21 Jul


Everything past 1:30 today was a freebee on account that Boss told me to not come back from lunch and drink the week away with his blessings. I chose the sober activity-heavy approach instead…starting with BFF antiquing, manicures, girl-clothes shopping, and eating.

It was mostly a good second half.

…Except they should really consider the crude lighting in dressing rooms I think.  They’d sell more.  And being in the market for “girl-clothes” specifically, only makes it worse. 

I hate clothes shopping in any circumstance, let alone for dresses.  They’re bothersome. And cut weird.  And make you look like a souped up version of yourself who spends the whole night walking funny, worrying about the breeze updraft, and keeping your knees together when you sit. I can wear a dress for shows and things and pull it off, but when I have to be “me” and do it, I feel like a Linebacker in drag.  Except if I totally overdue it and crossbreed a dominatrix  with theme’d ’40’s Noir dame.  Then I can pull it off.

We don’t know why.

…And you’d be surprised how few places stock those kinda things, outside of Halloween and porn stores.

…Anyway, I can’t do either because this is for a classy cocktail shindig.  The kind with printed invitations, and finger foods and wines in actual non-plastic glasses. In truth, it is exciting to me.  Cuz it’s grown-up and very retro in thinking.  But the realization that I would have to also outfit myself, kinda took a little air out of my newly weight-gained sails, as I perused the racks at the mall.

Desperationville starting popping up in the form of panic. 

…Because just NOTHING at all looked even remotely “okay” once it got put on. 

At one point I even started defaulting to my “comfort-zone,” and was sporting what amounted to three whore “almost-dresses” and (I swear to you) a leopard-printed boob number.

…Now, I am fiercely against animal prints and always have been…unless you are ethnic enough to pull it off, and have big tits.  And though I am ethnic (or used to be before I moved to the greater Northwest of white paper-skined-people)…the boobs I’m sportin’ ain’t that great.  But once I put that animal-skinned form-sucker on, it managed to lift, suck, grasp and produced amazement.  I stared at my reflection in horror as my entire life flashed before my eyes . I was suddenly 45, with a bad spray tan, letching on a twenty-something boy-toy, with tits up to my chin and Fran Drescher hair. Also, I was Italian.

…The problem is: I “liked” it.  And I realized that.  And it was terrifying.

For the greater good of all mankind, I immediately got the hell outta the animal print, soon as I saw the freakish grin on my face.  I must be stopped.  No good could come of this. And I put the monstrosity back for another woman of far more…whatever I haven’t got…to fill it and be at peace with her amazing looking breasts and general Cougar splendiforousness. Cuz that was not me.  Anyway…not yet.  Given time and circumstance, God only knows how ridiculous I will get.

…Which was about when The BFF’s fella texted and rescued me by suggesting a dinner of Pho.  So The BFF and I rejoined up for our second meal of the day, and all made plans to break, run errands, and meet up for some bowling, after.

By now, the day which had started with a dead network screwing with closeout and payroll timing…had managed to produce a lunch, some antiquing, clothing depression, nail overlays, a coffee, dinner and some dish washing. Naturally, three games of bowling in shoes sporting every cootie in the nation, and two pitchers of piss-poor beer, would come next. And they did.  And it was fantastic.

…Which brings me here: the lowest scores of double digit accomplishment ever committed in a bowling lane, a clouded left contact who gave up about half an hour ago, and a beer gut slowly depleting with every rush to the bathroom I make.  It’s finally starting to die down now.  Which means, I’ll be able to go to bed soon.  A happiness, as the thunder woke me up first thing this morning, well before the light did.

…So to sleep I go.  Well, first to the twenty-minute ordeal of face and teeth washing, rinsing, hydrating etc, which once accomplished, sets me on my second wind…but will die down of its own accord soon enough. 

Soon to my bed of yay, where nests of pillows swallow me up.  I can turn my alarm clock to the wall, pop in my extra sexy mouth-guard, and float to happy land. No doubt, I’ll be meeting up with that animal-dress-from-hell as I walk the Roman countryside…dark men tossing me cat-calls, the swelling of  cleavage…my  amazingly presented chest…keeping perfect rhythm, with their sing-song accents.

…I purr out,”Ciao, baby,” to my unsuspecting prey: the burly youth in the fields…sweating, and picking wine grapes.

…And I sleep with a grin the size of Texas, pasted on my face.

FYI: tomorrow? We won’t be talking about this.


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