Fiesta is for suckers

So I was hypocritically sucked into Fiesta over the weekend. After I cursed it with all that I am worth, I was sucked in. My girls decided that we should really take advantage of being a local in Santa Barbara, and bathe in the glory that is crowded streets, drunken tourists and those waiting to smack you in the back of the head with a plastic egg full of confetti (oh yes, you haven't truly lived until you've been cracked a few times by fuckwads who think the egg-confetti combo is hilarious). I found myself in the beer garden around four-ish on Friday, a deliciously slurpee-like margarita in one hand and a cig in the other, basking in the glory of Fiesta. And really, it wasn't all bad. We ran into many friends who'd had the same idea as us, and were able to navigate the drunken tourists without incident. Since the Peanut works for one of those wacky dot coms who still like to provide liquor and food and party favors for their employees, he had been drinking since the morning time, so by the time he wandered into the beer garden to find me, he had a broken shoe and a need to tell me about it. Repeatedly. Lather, rinse, repeat with the broken shoe.
Saturday rolled around and we were Fiesta'd out (is that right? Fiesta'd?), so we headed up to Santa Ynez where the wine flows and the...gamblers....gamble? Whatev, there's a fancy newish casino up there, so we popped in to play a bit of blackjack in preparation for our yearly Vegas trip in October. I left $10 up, so I considered it a success. We then picked up a few of our wine shipments and did some tasting, and came home drunk and happy. Well, the Peanut was still hung over and somehow full of snot, so maybe he was not so happy. By this is all about me, right? Right?
JR and I did our best to boost the economy on Sunday and did some shopping after our Spinning class (after coming home to shower and change, of course. What am I, gross?). She successfully purchased a peasant shirt that wasn't too...peasanty, and I successfully purchased some lovely tidbits for my sistah's birthday, which I must now send to her house of mystery in New Jersey. OK, it's not really a house of mystery, but she's moving in with her boyfriend in New Jersey after having lived in Cali for the past five years, and I just don't know a thing about Jersey. So for me, house of mystery. JR and her man are staying with us this week while their landlord rips out their bedroom ceiling. I'm planning on being a fantastic host, complete with food, booze and hopefully a Netflix shipment.
Just call me Martha. Without, you know, the jail time.