Wifey and I are on our way to the beach tomorrow, which means probably less posts until Sunday, but probably more of this:
That, by the way, is the worst bikini ever. It lures you in with its cuteness, then leaves you. In the ocean. THANKS A LOT, BIKINI. See you around.
And more thinking I’m really great at taking pictures when I’m drunk, which I can tell I am actually not because they come out like this:
That’s Wifey’s lower jaw, by the way. And just about all of my right boob. Hi!
But let’s be realistic. I always go in with high hopes, thinking this is the beach trip that will be different. Relaxing! I will not spend excess cash indulging in hullabaloo about town! I will responsibly reapply sunscreen! But then it ends up more like this:
This sequence of photos is still hysterical to me, two months later. You can sort of tell that there was some Clandestine Touching undertaken by the apparent Seattle Mariners player, and that I was able to detect said Clandestine Touching, and was perhaps displeased and vocal about it. Snort.
Because I am nothing if not a lady.
Posted in why we're married
