My relationship with St. Patty’s Day in Dallas has been a rocky and tumultuous one and I just never know how Patty is going to treat me. The St. Patty's Day Parade and Block Party is one of the only things that Dallas does right and every year I've managed to get shit all over. Everyone crowds around lower Greenville, invading friends' houses who only invested in their real estate because of the close proximity to the annual event. Breakfast tacos are made, bloody marys are mixed and the jovial party generally begins around 8:30 a.m. The parade is usually around 10 or 11 but no one ever goes, and the people who do go are unable to recall it the next day. After the parade, street vendors pass out beer and corn dogs to event-goers who are already in "late night" stage at noon. Local business along the streets are filled to the brim with people wearing wrist-bands and green halter tops. All in all, it's general merriment - except for yours truly.
One year I was in Austin and couldn't attend the event. However, everyone else I knew did and had a good time. However, my boyfriend (now Ex) dropped his phone in a porta-potty full of poo and piss. Don't you worry, he reached in and pulled it out. Then put it back in his pocket. Then set it out in the sun at his friends house to "dry it out", sprayed it with Lysol and continued to use it for, well, ever.
The next year I was out of town for work because I kind-of sort-of lived in San Antonio at the time. That was an especially fun year because everyone kept calling me on my cell to drunkenly slur how much they missed me. Sweet sentiment? Yes. Completely depressing? Yes. A little annoying? Totally. Especially when you're sitting all alone in your hotel room at the Residence Inn.
The next year I finally got to experience it in all its glory. Unfortunately, that's when a drunk girl splashed a little vomit on my flip-flopped feet and we got locked out of my friend's house and I ended up peeing in his backyard. That's also when the Ex and I had our infamous conversation that went a little something like this:
me: "I really want to move to Austin someday. These drunken Dallas whores wearing heels and shorts to a block-party get on my very last nerve. Especially when they splash their vomit on my flip-flopped feet."
him: "You're one of those people who are never going to be happy in life. No matter what you have, you'll always want something different."
Awesome. Thanks for saying something that will haunt me every day for the next two years (and counting...).
Last year my job hit rock-bottom (thanks to a boss who never learned how to say no to his clients) I had to go sell telecom services in a PetsMart parking lot in Frisco (Dallas suburb). When I finally headed back to civilization I couldn’t get into the block party because it was too crowded and the fire marshalls were riding around on their horses, telling people they couldn't come in. I ended up drinking a beer in a back alley by myself, sitting on a cinder block like a homeless person. Not kidding. When I finally managed to talk to my friends (cell service doesn't work because of the swarms of people), they were all hammered and coming back to my friend's house to take naps. I picked up the guy I was seeing (now Boyfriend) as he was walking down the street and the first thing out of his mouth was "Katherine's friend Lacey totally wants to fuck me."
Awesome. Yet again.
Now that I think about it, it’s almost masochistic of me to attend this event and continue to try to date St. Patty. No thanks, “St.” Patrick my ass… keep your hands to yourself, please.
Wednesday, March 12, 2008
Monday, March 10, 2008
on a heavier note...
Once upon a time, many moons ago, Not Lisa was in love. She was a young girl who was not yet jaded by the ways of the world and was impassioned by the thought that one day she and the boy she loved more than anything else in the world would be together. She was very active in her Baptist youth group and thought that against all odds, she was meant-to-be with her boy best friend. They had the same faith, the same ideals, the same political beliefs, the same family structure, the same dream of an all-bed living room (not for sexing, necessarily - primarily for napping)... what more could a girl ask for?
Young Not Lisa was the young ripe age of 15 when she made this decision, and that boy was the end-all be-all of her teenage girlish dreams. He was an insightful, thoughtful, spiritual musician that embodied everything she thought she wanted. She and this young boy were best of friends and formed a pact deciding that, should they remain unmarried, they were to be each other's Forever After. And they believed it.
I know that everyone makes this pact with their best friend at one point or another, but the thing that set these two apart was their unfailing, unabashed and unapolegetic belief that it would actually come to fruition. They saw the next few years/possible decade as a period of experimentation. This was their chance to experience what was out there and to come back to each other more educated, more enabled to make their marriage successful and happy because of the other dating partners that had crossed their paths - no matter what.
My, how the times have changed.
