Hubs and I are spending a cozy Sunday indoors while he nurses his stinger of a hangover from Bryan's 30th birthday party last night. We've been watching a lot of mindless drivel on the TV, including something on VH1 about heiresses and their fabulous lives. It was like a countdown to the most extravagant heiress, and the one who takes the cake spends $1 million on clothes PER YEAR and spent $635,000 to stay in a giant house in the Hamptons for three months over the summer. I asked Hubs, "Why aren't we an heir and an heiress?"
"Because. You need to write a book."
So here I am at the computer. Printing a few dozen old diatribes from my time in Sonora. Perhaps a few gems will be available.