I wish I could have my kitchen sink. And my dishwasher. Why won't countertop dude return my calls? Steve said something funny tonight: "Our countertop dude's last name is Loya. I feel like calling him and saying, 'You're not the only Lawya around here.'"
Speaking of lawyas, we went to a lawyer's house tonight who lives on top of Phoenix. This gentleman, in his opulent digs, says his house is higher in elevation than any other house in the valley. It's just too fitting to argue with. Of course he lives at the top of Phoenix. He lives at the top of the world. Anyway, we met a senator and an Arizona chief justice at this house tonight. We saw many an original piece of artwork--this fellow has a corner on the Greg Olson originals market. We ate steaks that were rarer than we prefer. We came down the mountain and got lemon sorbet and ameretto ice cream at Cold Stone and talked about if we ever want to be that rich. The answer is not so much a definitive no as it is a definitive what's the point? Definitive indifference.
We came home and walked past the bathroom and pretended to not take notice for one more night the pile of dishes collecting in the bathtub. Who really wants to wash dishes in the bathtub? But tomorrow I can ignore it no more, for we have coming over for dinner one gyrating old school fire monkey from the Helaman Halls days, and I must do the dishes before she arrives.
Lest I haven't made myself sound important enough, might I add that because our friends from Washington are coming over for dinner tomorrow, we will not be going to the Phoenix Coyotes game tomorrow and then going for drinks afterward with Wayne Gretzky. Oh, and also because we don't drink. And also because I was once, very recently, told that I could never be friends with rich people and I've really taken that to heart. And also because I don't want to go. But not because we weren't invited.