Gregg left for Vegas this morning, after giving me a "woe is me...we're in a crappy Marriott far from the Strip — not that I'd go anyway — and it will all be work work work, I can't believe I have to go" tale. I felt bad for him - as hard as it would be to single parent this week, at least I had the comfort of our home and our cozy bed in which to recuperate from a long day of temper tantrums, drooling and anything the kids themselves might come up with. Then I checked out his hotel online, to ensure I had the phone number at which to call him and express my condolences.
His world:
Golf.
Swimming.
Fine dining.
Night life.
My world:
Competitive destruction.
Swimming.
Fine dining.
Night life.
Unless a scantily clad Chippendale's-like waiter comes by and starts serving me free cocktails while I play Break the Ice with Shawn Joaquin, I'm pretty sure I got the short end of this deal.
Golf.
Swimming.
Fine dining.
Night life.
Swimming.
Night life.
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