So, I turned 34. No big whoop, except that I’m now officially in my mid-thirties. It’s, like, odd … but only if I think about it. Don’t worry, I’m still shockingly immature. Moving on, how cute is this Edme & Esyllte skirt? I want to wear it constantly, and every time I do, I want to tell everyone that I thrifted it for eight whole bucks. Hey, here’s a fun game: guess how much the whole outfit cost? Go on, guess.
Answer: $89. Were you close? The necklace was a gift (thanks, mom & dad); otherwise, it would have been the most expensive item at $40 (on sale, you should really check it out). Yeah, I’m feeling pretty pleased with myself. It’s allowed on one’s birthday, yes?
Speaking of, my husband took me out for a date night to celebrate the fact I’m now a year older than him. (For the next two months.) We went to a joint called Meat.
The menu is well curated (read, short, very short), but everything we tried was delicious. As a pickle aficionado, I am telling you to order the pickle if you go. Best $1 I spent all week. Well, my husband spent it, but you know what I mean. The only downside of Meat is also, in a way, what makes it a really fun place to hang: it’s hipster heaven. We had a table near the door, which afforded us excellent people watching opportunities, and we marveled at the constant stream of hipster haircuts, hipster beards, hipster clothes, hipster babies. (We didn’t know this beforehand, but Meat seems to be a pretty cool place to bring your kids. Duly noted for future reference.) When in Rome … drink the hipster-approved soda. (It was delicious.)
My husband decided to try to get me drunk, and damn nearly succeeded. I know what you’re thinking, but I haven’t had alcohol in nearly 4 years (it’s a taste thing, not a philosophical thing) and 2.5% beer might as well be moonshine. And, for the record, it was also delicious. I absolutely hate beer and refuse to drink it, but this stuff tasted entirely un-beer-like. Paired excellently with my garlic fries and BBQ pulled chicken, by the way.
Too soon, it was time to go home. Midnight? Pfft. Cinderella ain’t got nothing on us. Forget the magical pumpkin carriage; the baby-sitting clock is much less forgiving.
