Popscholar

Saturday night DD and I had a wedding to attend.  My colleague and partner in crime (read: partner in "corrupting" children by suggesting depraved literature), BK, got married.  It was a joyous and fun-filled evening.  But let me back up for a moment.

I'm willing to bet that I'm the last woman in Philadelphia to catch onto the killer deal that is the $20 pedi in, get this...a massage chair.  While they're making your toes all pretty, you can simpy sit back, hit a button to choose your preferred setting ("knead," "tap" etc.) and languish.

I happened upon this deal quite fortuitously.  On Friday I took a walk from my house to Rittenhouse Square to pick up a wedding card and some wrapping paper.  The moment I left the store the heavens decided to unleash a torrent of rain.  Stranded without an umbrella, I ran across the street to stand underneath the bus stop.  After trying in vain to hail a cab for ten minutes, I turned around and noticed Central Nails.

My toes look like shit, I thought to myself.  And they're going to be exposed tomorrow night.  Maybe I can go in, get a pedi and, by the time I'm through, the rain will have ceased. 

It was a fantastic plan by me.  A pedi, simultaneous massage, and eyebrow wax later, it was dry outside.

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Fast forward to Saturday night.  DD and I sat with my other colleague, BC.  We spent the night laughing, dancing, and taking pictures (I imagine compromising photos of drunk coworkers will make fine blackmail materials should I ever need them).

Anyway, general hilarity ensued in various capacities throughout the night.  There were myriad moments, but I'll cut to the most riotous.

BC and I somehow got into a convo about the lack of "depth" of many of our coworkers.

"So, who's 'deep' in our building?" I asked her at one point.

 She proceeded to name about three of us.

"Oh, and J's deep.  But he needs a laxative," B added.

(For the record, J is another colleague who was sitting at our table.  He's a little stiff, to put it nicely.)

"Yeah, you can tell that from his dancing!" I said, trying not to laugh as I eyed him self-consciously bobbing to "Old Time Rock'n' Roll."  "Hey B, I'm gonna get a shot of him and send it to you with the caption 'Got Milk...of Magnesia?'"

"I can't look." B laughed, covered her eyes, and finished off her third Dirty Martini. 

Now if you'll excuse me while I go and crop that photo...