Yesterday was my seventh anniversary. I suppose it was DJ's anniversary, too. We celebrated by going to the big city and gawking at all of the weirdos. In addition to gawking we ate at a restaurant where our server was an enormous fellow with a goatee whose eyes were hidden beneath his bangs. I only understood every third word that he said. He may have been the Dread Pirate Roberts.
I was craving meat and not feeling very ladylike so I ordered a big steak and ate it in two bites. (I'm in the middle of formulating a new conspiracy theory, by the way. Is it mysterious to anyone else that when you request A-1 sauce in a restaurant, the bottle always has precisely one tablespoon of sauce left in it? Mysterious. Or not.)
DJ ate a slab of ribs and shared some with me because he's a nice guy and I threatened him like, "GIVE ME YOUR RIBS, TINY!" (Was it wrong of me to demand a rib from my husband? I have to menstruate, he can share his ribs. Adam shared his. And can I say "menstruate" on a family blog?)
After the carnage we strolled hand in hand down Broadway, which is like the Vegas strip but with a trashy honky tonk theme. It was there that I met Elvis. I refused to kiss him on the cheek because there was still lipstick there from the last dorky tourist and I didn't want to get mono from Fake Elvis On Wheels. And then DJ kicked Fake Elvis in the nards. (Can you say the word "nards" on a family blog? I think I just did.)