The Zadge be illin’, peeps. Some evil dervish has settled into her head, behind her eyes and is pounding away, making her eyes all squinty and pained. And her throat is sore and scratchy. And all she’s had to eat today is scrambled egg whites and peanut M & Ms.
She’s a hot mess.
But before the head cold settled in for a visit she did have a fun weekend, being 175 pounds lighter than she was with Dr. Boy Toy.
The Hazz is a tiny thing and two margaritas later, she was flying high as a kite. Whereas our Olympic Gold Medalist in Alcohol Tolerance was barely buzzed:
Yes, she knows she is wearing her new hoop earrings to death. And no, she is not boozing it up in a church, what with all those crucifixes behind her. If the Zadge set foot in a church after all these years of being a fallen-Catholic-heathen, she is certain a lightening bolt would rip through the church and strike her sinning-ass to the ground.
At one point, while the Zadge had Lizzie on her shoulders in the pool, a man in his eighties swam up next to the Zadge and said, “Did I hear those kids calling you Zadge? That’s my daughter’s name.” Well, he didn’t say “Zadge.” He said the Zadge’s god-given name, which is Gaelic. And the Zadge replied, “Yes, are you Irish?” And the man said he was. And then Lizzie pointed at this 85-year old’s white, freckled, sun-damaged Irish shoulders and said, “He has the same skin as you.”
From the mouth of babes.
And they are talking about it for good reason. Put down that stupid Fifty Shades of Bad Writing and read this instead.
She spent the requisite hours watching YouTube clips of her lover, Keith Richards:
But the Zadge must now go pop some more Sudafed, perhaps topped off with a shot of Nyquil. And, apparently, she must hurry and make an appointment with her dermatologist to laser off her 85-year old skin.