Last night I went to the Alamo Drafthouse with some girlfriends to see Sex and The City. After silencing my phone and slipping into a few champagne cocktails (the Miranda)I let the days work of laundry, swing pushing and poop slide away to a fantasy life of Park Avenue Penthouses, designer handbags and Manolo Blahniks.
As I'm watching the drama of my four fabulously-dressed fantasy friends, and thinking how I need to wear high heels much more often, I hear a little bleep and notice that a text message just came in on my phone. From home. Figure I should check it in cases something is up with the girls. No dishwashing powder. Fantasy averted.
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