Crashing the Figgy party
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I had heard that Figlet and Mrs. Figby were planning to revel in hedonistic, child-free bliss at a swanky southwestern resort. Being a pushy sort, I emailed the Figsters and said, “Yo! Can I come?!”
Separately, they each said, “Fo’ sher, girl!”
So I rented a vehicle (the little green car desperately needs new struts, and though it’s kind of fun for a 10-mile trip into town to watch my little coffee jiggle and shake and splatter about as the car vibrates wildly, the thought of 150+ highway miles in it just made me shudder [har]) and headed down to the Valley of Death to meet the gals.
It was grand. We gabbed and gabbed and gabbed. And ate. And gabbed. I was invited to join them on a trip to the nearby fashionista outlet, which I regretfully declined–all I’d be able to do would be to try things on and wist, which would make me think about the State of The Finances, which would make me grumpy…you know the routine.
At lunch, while carefully pulling apart and buttering a (scrumptious) roll with sun-dried tomatoes and a whiff of hot peppers, I stared carefully at it and wondered if now I could broach the subject of x, y, z, which I really wanted to talk about. I opened my mouth to start asking…
And Figlet said, “So! What’s your take on x, y, z?”
Girl, don’t do that! That’s Twilight Zone-ish!
But that’s what the afternoon was like. Lots of good talk, both substantive and frivolous, and great fun.
And anytime you want to howl with laughter, just call up Mrs. Figby and ask her to discuss the finer aspects of a1paca sex.
(L. to r.: Me, Figlet, Mrs. Figby)
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