Pheeeeeeeew.
That’s exactly how I feel.
Like pheeeeeeeew. With exactly 8 e’s.
I wish you could have seen how close I had to get to my computer screen just to count how many e’s were scrunched into that word. I think that’s a sign I need glasses.
That or a sign I need to stop drinking a bottle of whiskey before writing a blog post.
Psych. I haven’t had any whiskey kids. Although now that I mention it…
{Father—that is a joke. No need to pick up the phone to tell me that I really shouldn’t drink a bottle of whiskey..}
So back to what I was saying. This weekend was 100% amazeballs.
Speaking of, my husband threatened to say a really bad word every time I say “amazeballs”.
He thinks the word is stupid. Clearly he has no brain. Or taste in the English language for that matter. However I threatened to kick him in the “you know what” if he did. And then I realized that would end any sort of hope we have when it comes to producing children. Although now that I mention it, we are planning on adopting so I better get kicking. Sorry husband.
If you just weren’t so amazeballs….
Two times I have gotten off subject now.
Good work Erin.
And now I am talking in third person. I should probably end this post now.
Okay but seriously. This weekend was fantastic. And full of Friends. Sunshine. Family. Boats. Drinks. Water. Laughter. Motorcycle Rides. Sleep (barely). Food. Pictures. And last but not least, Luke Bryan. Okay, so he was only in my dreams but still.
You know it’s really good weekend when you find yourself drinking margaritas with 80 yr old neighbors at 10 pm on a Sunday night.
Party animals we are, I know.
Here are a frick ton {translation: a lot} of pictures from the weekend.
Enjoy.
Friday
Saturday
Sunday
…And the fun didn’t end. Monday evening I hosted book club. We kinda forgot to discuss the book we read and just drank sangria instead. Gosh, I love book club.
Sleep. You sound pretty darn appealing right now.
Watch out because I’m coming to get ya…..
Ugh. I just envisioned myself getting tickled really bad.
Remind me to tell you my “stop tickling me” tactic sometime.
It may or may not involve me screaming rape at the top of my lungs.
With the windows open in our house.
Needless to say, our neighbors don’t talk to us much.
Except the 80 year old margarita drinking ones.
They know how to get down.
