Once upon a time a couple years ago I met a girl.
This girl and I hit it off, hung out a handful of times, and then one otherwise uneventful evening decided to go to California Pizza Kitchen for supper where we had came to the conclusion that she was awesome, and I was awesome, and we should do something to celebrate our mutual awesomeness.
But instead of sharing a dessert to celebrate like normal people would we decided the only logical course of action was to go get matching tattoos. Right. Now.
So we drove around the valley for about an hour trying to find a tattoo place that was open at that hour of a Tuesday night and finally found one only to be told by the only employee there “Uh, I’m just the apprentice, I just started and I don’t really know what I’m doing… but I’ll try if you want.” To which we replied “Yay! Go for it!”
Long story short, we have the worst matching tattoos ever. And I mean ever. Just god awful. I’m not even putting a picture up, it’s that bad.
Fast forward to now. We’re still friends, and today she and her girls came over for a playdate, a picnic outside, and some good old fashioned sprinkler action.
Somehow the playdate turned into a daiquiri playdate… you know, because we’re too damn old for juice boxes… or something like that.
One thing led to another, we got a little squirrely after we put the kids down for their nap, we got to thinking and scheming and talking (none of which are good ideas), and ended up scampering away when David got home and doing a little bit of this…
They don’t match this time though, so maybe that means we’re getting more mature… or something.