There is no time to blog.
There is time for South Beach.
There is time for Peanut Butter. 37 hours and that is what is left. #WTF
There is time for another t-shirt.
Still haven’t figured out how to fit blogging into my life.
When I do, please come back and read. I’ll share this trip’s detials
Until then I will be blogging from a cardboard box…
Down to one… and still homeless.
I owned (yup, past tense) a pair of seersucker pants. They always looked rather chic – hanging in my closet.
I wore them once. I am convinced they were see-through. I can also guarantee they accentuated the cottage cheese dimples of my derrière. Thankfully it is impossible for this fashion faux pas to ever happen again.
You see, a few months ago I tried the seersucker pants on. Tried being the key word. Are you aware of what seersucker sounds like as it is being stretched beyond its capable limits? I am now extremely familiar with the sound of shredding cotton.
Final verdict – I am the sucker here.
I split my pants.
I laughed hysterically.
I immediately went to the kitchen and ate peanut butter straight from the jar.
While I am on the honesty train… I didn’t waste time putting on another pair of pants. I stood in the kitchen, in my skivvies, with a spoon, and a jar of PB.
This is how I deal.