Yes, Michael and I do get out with friends once in a while, this time for some margaritas that were so frigging good, made by our host friend, Tim, that they've ruined me for liking any other margarita. The salted glass that held mine was so big that my head feels a bit ruined today, too, though—luckily—I only drank one of those bad boys, covering my glass every time Tim came around pouring his guests more, which was often.

That's me on the left kissing another Tim who just minutes before had said in jest, "You're dead to me," since we hadn't seen each other in so long. I told him I'd never let him live that one down. But forgiveness comes quickly when the offender is clad in skinny purple slacks, a viscose herringbone tweed bowler with a sharp plaid vest and a two-toned pair of nubuck oxfords. Yowza.

I'm thanking my stars for the bowl of homemade guacamole our other host, Stephanie, made, which was as good as any I've ever had before in my life, and for the big wedge of Humboldt Fog nestled next to a pile of seedy crackers and, too, for the handlebar mustache I kissed on the face of my buddy, John, and for the laughs with a multitude of other superb guests at both parties we attended and for the vanilla cake topper a couple of hours later, and for the aspirin right before bed and again upon waking this morning and for my cute husband and for a reasonably calm child on this very weary day in the wake of margaritaville.

Photo by Aaron Kitch

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