|Chambray Shirt // Old Navy (worn here, similar here); Picnic Skirt // Anthropologie;|
Flip Flops // Marshall's (worn here, similar here);
Necklace // c/o Favoring Brave (worn here);
Ring // Lauren Conrad for Kohl's (worn here)
So, as I said on Friday, this was my last weekend with my sister before she moves out to San Francisco. After I was apparently done dressing like Elly May Clampett, we did what we do best: day drink. We walked into the little downtown near my apartment and ate and drank beers ALL DAY LONG.
I said I was going to Instagram all of our beers, but that got a little boring after beer #3. We had to go to dinner with my family at 8pm, so we arranged for the Scot to pick us up and chauffeur us to dinner. However, around 6:30, I get a call from the Scot: "My car broke down. I'm waiting on the side of the road for the police and tow truck." So, I go back to drinking. It's not like I am in any condition to pick him up. Then, I ask myself, "Why did he have to wait for the cops?" I call him back and drops this bombshell. "Oh, actually, my car was ON FIRE." This appears to be information I should have gotten during the first phone call. And I would like to point out that I put the emphasis on FIRE in that quote. The Scot talked about his car BURSTING INTO FLAMES like the rest of us talk about burning toast or noticing an untied shoe lace.
I would like to compare what I imagine to be our different reactions to a car bursting into flames: