As the last political science paper of my collegiate career is due tomorrow (The Media's Effect on Foreign Policy in the Persian Gulf War--riveting, I know.), it's looking like Cinco de Mayo festivities shall be celebrated on the Seis. Tequila and Microsoft Word probably don't mix.
Puebla dresses available at La Mariposa, $44
Ahh, Cinco de Mayo! Here you are again.
Let us trace my history of loving Mexico:
Forget princesses. For my 6-year-old birthday party, I went with a lovely Mexican fiesta theme. We wore sombreros and dined on mini tacos. Mother claims I bossed every one around.
For my 2nd grade state report, I chose New Mexico for its OBVIOUS connection to its southern neighbor. I spelled Albuquerque wrong on every page, meriting my first "F." Mrs. Furlow lovingly dried my tears and allowed me to rewrite my report and I got the nerdy 100 I was accustomed to. F --> 100? Only in grade 2.
In 6th grade, our class hosted Latin America day for the entire elementary. Mrs. Baker asked me, the resident ballerina, to choreograph a dance for 10 girls, so duh--I went with J Lo's "Let's Get Loud." What a jam.
In high school, I got bit by the French bug and remained a francophile til, well, now. But when my fashionable Texan sorority sister first wore a traditional Puebla dress with cowgirl boots, my former love came soaring back.
I want one soooooo badly.
That's what you're supposed to drink a 'rita in.
