People have different ways of dealing with the impending death of a loved one. Some of those ways might not be considered healthy, but I say if we can garner a laugh out of it—and walk away without STDs or too many bruises (inner or outer)—then, BAM, why the F not?
Here’s how it went down … (Mind out of gutter, we’re not at that part. Yet!)
A few Fridays ago, I’m in my cozy abode deciding if I want to mope or make myself Little Miss Social. So, upon receiving an event invite, I—
Vacillate between jamming out or going out; decide to go out; tell Marilyn for accountability.
Call mom; cry.
Put on upbeat house music to get in the anti-introvert mood.
Drink one ounce each of Frangelico liquor and Van Gogh espresso vodka mixed over ice in a mason jar.
Paint toenails and fingernails; wait to dry.
Become impatient with drying time; have second beverage; feel tipsy.
Try to apply make-up while not messing up nail polish; fail; fuckit.
Apply make-up, make mistakes, apply more make-up to make up for mistakes; fail; fuckit.
Apply spray tanner to legs in shower; stain shower; send text photo of said shower to Marilyn.
Do hair; it’ll do; fuckit.
Get dressed in a dress; feel good; review in mirror; hmm, I’d fuckit.
Go out; drink more (fuckit); meet man (don’t fuckit).
Close the evening with—fuckit—nachos and poutine at 1:30am.
Cut to next scene: make-up, spray tan, and drool on bedding.
And since that was fun and all I got was a mild hangover—I’d downed a large glass of water with boost powder—and a phone call from a handsome redhead—whom we’ll call Red—I figure alcohol is my new best friend.
(Note: If any clients have found this post, um, just kidding! I am totally mentally and emotionally healthy, don’t rely on alcohol or any other mind-altering substances—uh, except meditation?—and can totally show you how to be well rounded and grounded just like me!) *sideways glance*
So, the next week after the above noted drunk night out, I’m eating chicken wings and drinking double Caesars—fine, one Caesar but a double—when I get a call from a guy—not Red—who I’ve kind of had the hots for since last December. This is kind of a big deal because I’ve only had the hots for two guys in the last four years. Four years, people!
I met him last fall, and though we flirted at the time, I’d quickly determined we had no long-term potential: he’s got kids (I’m allergic); he’s got a dog (I’m intolerant); he’s got … well, whatever, I’m sure there were other deal breakers, and I’m taking my own advice—no more fixer-uppers!
Anyway, I’m a double Caesar down and tipsy because I actually don’t drink often or much, so he and I decide to meet up after. Never mind where, I’ve already given you too many details. (Sheesh, yah greedy buggers!)
He asks me, What did you eat? I can’t place that smell?
Chicken wings and a Caesar, I reply but am wondering if he can smell the apple cider vinegar I’d used as deodorant and face toner because I’m out of silver water, my usual all natural anti-bacterial option.
I try to keep my arms at my side while we’re sucking face and thinking to myself, Thank G I’m on the rag because I’ve got a bearded clam that would scare the sand right out of him …
I’m so damn distracted by the evidence of my three-years-single (-but-super-happy-solo) laziness that I have a hard time concentrating. Nonetheless, he gets hard, and then I have a hard time not taking advantage of him. Such is biology.
We’ll leave out the graphic bits, but do know, I am still a born-again virgin: As soon as we were through making out, we were both anxious for him to leave. I already know he’s not interested in a relationship, and I’m not interested in a relationship with him.
The good/bad news: My crush is over.
The less good news: I woke up with a stiff neck and chewing gum on my… never mind.
What have I (re)learned?
We can retrain our brain! In the past, I would have seduced him. (Though, I’m not so confident that I’m quite so confident, anymore.) And then tried to change him and made us both unhappy. I had/have no desire to do that. (It’s also entirely possible he’s not seduceable―by me―but I don’t even care.)
With everything else going on in my life, I realize I’m not interested in a romantic relationship with anyone right now. Woah, an a-ha moment—I’m happy on my own! (Aside from sad situations, of course.)
When I go for happy hour and cheap wings but then order a sammich, fries and double Caesar on the side, um, there are no savings, silly.
Homework:
Attend my overgrown lady garden. Check. (For me!)
Make my own damn hot wings at home. Check.
Yes, I know this post has TMI (too much info, as in personal info), but really—fuckit, so what!
Note to MFH: Don’t worry, Love, I’ll be ready for you one day and will totally keep our naughty endeavours hush-hush. *wink*
Thanks for reading, y’all! If we meet in public, please do let me know if I smell like a potato chip.
