I knew I should have posted yesterday morning. Instead, I bummed around on the couch until late into the morning before finally going out to meet the Winged Monkey for lunch with all his friends. Amidst the beer and burgers, a plan was hatched to go see Skyfall last night.

Now, I am all about the Bond. I can't get enough of Casino Royale, and staring into Daniel Craig's baby blues for two hours sounds like a perfectly pleasant way to spend a Saturday night.

Unless you do it in one of the most pretentious parts of town.

I'm a fairly simple girl. I like my blue jeans and my ponytail, and patios with picnic tables, and anything topped with bacon. I'm not a calamari girl. I'm not an amaretto swirler. I'm not interested in seeing and being seen.

I enjoyed the movie tremendously. It was well-paced, didn't take itself too seriously, and all of the actors did a phenomenal job. What I did not enjoy was eating dinner in a silicone showplace, surrounded by women that are no way representative of a species that exists in the natural world. And I really had no desire to spend more time in the Valley of the Dolls by capping the evening with $20 martinis in the bar two doors down.

I am not a big drinker. Never have been, never will be. Beer tastes like piss, tequila tastes like tree bark, and whiskey tastes like turpentine. I like some wines, but more than one glass makes me sleepy. More than one vodka drink, and the room feels like a tilt-a-whirl. Usually I can go and be social and have fun, but not when the group you are with decides to order for you even though you've said you really don't want anything to drink tonight, or continually insists you "taste this, you'll love it" when you have already politely declined. I am not 2. I am an adult. I know what I like and what I don't. I was polite and non-offensive when I said I really just wanted water tonight. Why do you have to look at me like you are personally affronted by the fact that I have not ever cared for Pinot Noir or gin martinis?

Thank god I have a WM who loves me. I can pull him aside and ask to go home and he graciously whisks me away from my discomfort and takes me home to my jammie pants and my comfy flannel sheets where he laughs with me about the Barbie Doll women we saw teetering down the sidewalk on their 6 inch platform heels trying not to rip their skin tight mini skirts.

Thank god I found someone real.