Bless your heart

One undisclosed weekend this Spring, I hauled off to Arkansas to eat cheese and chex mix, shop, sing, dance and drink wine with DC Emily (So called because we met in DC. She now lives in Arkansas. Had to be distinguished from California Emily, who is from Louisiana but lived in California when I lived in DC, and now lives in Dallas. Try and keep up.)

We drank and sang and drank some more and then the dancing started. It took twelve hours to sleep it off and we were complete wastes for the rest of the day. We can no longer party in the comfort of our own homes like we could when we were 24, and that's just a shame.

There's an old women's dorm at the University of Arkansas that has been converted into a hotel with the loveliest little lounge and the most engaging little bartender. We sat in rocking chairs on a big front porch, drinking rosè and eating artisan cheese, watching people come and go.

Our favorite was this woman, I'm pretty sure her name was Maude. She had on a BRIGHT pink pontè knit suit and curly white hair and long manicured fingernails. Her husband, I'm pretty sure his name was Burt, was the passenger in their car, which always translates to me that Burt never gets to talk or do anything he wants because Maude bosses him all the time, dontchaknow?

We watched them pull up in front of the hotel and sit there for a second, before finally deciding as a team that Maude's sea-foam green Jaguar needed to be pulled up from the front steps of the hotel. You could tell that Maude was doing this under protest. She was none too happy about Burt telling her that car couldn't just sit right there in the middle of the driveway. In doing so, she almost leveled the railing on the handicap ramp.

Thankfully, no accident occurred.

However, once they pulled up and we could see their license plate, a photo had to be captured for all eternity.

Yes, Burt and Maude. Bless you, indeed.

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