On Saturday, I had lunch and a spa day with my MIL. The lunch was amazing, the massage painful. Ugh, I don’t understand what massage technique instructs you to run your fists, knuckles up, UNDER my back and shoulders. That shit hurt like hell and quite frankly, I can still feel it today. I HURT! Boooo.

As we were waiting for our torturers (actually, hers was fine. I was the only one in pain), we were talking about random stuff. About how I can’t be trusted not to go overboard in planning parties. Seriously, there are only four people coming to Scarlett’s birthday party and I ordered invitations, bought themed plates and a fun table cloth. I can’t be trusted. Then she said that she was reading some of my blogs and that I was fucking hysterical. I mean, she said it in a much nicer way (because she’s a nice person) with no curse words but what I heard was, YOU’RE FUCKING HYSTERICAL. And I am. I got jokes.

So, in between all my other book writing, I might work on something a little non-fictiony (there you go. I just made up another word for you. Feel free to use it.).  No pressure or anything. It’s not like I don’t have a hundred other things to do.