn-fest. A bore. A drag. It was American Midol â€“ a real pain, may cause drowsiness.
I said I was married, two kids. And then the conversation kinda stopped. In fact, it was less a convo than me asking the how’s, where’s and what’s. Answer, answer, answer…Doesn’t anybody ask anymore?
So off we went, me and my baby boys. I noticed the rain coming down. Hard. I took a deep breath and soldiered on. I was a grown-up woman. A mother for Chrissakes. And I was terrified. White-knuckled, jaw-clenched, might-just-lose-it terrified.
It’s the perfect summer flick. And not just a chick flick either. Boys, don’t be afraid: the cinema was packed with your kind. It was actually kinda weird how many men were there. Straight men. Maybe they came to pick up women. Or maybe they were out to revel in their true metrosexuality. Whatever, they enjoyed it too.
Remember back in the day when you were young and foolish? There was always the Plan B-er. The boy â€“or girl â€“ who was besotted with you. Like in Teen Movies. The insurance policy. In real life, you probably never thought twice about the loser who was into you. Until you got dumped and turned to them, only to find theyâ€™d moved on.
OK. The Vaughn. I feel like I know him. And I love him. Actually, I kinda feel like Iâ€™m married to him â€“ making me love him more. And no, I am not completely delusional, nor am I a stalking freakazoid. He just reminds me of the man I happen to be married to (in real life).