“We’re gathered here today to join this couple in Wholly Guacamole.”

Some friends and I discuss what we’re wearing to our ladies’ night dinner:

“You’re all married, so odds are slim you’ll be picking anyone up at a Mexican restaurant. I, on the other hand, have to come correct. It stands to reason I’d meet my soulmate over guacamole.”

The sanctity of guac.

Earlier today, I happened to be discussing abortion protests with a very dear friend of mine who’s just become a Planned Parenthood volunteer.

She said she’ll be an early-morning weekend escort for PP patients, making sure protestors don’t bother them. “Because that’s what the protestors do. They get up early, go to church, harass clinic patients, and then go have lunch.”

Sounds like a great day, no?

But on my way home, oddly, I drove past a group of protestors and texted her.

Me: “OMG, I just drove past abortion protestors! Huge, grossly graphic signs and all.”
Friend: “Ugh. That’ll be me every Saturday. Do these people have nothing better to do on a Saturday?”
Me: “They’re right near Chipotle. Man, go get a burrito and calm down.”