I'll Never Grow Up!

        If there's one thing I've learned about drinking vodka sodas on a Saturday from approximately 1pm - 10pm, it's this:  it will ruin your diet and your Sunday.  I don't think there is any need to elaborate.


        Just kidding! Why would I have a blog if I didn't want to elaborate on completely useless, self-deprecating topics?

It started with class- business class.

        Let me tell you, my friends.  If you take a train from Seattle to Portland- which you should- you must take business class. (Confession: as I was editing this post, I realized I had written 'you must take the business class' which is not classy at all.  It's akin to announcing you're going to the Wal-Mart.) The obvious reasons being that you don't have to mingle with the commoners prior to boarding (or at all,) and they give you a voucher for the dining car.  I guess all the reasons to take business class are obvious, unless you don't mind being surrounded by people who fail to see the necessity of extending a pinky while drinking beverages.  Then we probably shouldn't be friends anymore, and you can go ahead and get yourself a coach ticket.  *gasp*

What did I tell you?  If it's printed on a clock tower, it can't be wrong.

        I feel as though taking a train is much safer than flying or driving.  I have absolutely no scientific evidence to support this speculation, of course.  But as we all know, science is for losers.  First of all, you're not, you know, flying, so if you fall out of a train, it's less distance before you splat than if you fall out of the SKY.  Eek. Imagine falling out of the sky- wait...don't.  I just did it, and it's absolutely terrifying.  Then, if you figure there are fewer trains on a track than there are cars on the road, you've just eliminated a whole class of fools who might murder you with their vehicles.  How's that for evidence? Boom.

       Needless to say, I made it to Oregon totally alive.  It was a beautiful weekend to be in Portland...

Oh mini palm trees randomly found in the PNW- so embarrassing.

        And then we had some lunch with our Prosecco...

If only I had known then...

        It's like this was a fortune cookie, except that it was printed at the bottom of a drink menu at some hip Portland eatery rather than pulled from a crispy delicious chinese dessert.  Maybe my problem was that I was drinking Prosecco - which is Italian champagne, for those of you unrefined non-pinky out drinkers.  It did make me feel like it was Sunday and better days were just around the corner.  But better days were not around the corner.  Worse days were around the corner.  

        And that's what you get for not reading the fine print- damn Italian bubbles will lull you into a false sense of security every time.  Now, had I started with French bubbles, like a good Christian girl should, Sunday would have been filled with cotton candy and elephant rides.  Alas.  Italian bubbles! Curses!

        You may be asking yourself, "Did Nicole just join a sorority?  Isn't she too old for this?"  No, and yes.  But guess what?  You cannot be too old to get together with one of your oldest friends, channel your inner (if not slightly intoxicated) Peter Pan, and act like you'll never grow up.  It's really fun. You should try it some time.

Thanks for the bubbles and the laughs, my friends.  

        (P.S. I figure we can behave like ladies when we're grandmas, but for now, it's too much fun to be rowdy, and chug stranger's beers after accidentally drinking a bowl of spicy clam juice to drown out the horrible taste of a leaf wrap that was most likely filled with poison.  I mean, I've heard that's fun.  I wouldn't know from my own personal experience.)