And then there were two.

Who knows what I was bitching about with my whole one sock takes a million years to knit noise.

It clearly does not take one million years.

It takes two one hour flights, a few hours of recuperating in a hotel room after 8 hours of free cocktails and about an hour sitting on my dead ass at the airport.

More specifically, 1 sock = 1 Trip to Vegas

Which is so weird because until this weekend I thought 1 Trip to Vegas = 1 maxed out Visa.

This is way better.

This past weekend I met up with two of my BFFs from college so that we could celebrate our Dirty Thirty together, as one mass of drunken girlishness draped over a blackjack table at the Bellagio.

I imagine we were quite a sight. Well, we were quite a sight until a man of any variety approached our table and then one of us (not me) would loudly inform them that, "Hellooooooooo! We are all married ladies here and some of us have a lot of kids so don't get any crazy ideas!" and then there might be some shoving around of ring fingers to support this claim and then maybe there would be another round of drinks while the dealer would remind us that we were in a casino and should be placing bets.

TODAY, ladies.

And then we rinsed and repeated with that same scenario for two days while managing to also fit in a few meals (a basket of onion rings counts as a meal) and some draping of our bodies also at the spa.

One needs some TLC after drinking ones body weight in free gin, you know. YOU KNOW.

And surprisingly, throughout the debauchery and also some shopping and more importantly WINNING at cards, I also managed to get through Bubba's second sock so that we could avoid the otherwise necessary act of replacing one of his legs with a peg one.

Neither of these legs are pegs. Phew.

I think we're all pleased with this unexpected outcome.

On a separate note, Bubba was also visibly pleased with me when I got into his truck from the airport curb not smelling AT ALL like a fresh hot dumpster a la previous trips to Vegas.

Word of advice: Do not have the roasted garlic appetizer at BOA with a sidecar gallon of gin and then dance your butt off at Pure because it makes you smell like a fresh hot dumpster.

So, now with this not at all fucked up pair of socks under my belt, I'm getting brave.

Do you see how these are the same? Miracle.

I'm thinking that my mom, lover of crazy ass knee socks, needs a pair of handknit crazy ass knee socks for the winter months. Thankfully she also has a winter birthday so it will seem less weird when I give her a pair of crazy ass knee socks because they'll be in the name of Birthday, which justifies most crazy ass gifts.

Also, she's my mom and therefore loves all the crazy ass shit I make for her with my daughter hands, even more so when there's no macaroni or Elmer's glue involved. I suspect anyway.

I suppose I should be booking another trip to Vegas then. Anyone feel like sitting at the blackjack table with me for 36 hours? It's pretty fun and I'll let you scream at people while I beat the dealer with my three ace split.

Oh yes. GOOD TIMES.