You may recall a certain post in which I briefly described my first Dallas Restaurant Week as a time to drown my frustrations in vodka. Frustrations that resulted from a certain someone's engagement announcement. That certain someone just now, after four some-odd years of marriage and a 1-year communication hiatus, reached out to me via phone. I answered the phone with "So you guys are pregnant, right?" I was, as I all too often am, correct. While I am as happy as I can be for a friend of mine to procreate ("Do you know what you're getting yourself into? You know they cry a lot, right? And they shit themselves and expect you to clean it up?"), I feel it only necessary to post this handwritten letter that I was sent on 2/8/2001, from the boy I thought to be my very own 19-year-old end-all be-all.
"It's different... writing instead of the clicky-click of the keyboard. I wish you could be here now to sit with me and listen to this CD that has engulfed every musical dsire within me. It takes over the musical side of this boy while you consume everything else. I just spent the day with your dad, and I've been trying to come up with a good way to send this to you. What turned out to be the best way was just to be myself, and miss you like I always do. And allow myself to be completely vulnerable to anything anyone would possibly toss my way. What I wish more than anything is that you were here. As I read back over this, I wonder if someday I will have a son or daughter that might read this as well... and I want to take this opportunity to have a first greeting to them... even though they will know me long before they even learn to read things like this... So... hello, kid(s). I hope that you know how much your mother means to me, and you as well... That I am 19 years old, and addressing you as if you already exist... well, you do in my mind. I hope to God that by the time you read this, I will become a good father. And that will be known. I long to meet you. And I long to be the husband of your mother. She is a wonderful girl. I wish you could know her right now as I do... and no one else does. We've got some interesting stories... So enjoy life... and enjoy your CD, Not Lisa, and save this letter for him/her/them.
I miss you...
- your [redacted]
2/8/2001 11:12 p.m."
Young Not Lisa was the young ripe age of 15 when she made this decision, and that boy was the end-all be-all of her teenage girlish dreams. He was an insightful, thoughtful, spiritual musician that embodied everything she thought she wanted. She and this young boy were best of friends and formed a pact deciding that, should they remain unmarried, they were to be each other's Forever After. And they believed it.
I know that everyone makes this pact with their best friend at one point or another, but the thing that set these two apart was their unfailing, unabashed and unapolegetic belief that it would actually come to fruition. They saw the next few years/possible decade as a period of experimentation. This was their chance to experience what was out there and to come back to each other more educated, more enabled to make their marriage successful and happy because of the other dating partners that had crossed their paths - no matter what.
My, how the times have changed.
You may recall a certain post in which I briefly described my first Dallas Restaurant Week as a time to drown my frustrations in vodka. Frustrations that resulted from a certain someone's engagement announcement. That certain someone just now, after four some-odd years of marriage and a 1-year communication hiatus, reached out to me via phone. I answered the phone with "So you guys are pregnant, right?" I was, as I all too often am, correct. While I am as happy as I can be for a friend of mine to procreate ("Do you know what you're getting yourself into? You know they cry a lot, right? And they shit themselves and expect you to clean it up?"), I feel it only necessary to post this handwritten letter that I was sent on 2/8/2001, from the boy I thought to be my very own 19-year-old end-all be-all.
"It's different... writing instead of the clicky-click of the keyboard. I wish you could be here now to sit with me and listen to this CD that has engulfed every musical dsire within me. It takes over the musical side of this boy while you consume everything else. I just spent the day with your dad, and I've been trying to come up with a good way to send this to you. What turned out to be the best way was just to be myself, and miss you like I always do. And allow myself to be completely vulnerable to anything anyone would possibly toss my way. What I wish more than anything is that you were here. As I read back over this, I wonder if someday I will have a son or daughter that might read this as well... and I want to take this opportunity to have a first greeting to them... even though they will know me long before they even learn to read things like this... So... hello, kid(s). I hope that you know how much your mother means to me, and you as well... That I am 19 years old, and addressing you as if you already exist... well, you do in my mind. I hope to God that by the time you read this, I will become a good father. And that will be known. I long to meet you. And I long to be the husband of your mother. She is a wonderful girl. I wish you could know her right now as I do... and no one else does. We've got some interesting stories... So enjoy life... and enjoy your CD, Not Lisa, and save this letter for him/her/them.
I miss you...
- your [redacted]
2/8/2001 11:12 p.m."
regarding redacted
The Boyfriend and I have a slight addiction to Redacted, Dan Murphy's blog. We firmly believe that we would be the best of couple friends with Dan and Brooke should we ever run into one another.
