One can always asses the level of craziness in her life by the state of her pedicure. Judging by my grown out, chipped, and low-quality, self-painted job from last month, it’s been a wild 30 days. (Note to self: blue was a bad choice.) We’ll just focus on this past week.
Brian started a new job. More to come later.
Brian had kidney stones. Bill to come later.
Gus is teething. He’ll be up in the night later.
The fun highlight of the week: I was puuuumped to have a fun girl’s night at the Britney Spear’s concert. She’s had a residency here in Las Vegas for a while, and I’ve been dying to go. I love her. I’ll always love Britney, because. Just because. Each of her songs takes me back to a different time in my life. Don’t lie, her songs have that effect on you, too. Her concert should have been a glittery, strobe light-y trip down memory lane, escorted by minimally clothed dancers. So nostalgic.
Instead, Britney just made us all uncomfortable and concerned for her mental well-being. The entire things was lip synced, which doesn’t bother me at all. She needed to save energy for Britney-dance moves! We as the audience, collectively, tried to turn a blind eye to her unenthusiastic, halfway hand motions some choreographer must have called dancing…for a few songs. Then, after more than a handful of episodes of Britney’s pausing on stage to pull her pants and tuck her hair, we felt bad. It was just like watching a third grader’s first dance performance, minus the endearment.
The gay guys, the straight girls, the bachelorette parties, and the transvestites stopped dancing and sat down. No more dancing. Chair dancing, only.
I’m still a Britney fan. I’m worried that gay clubs may get wind and become partial to Lady Gaga now, but not if I’m the DJ.