Blame it on the stromboli

Last weekend I saw my oldest friend.

Which calls for me to clarify that I am referring to how long I’ve known her not how old she is.

Which then calls for me to clarify that she’s my oldest friend who is not also a member of my family, because, … well obviously Sis.

So, OK, OK. She’s my best friend from college. That should cover it.

For the last (remarkably long time) we have lived about 30 minutes from each other, and yet we manage to see each other… an appallingly few number of times of year.

Which is actually pretty much par for the course for me, now that I look around…

I am just full of flotsamy little side-bars today, aren’t I?

Anyhoo, we both (miraculously!) managed to be free last weekend, and so we met for an early dinner (in order to avoid the rush both from an eatery and more significantly from a parking standpoint) back in the town where we went to school. At what is (at least to us) the quintessential college-eatery experience for our alma mater.

So she and her boys and I all met up and stuffed our faces with the best stromboli ever, and chatted and caught up and just generally had a lovely afternoon.

And a few scant days later, I have a breakout on my face of absolutely epic proportions.  

Not a simple, standard, slightly-blocked pore. Not a mere “blemish.” No, my friends, this thing has its own zip code. It can be seen from space. I don’t have to touch it to feel it all the way to my toes. This thing is angry and red like a churning volcano and if it were a volcano it would do the Hawaiian fire goddess Pele so very proud.

Why, I haven’t been this badly broken out since…

Well, since college, come to that.

So what else can I do, but blame it on the stromboli?

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About aka gringita
Flotsam generator. Amateur photographer. Avid traveler. Christ follower.

3 Responses to Blame it on the stromboli

  1. Sounds like the stromboli was worth it, though! That’s something we don’t have out here.

    Like

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