This addiction has also led us to the occasional delirious state in which we believe that we are much better acquainted than we actually are. Meaning, Boyfriend and I casually mention Dan and Brooke in conversation like we would any of our friends. But, in all actuality, we are only the creepy people they have never met - not even through blog comments - that have some sort of voyeuristic fascination with their lives.
For example, here's an all-too-unhealthy chat from yesterday:
not lisa (5:29:06 PM): i'm sick of dan's shit
not lisa (5:29:14 PM): he hasn't posted in what seems like forever
boyfriend (5:29:18 PM): he has not updated
not lisa (5:29:19 PM): and i'm getting a little tired of it
boyfriend (5:29:20 PM): I know
boyfriend (5:29:33 PM): it's not like he is doing anything
not lisa (5:29:48 PM): he's not
not lisa (5:30:05 PM): he's just laying around and playing with puppy while brooke's off at work
not lisa (5:30:13 PM): i bet he doesn't even make her dinner before she gets home
boyfriend (5:30:16 PM): seriously
boyfriend (5:30:26 PM): well, that's not his job
boyfriend (5:30:32 PM): that's women's work
not lisa (5:30:34 PM): the only thing he's using his computer for these days is ordering pizza online
not lisa (5:30:47 PM): your face is women's work.
boyfriend (5:30:58 PM): wiener
not lisa (5:31:11 PM): apparently spelling correctly is not men's work.
boyfriend (5:31:27 PM): what are you talking about?
not lisa (5:31:52 PM): dammit.
boyfriend (5:31:56 PM): ha
boyfriend (5:32:10 PM): I had it the other way at first too
not lisa (5:32:19 PM): weiner just looks smarter
boyfriend (5:32:26 PM): yeah
boyfriend (5:32:27 PM): I know
not lisa (5:32:50 PM): smarter, you know, for a penis moniker
not lisa (5:33:08 PM): ha
not lisa (5:33:20 PM): i just had to look up how to spell "moniker"
boyfriend (5:33:29 PM): you're pretty
not lisa (5:33:32 PM): the wiener made me doubt myself
not lisa (5:33:39 PM): tale as old as time.
boyfriend (5:33:43 PM): it can do that.
This addiction has also led us to the occasional delirious state in which we believe that we are much better acquainted than we actually are. Meaning, Boyfriend and I casually mention Dan and Brooke in conversation like we would any of our friends. But, in all actuality, we are only the creepy people they have never met - not even through blog comments - that have some sort of voyeuristic fascination with their lives.
For example, here's an all-too-unhealthy chat from yesterday:
not lisa (5:29:06 PM): i'm sick of dan's shit
not lisa (5:29:14 PM): he hasn't posted in what seems like forever
boyfriend (5:29:18 PM): he has not updated
not lisa (5:29:19 PM): and i'm getting a little tired of it
boyfriend (5:29:20 PM): I know
boyfriend (5:29:33 PM): it's not like he is doing anything
not lisa (5:29:48 PM): he's not
not lisa (5:30:05 PM): he's just laying around and playing with puppy while brooke's off at work
not lisa (5:30:13 PM): i bet he doesn't even make her dinner before she gets home
boyfriend (5:30:16 PM): seriously
boyfriend (5:30:26 PM): well, that's not his job
boyfriend (5:30:32 PM): that's women's work
not lisa (5:30:34 PM): the only thing he's using his computer for these days is ordering pizza online
not lisa (5:30:47 PM): your face is women's work.
boyfriend (5:30:58 PM): wiener
not lisa (5:31:11 PM): apparently spelling correctly is not men's work.
boyfriend (5:31:27 PM): what are you talking about?
not lisa (5:31:52 PM): dammit.
boyfriend (5:31:56 PM): ha
boyfriend (5:32:10 PM): I had it the other way at first too
not lisa (5:32:19 PM): weiner just looks smarter
boyfriend (5:32:26 PM): yeah
boyfriend (5:32:27 PM): I know
not lisa (5:32:50 PM): smarter, you know, for a penis moniker
not lisa (5:33:08 PM): ha
not lisa (5:33:20 PM): i just had to look up how to spell "moniker"
boyfriend (5:33:29 PM): you're pretty
not lisa (5:33:32 PM): the wiener made me doubt myself
not lisa (5:33:39 PM): tale as old as time.
boyfriend (5:33:43 PM): it can do that.
sunday funday
There are many things in this world that make me a happier-than-average camper. Many of those things were experienced yesterday in the span of only 10 hours. Namely:
- Brunch. And not just any brunch, but possibly The Best Brunch Ever. Great Mexican food, queso, queso refill (we went through the first bowl way before they even thought about bringing us our entrees), and $1 margaritas (we each helped ourselves to 3). Grand total for 4 people: $49.00, therefore winning Monica's Aca y Alla the title of The Best Brunch Ever.
