Times. Good ones. I've been having 'em.

You can probably guess from the lack of regular blog updates that I've been busy. I've been having a kick-ass time with Murielle. No surprise, since we always have a great time together, but it seems that the days are just flying by. Not a lot of lolling around I suppose. (And no, watching Veronica Mars does NOT count as sloth.)

Since she got here on Monday night, I suppose we haven't done anything particularly eventful. We have, of course, been watching lots of Veronica Mars (which she loves (yay!), so it's not like I'm forcing her). We've eaten Mexican food, so she can cross that off her list. We went to see a movie (V for Vendetta...not bad at all). We mocked/watched American Idol with Corey and his friends.

But the highlight, so far, I'd have to say, was going to the mall. I'm not a big mall girl, I suppose--too full of people, too easy to spend money you don't need to spend--and I'm of the opinion that malls are better handled in pairs or packs. I don't have a pack available to me most of the time (except when Abbey and I make an expedition), so I don't go to the mall very often.

Now, despite my slight less-than-fondness for malls, I've already stated that I had a kick-ass time with Murry. Why is that? Ten words: trying on fancy dresses we have no intention of buying. Ohhhhh, such good times.

We went to the posh dress area of Macy's and completely regressed to high school and loved every minute of it. Each of us picked out dresses for the other one - half nice, half hideous. While we had a good time with the pretty dresses, we had an even better time with the ugly ones. Check out these abominations:

Now, if I were one of the girls from Go Fug Yourself, I could probably do this justice. Instead, I'll just say that Murielle looks like she's going to eat your soul, and enjoy it, while wearing a thrift-store wedding dress that was last owned by a six-foot-tall Russian mail-order bride (well, her husband-to-be, who bought the dress, also bought her story that she was six feet tall and foxy--in reality she's about 5'4 and sporting a 'stache). Meanwhile, I look like a call girl who went from one appointment (dominatrix duty for Dr. Spank-me-a-lot at 4:30) to another (high school reunion, class of '86--trying to prove my pea-soup-green prom dress still fits) and forgot to take off the shoes in-between appointments while grabbing dinner from Arby's, where I was served a less than 'Market Fresh' sandwich.

Nah, they do it a lot better. :) But they don't have pictures of themselves in some sweet millinery, now do they? No, they do not.