Hot date

Julie owns all six seasons of Sex and the City. I share this because you need to know why I agreed to go see Carrie and her gal-pals tonight rather than staple my eyelids to a bus. You can't live with my wife and not watch Sex and the City.

To inject even more coolness into the evening, we ate dinner at the geriatric hour. When we ordered drinks, Alex Trebek was about to reveal the Final Jeopardy category, and that is no exaggeration.

Let's zoom in on dinner for a sec. I ordered a vodka martini because, well, I'm not pregnant.

(For any of my students who might stumble upon this blog and think "Whoa! Drinking is tight!" remember that your brain, specifically your frontal lobe and pre-frontal cortex, is not yet fully developed, and everything you do, positive and negative, will directly affect your brain's ability to process information and basically be normal and healthy as an adult. Do you really want to mess with that? Wait to drink. The teenage brain is a sapling, so water it with water. You should also note that I've put up with you all year and therefore deserve a drink once in awhile.)

So anyway, I sipped my drink and leaned over to kiss my wife. It was pretty smooth considering the dinner staff was about to replace the lunch staff. Then Julie, like a person lost in the desert desperate for water, started maniacally licking her lips, saying "Alcohol! Alcohol!" The nursing home residents at the next table thought we were pretty weird.

I won't go into detail here about Sex and the City and spoil the myriad surprises. Gotta say, though, they should have named it "Cougars in the City." I'm kidding. A more accurate title would be "Marital Dysfunction: A Trite Romantic Comedy Set Arbitrarily in the City."

Now we're home playing Guitar Hero, proving that despite all this, we still rock.