- Rock Band. At 72 and sunny, it was just too pretty of a day to not play video games.
- Beer Pong. At 4 p.m. on the Lord's Day. Sweet. I lost the game, but with all the beer I had to consume I still consider myself a winner.
- Vodka. Because after brunch margaritas and beer pong, hard liquor is the next logical choice. I chose to mix my poison with berry-flavored Propel Invigorating Water because I wanted to get a head-start on fending off the inevitably incoming hangover. I think the B vitamins and caffeine did the trick as this morning I felt daisy-like in my freshness. That also could have been because I took my first shower since Saturday morning. Whoops. Sunday Funday hygiene is hard, y'all.
- Scene It. The details of this game are a little fuzzy, as it was an event that took place later in the evening. I do remember some serious and heated controversial discussion involving a Pee-Wee Herman quote on "all play".
- Macaroni and Cheese. We stumbled across the street to fill our bellies and discovered that, lo and behold, our blessed City Tavern not only serves the sauce but also God's modern day manna of macaroni and cheese. Hallelujah and amen.
- Brunch. And not just any brunch, but possibly The Best Brunch Ever. Great Mexican food, queso, queso refill (we went through the first bowl way before they even thought about bringing us our entrees), and $1 margaritas (we each helped ourselves to 3). Grand total for 4 people: $49.00, therefore winning Monica's Aca y Alla the title of The Best Brunch Ever.
- Rock Band. At 72 and sunny, it was just too pretty of a day to not play video games.
- Beer Pong. At 4 p.m. on the Lord's Day. Sweet. I lost the game, but with all the beer I had to consume I still consider myself a winner.
- Vodka. Because after brunch margaritas and beer pong, hard liquor is the next logical choice. I chose to mix my poison with berry-flavored Propel Invigorating Water because I wanted to get a head-start on fending off the inevitably incoming hangover. I think the B vitamins and caffeine did the trick as this morning I felt daisy-like in my freshness. That also could have been because I took my first shower since Saturday morning. Whoops. Sunday Funday hygiene is hard, y'all.
- Scene It. The details of this game are a little fuzzy, as it was an event that took place later in the evening. I do remember some serious and heated controversial discussion involving a Pee-Wee Herman quote on "all play".
- Macaroni and Cheese. We stumbled across the street to fill our bellies and discovered that, lo and behold, our blessed City Tavern not only serves the sauce but also God's modern day manna of macaroni and cheese. Hallelujah and amen.
Tuesday, February 26, 2008
this is the part where Boyfriend goes berserk.
Our arguments always start innocently enough. Meaning: Boyfriend and I are doing something innocent (ie. watching TV, eating dinner, drinking adult beverages) and I start them because a) Boyfriend is so easily provoked and b) I am so easily entertained.
Take the other night, for example. We were laying on my couch flipping through channels when we found a nice treat: the very beginning of Ferris Bueller's Day Off. Delight of delights, we caught it in its first five minutes. I guess it's bad luck on our part, but we always manage to catch the tail end of really good movies. I'll be flipping through the HBOs when I'll see what looks like a good hour of The Princess Bride. When I click on it, I'm immediately disappointed to see the credits rolling. As you wish, my ass.
So we watched the entire movie, even though it was edited for time and interrupted by commercials. Ferris Bueller is that good. As Rooney is caught, Ferris is not and the school bus drives away, I instigate (ahem, I meant "accidentally initiate") an argument.
"You know, if we were in this movie I don't really think I'd be Sloane. I'd have to be Ferris."
"You absolutely would not be Ferris! I would be Ferris!! What are you thinking?"
"Well, I'm typically the outgoing one, the social one, the spontaneous one, the one who shakes things up and schemes. And you're more... not Ferris."
I can see him consider my points and realize they have validity. However, he doesn't want to admit to any of that. He says:
"That's not true. Not even a little bit. I am so Ferris. If I'm not Ferris then who would I be? Sloane?"
