What Happens at Happy Hour

Lala Land has been H-O-T the past couple of weeks.  It’s too hot to cook.  Too hot to walk the dogs.  Half the time, it’s even too hot to swim—at least until the late afternoon when there’s some shade.  Last weekend, the water in my mom’s swimming pool was 87 degrees.  Heated only by the sun.

Our biggest challenge in this weather has been dinner.  By the time we both get home, we’ve been sitting in traffic, the living room is a balmy 87 degrees even though the window a/c unit has been on ALL DAY, and the dogs are splayed out on the floor as close to a fan as they can get.  At 6 pm on Tuesday, our back yard was completely shaded and still 97 degrees.

So, we look at each other from our respective couch cushions, shrug our shoulders, and go out.

Last night we went to Islands in search of mai tais.  I finished two in record time.

But that’s not the point.  The point is that we were sitting in the bar enjoying happy hour prices and somehow we ended up talking about No Doubt / Gwen Stefani.

I. HATE. GWEN. STEFANI.

Catch doesn’t mind her at all.  She even bought the new No Doubt song.  (Side note: their new song gives me road rage.)

So we’re having this conversation about how I think Gwen Stefani sings like a toddler with a cold, and I mention how I feel like every other song on the radio is No Doubt or Gwen Stefani and I am soooo tired of it.  Catch argues with me and asks me what stations I’ve been listening to.  We debate for a few minutes, and then suddenly, this is playing in the bar:

 

I laugh. Catch laughs.  We joke about someone having overheard our conversation.  The song ends, and we move on.

And then, I kid you not, two songs later, there she freaking is again:

 

Now, I’m convinced. 

It’s a conspiracy. 

Gwen is taking over the damn world.

Also, this is what happens when I let Catch play with Siri while we're at happy hour:

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