you can just call me Madonna
My husband called me a rock star tonight. Admittedly, it wouldn’t be the first time. I have a bit of a reputation for being somewhat diva-ish. An old boyfriend once asked me if I owned stock in Maybelline (I didn’t) and I was once known to show up at work wearing giant sunglasses (and I didn’t take them off until just before lunch) I can’t help it…well, maybe I can…but it’s all part of my charm, really. Tonight’s remark stemmed from an innocent moment at our favorite restaurant. And luckily, he wasn’t upset with me, or embarrassed. I didn’t make a scene or cause a ruckus. I simply mentioned to the waitress how I would love to have a root beer float with my veggie pizza. They don’t make root beer floats at this restaurant, but she happily fulfilled my silly wish. I also ordered my pizza with toppings not on the menu. I was on a roll after all. Why be conventional?
See? A definite rock star moment.
I needed that moment. The rest of my day was terrible. No new cell phone (thanks to the evil cell phone company) and a possible case of heatstroke. My husband just doesn’t understand why a girl who stays up all night long doesn’t want to stand in the blistering hot sun cleaning the driveway. This is August. The temperatures were hovering somewhere around the surface of the sun, and I wasn’t wearing my air conditioned bubble. I may need a vacation. Or at least a night off.
I’ve decided to interview potential guest bloggers.
So if you’d like to write a guest blog for me next Friday night, come up with your klutziest moment and put it in the comments. The other readers can vote. Or something like that. It’s not like I’ve ever done this before. So let the klutzes have the floor, and good luck to you all.
Until the next time…I’ll be playing my air guitar.