"Well, let's see... you're a self-proclaimed neurotic. You're not terribly social and prefer the company of yourself or your girlfriend to the company of crowds. Your favorite thing is to next-step and plan ahead. You like routine and order."
"I'm not Cameron."
"I never said you were Cameron."
"It was implied."
"It most certainly was not. I'm just saying that you're clearly not Ferris."
"Well then, who the hell am I if I'm not Ferris and I'm not Cameron?"
"I never said you weren't Cameron."
"AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!"
"Exactly."
Take the other night, for example. We were laying on my couch flipping through channels when we found a nice treat: the very beginning of Ferris Bueller's Day Off. Delight of delights, we caught it in its first five minutes. I guess it's bad luck on our part, but we always manage to catch the tail end of really good movies. I'll be flipping through the HBOs when I'll see what looks like a good hour of The Princess Bride. When I click on it, I'm immediately disappointed to see the credits rolling. As you wish, my ass.
So we watched the entire movie, even though it was edited for time and interrupted by commercials. Ferris Bueller is that good. As Rooney is caught, Ferris is not and the school bus drives away, I instigate (ahem, I meant "accidentally initiate") an argument.
"You know, if we were in this movie I don't really think I'd be Sloane. I'd have to be Ferris."
"You absolutely would not be Ferris! I would be Ferris!! What are you thinking?"
"Well, I'm typically the outgoing one, the social one, the spontaneous one, the one who shakes things up and schemes. And you're more... not Ferris."
I can see him consider my points and realize they have validity. However, he doesn't want to admit to any of that. He says:
"That's not true. Not even a little bit. I am so Ferris. If I'm not Ferris then who would I be? Sloane?"
"Well, let's see... you're a self-proclaimed neurotic. You're not terribly social and prefer the company of yourself or your girlfriend to the company of crowds. Your favorite thing is to next-step and plan ahead. You like routine and order."
"I'm not Cameron."
"I never said you were Cameron."
"It was implied."
"It most certainly was not. I'm just saying that you're clearly not Ferris."
"Well then, who the hell am I if I'm not Ferris and I'm not Cameron?"
"I never said you weren't Cameron."
"AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!"
"Exactly."
Wednesday, February 20, 2008
i am The Other Woman.
My creative director and I always joke around about how I'm his work-girlfriend. We spend so much time together that it's all too true. We love each other's company, always laugh at each other's jokes, and spend more time with each other in the day than we spend conscious hours with our significant others.
However, today our "affair" was taken to a whole new level when his wife called him this morning and said "How, exactly, do you think it makes me feel when I see an email print-out to Not Lisa on the kitchen counter that simply asks 'will you marry me?'"
Some back-story: a few months ago, Creative Director had to take a trip with a few of our clients. Unfortunately, they had only enough money in the budget to take one agency person with them and Creative Director was their man. He gets uneasy when it's just him and the clients, as he has no filter and needs an account service person (see: me) to keep him in check. He also has no talent for entertaining clients, despite being the gay man that he almost is.
To help ease his social anxiety, I sent him a fairly comprehensive list of restaurant choices. They were categorized by client mood (varying from "I want to eat well on the company dime!" to "I'm going to get nipple clamped if my expense report is high.") and food genre, then punctuated by a Google Maps link giving him directions from the hotel to the restaurant. Obviously, the only appropriate reply to this email was "will you marry me?"
Fast forward to four months later, yesterday evening. Creative Director is going through his back-pack and pulling out (hee) any paperwork that he no longer needs. He doesn't think to actually put the trash in the trash can (creatives distract easily) and leaves it in a stack on the kitchen counter for his wife to accidentally find the next morning.
Three words come to mind: bless his heart.
All I could tell him when he recounted the story was "That's what you get for being such a whore."
Luckily, his wife really isn't mad. We have met and think each other is delightful. She also knows there is no reason for alarm. But, because she is so delightful, I do know that she's not going to let him live it down for the next couple of weeks.
However, there is one thought that is a bit unsettling... why did he take the time to go into his "sent" folder and print out the email with his reply at the top, rather than printing straight from his inbox the email that I sent him with the restaurant selections?
I posed this question to my friend Ryan who merely said "STOP the over-analysis." But where's the fun in that?
He also then said "I can't handle you right now. I have to go see my therapist and find my center again."
