Right now my husband is drinking yoga while I do a glass of red wine. Oh, wait. (I actually did get as far as the "while" before realizing something was amiss.)
Right. So. My husband is doing yoga while I drink a glass of red whine. Oh, wait.
He's doing yoga and I'm enjoying a glass of red wine. When he's finished, we'll share a salad made of organic, locally grown greens. After that, we're going to drink chai lattes and put our precious heads together to decide which cotton sheets we should order from West Elm. And then, we are going to "make love."
Actually, not all of that is true. But enough of it is true that I feel disgusted enough to want to take a shower. (In my slate-tiled shower, the one with the brushed nickel rainshower shower head.)
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You should move to Madison where the pizza delivery cars are run on bio-diesel and people riot when there aren't enough vegan pastry options at the local co-op. I won't even mention what happens when said pastries don't contain locally grown spelt.
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