Some of this — perhaps most of this — is going to sound very egocentric.  It’s going to sound like I’m tooting my own horn, and MEMEMEMELOOKATME, and very much like I think I’m the hottest thing since Paris Hilton. 

It’s going to sound like that because I am, you’d better, and I AM HOTTER THAN PARIS HILTON.

Our review went off beautifully.  I had heard so many war horror stories of these things gone awry that I was prepared for any amount of disaster; for instance, I probably wouldn’t have flinched if a plague of locusts came through or if I touched a General.  Regardless, at the end of the day, we all decided a little celebration was in order.

Our small little group headed to The Hitching Post with a reservation for just us, but the minute we walked in, we saw a large table of our company’s brass.  The schmoozing thing to do would’ve been to go eat with them, but I was tired and didn’t want to be entertaining, so I convinced all of us to keep our small table.

About five minutes after we were seated, flowers were sent over.  “For the redhead,” the waitress said.  I looked over at the table where all of the men, well into the cognac by now, grinned and held their thumbs up.  I blushed.

We ordered our appetizers (we had grilled artichokes with the most amazing spicy tomato basil mayonaisse dipping sauce), and fell into an easy conversation, when a pink pinot was placed down before me.  “Another present for the redhead,” smiled the waitress.

Well, what in the hell do you do now?  You’ve got executives of your company ordering you drinks because no one knows that you’re pregnant.  So.. get ready to think lowly of Sarah: I took a sip of wine.  It was a marvelous wine, made locally in the valley.  Then I chugged a glass of water. 

I ordered the rack of lamb with a loaded baked potato, a cup of seafood stew, and a house salad with their house dressing.  Their signature in this place is called “magic dust”.. it’s sprinkled on everything from the roasted artichokes to the salad to the meat.  It’s a salt-n-pepper mix (obviously, a bit more refined than that), but it was delicious.  The lamb was incredibly tender, covered in Magic Dust, and the potato was out of this world.  I wasn’t a fan of the salad; I think there was too much raddichio in there for me.  The stew was alright.

So about three sips of wine later (in between my four glasses of water), a dessert is set down at the table.  “This,” the waitress said, “can only be eaten if you guys promise to join them.”  So we finally made our way over (I carried the dessert, of course), and dug into the most awesome blackberry tart. 

Oh, and we also saw Fess Parker (don’t feel bad if you don’t know; I didn’t either) and Cheryl Ladd eating dinner.

Anyway, so it was very cool to have so many people at the table say that I had saved their asses at some point during the day, because I didn’t feel that I did.  I just felt like I was doing my job.  Granted, I was the one on the ground who ran around like a wedding planner, but even I was impressed by my scope at the end of the day.

Okay, quick sidenote.. Melinda Doolittle: WTF?!

I’m trying to focus on happy things today, because a recent symptom of “sperm poisoning” is that I cry at anything.  At the drop of a hat.  Which makes for very awkward situations.

But it’s hard to focus on anything because I am so frickin’ tired.  I got home late last night, and of course my body was on PST, so it was midnight before I finally drifted off to sleep.  Add to that swollen feet and hands, and leg cramps that were making me restless, and you had a very frustrated Sarah.  Then Bryan started snoring at one o’clock, so I moved to the couch.  Where I tossed and turned till he came and told me my alarm had gone off.

Today was supposed to be a day off for me, as was tomorrow, but a staffing shortage here in ole HuntsVegas has killed that dream for me.  Not only that, but I’m supporting a late meeting tomorrow night.  I could easily cry right now.  Yep, I could be sobbing in a matter of seconds.

That’s alright.  It’s just 48 more hours.  I can do anything for 48 hours.  You’ve probably read that on some mens’ room wall somewhere.

You know what I learned this weekend, while reading on the plane?  The phrase is “for all intents and purposes.”  I have always, always, always thought (because I’m apparently ignorant) that it was “for all intensive purposes.”  Which never made much sense to me, logistically, but I would never think to question conformity.

Jeanette, your comment slayed me. (But I’m also tired.)

I’ll have the full Hitching Post story later, because I’ll need it to stay awake. 

So here I am.  Back at home.  But not really.