Words: yes, have some
Caffeine: morning cup + midday cappuccino
Evil Calories: donut (shhhhhh, if you don't say it out loud, it doesn't go directly to your ass)
Reality TV: Top Chef
(...said George Pal to his bride, "I'm gonna give you some terrible thrills", like a...science fiction...double feature...sorry, I couldn't write that title without the song popping into my head. Was a huge Rocky Horror nerd...big surprise, I know.)
So, my sister was visiting over the weekend. It was wonderful to see her since we live very expensive plane rides apart. We had tons of fun, ate lots of bad food, went to a Duran Duran concert (oh, don't even get me started...my inner 13 year-old still hasn't recovered). However, we hit a bit of a hiccup on Saturday night when we went to dinner with a few of my friends. After a glass of wine, my sister made the mother of all faux pas. Yes. That's right. She let slip that I used to wear Birkenstocks.
*hides face in pillow*
Oh, the horrified looks on their faces. Especially from my best gal pal Shannon. Well, it was horror mixed with something else...hmmm...what was it....oh, yes, slight rage. See, a few years ago I had to have a "boot intervention" with Shannon. It was necessary! She was trotting around in a pair of knock-off Uggs (Uggs make me shiver, knock-off Uggs make me twitch) They were horrid and she's normally very stylish. We all lose our way from time to time. I just had to give her a little slap and veer her back on chic track. She took it hard, but in the long run she knew I was just trying to help. But now she finds out I used to wear Birkenstocks. Oh, dear...
Then, of course, my sister launches into hysterics and relays a Birkenstock story. Particularly, the one where I got completely hammered at her wedding reception 13 years ago and kicked off my heels and donned my Birkys for the remainder of the evening. While still wearing my maid of honor dress. Oh, yes, there's video of me staggering around like a deranged hobbit doing the YMCA.
I kept nudging my sister under the table, whispering, "they don't know about the birkenstocks! Please stop!" But it was too late. Beans spilled. Damage done. I've officially lost some of my chic street creds.