However, today our "affair" was taken to a whole new level when his wife called him this morning and said "How, exactly, do you think it makes me feel when I see an email print-out to Not Lisa on the kitchen counter that simply asks 'will you marry me?'"
Some back-story: a few months ago, Creative Director had to take a trip with a few of our clients. Unfortunately, they had only enough money in the budget to take one agency person with them and Creative Director was their man. He gets uneasy when it's just him and the clients, as he has no filter and needs an account service person (see: me) to keep him in check. He also has no talent for entertaining clients, despite being the gay man that he almost is.
To help ease his social anxiety, I sent him a fairly comprehensive list of restaurant choices. They were categorized by client mood (varying from "I want to eat well on the company dime!" to "I'm going to get nipple clamped if my expense report is high.") and food genre, then punctuated by a Google Maps link giving him directions from the hotel to the restaurant. Obviously, the only appropriate reply to this email was "will you marry me?"
Fast forward to four months later, yesterday evening. Creative Director is going through his back-pack and pulling out (hee) any paperwork that he no longer needs. He doesn't think to actually put the trash in the trash can (creatives distract easily) and leaves it in a stack on the kitchen counter for his wife to accidentally find the next morning.
Three words come to mind: bless his heart.
All I could tell him when he recounted the story was "That's what you get for being such a whore."
Luckily, his wife really isn't mad. We have met and think each other is delightful. She also knows there is no reason for alarm. But, because she is so delightful, I do know that she's not going to let him live it down for the next couple of weeks.
However, there is one thought that is a bit unsettling... why did he take the time to go into his "sent" folder and print out the email with his reply at the top, rather than printing straight from his inbox the email that I sent him with the restaurant selections?
I posed this question to my friend Ryan who merely said "STOP the over-analysis." But where's the fun in that?
He also then said "I can't handle you right now. I have to go see my therapist and find my center again."
Friday, February 1, 2008
the re-invented walk of shame
I just experienced a whole new different walk of shame. And the sad thing is, I immediately thought of it as blog fodder.
I live in a fairly hip and young area of Dallas. One of my most favorite perks of the hood is the close proximity (see: stumbling distance) of several of my favorite bars in the city. Come Friday night, the patios are full and plenty of merry-makers are slutting around in their tight jeans looking for the next real estate mogul to buy them a vodka soda. It's a hoot.
However, tonight I have deemed myself sick and am looking forward to a nice night in with the Puppy and my Slanket. But as for sustenance... what to do? Luckily, amongst all the trendy hot-spots there is one beacon of flourescent-lit stability and convenience: the Henderson Grocery. I trekked on over in my sweatpants and fleece, pitying the poor girls who deigned to get all gussied up just to go out and search for dudes. They were in heels! I was in tennis shoes! I am a single gal about town who can't be bothered with Friday night nonsense! If I want to stay at home and be sick, so be it!
After I walked out the door and faced the two-story patio across the street, I realized that I was embarking on the new school walk of shame. I walked right on past all the porch-dwellers and valet guys carrying my fun Friday night in a brown paper sack: a box of macaroni and cheese, a bottle of wine and a pack of Parliament Lights.
I should probably go back and get some AAs for my vibrator.
I live in a fairly hip and young area of Dallas. One of my most favorite perks of the hood is the close proximity (see: stumbling distance) of several of my favorite bars in the city. Come Friday night, the patios are full and plenty of merry-makers are slutting around in their tight jeans looking for the next real estate mogul to buy them a vodka soda. It's a hoot.
However, tonight I have deemed myself sick and am looking forward to a nice night in with the Puppy and my Slanket. But as for sustenance... what to do? Luckily, amongst all the trendy hot-spots there is one beacon of flourescent-lit stability and convenience: the Henderson Grocery. I trekked on over in my sweatpants and fleece, pitying the poor girls who deigned to get all gussied up just to go out and search for dudes. They were in heels! I was in tennis shoes! I am a single gal about town who can't be bothered with Friday night nonsense! If I want to stay at home and be sick, so be it!
After I walked out the door and faced the two-story patio across the street, I realized that I was embarking on the new school walk of shame. I walked right on past all the porch-dwellers and valet guys carrying my fun Friday night in a brown paper sack: a box of macaroni and cheese, a bottle of wine and a pack of Parliament Lights.
I should probably go back and get some AAs for my vibrator.
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