These are my best friends. I don't see them as often as I'd like. But when I do see them, we have fun.
I really don't think there's any better place for a girls' weekend than New Orleans, LA. Especially when you're edging 40. Because you can: drink outside in December, dance to a live band singing "Don't Stop Believing", and (miraculously) find yourselves some of the youngest women in the room. Vegas just can't give you that last part.
Everything became fuzzy after the hurricanes (granted there were several margaritas before the hurricanes even began).
Apparently we drank more.
And more.
And danced.
Night two was much more mellow due to an ill-placed pothole colliding with my right foot (I actually fell in said pothole while checking my fitbit steps, oh the irony).
After walking proved difficult, we ended up at the hotel bar, with its overpriced drinks and eclectic clientele.
Wine numbs the pain.
And if a stranger tells Allison she has big hair, as in "really big, like Texas, hair" . . .
Then she will find a way to make it bigger.
And bigger.
So Saturday was sort of a bust. But after 4 hours in the New Orleans emergency room (not a place I'd recommend), they told me my foot was definitely broken, gave me a coolio boot, and sent me on my way.
Still a great weekend. And that says a lot.
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