And you're out.

And you're out.
Moral strike #1: Saturday night, Erik and I drove up to inland Orange County for a party. The entire area was nowhere to be found on our 2001 Thomas Guide.

Moral strike #2: Leaving the party, we saw sirens and a mild traffic jam ahead. I just figured it was an accident, but Erik, who wasn't half-asleep, got a better look. I heard him mutter, "Damn it, a sobriety check," as he MADE A U-TURN. A block away from a sobriety check. And no, he wasn't drunk (but did have a drink hours earlier). Maybe it was some societally-ingrained reflex. My sweet husband! Running from the law!

Moral strike #3: After our u-turn, we pull into a shopping center and see a Starbucks. A fucking Starbucks. So what do we do? We go inside and buy drinks. I figure at this point, we may as well rub a tasty espresso beverage into the wound. However, then the barista complimented me on my sweater, and asked me where I got it. I told her the cardigan was from the Ann Taylor outlet. Then she asked if the tank top was part of a set, and I said, "oh, no, this is from Banana Republic." I smiled and took a sip of my frothy soy latte as my soul left my body for corporate hell.