Caterwauling

Friday Five. And I’m feelin’ chatty this morning. 😉

Things I’d really, really love to say but for some reason cannot.

Idea swiped from Swirl and Lach.

However, when I am not quite sure whether I should actually TELL the stories, you get tunage, like a nice Thunderpuss club mix.

And if you’re going to face the day with one eye open, then choose it very, very carefully. 😉

It’s a big one (file, you fools)!

Don’t worry — the song’s instrumental so it’s quite SFW. Just don’t stream your playlist, mmmkay? LOL

This is your brain after a 2.5-hour commute.

Ah, the punditry that happens when you’re confined to a small space with yourself. The problem is, I don’t even remember any of it. 😉

But I was thinking about how much effort I expended to get ready to go out Saturday night. I mean, I do a LOT of crap — not just then, really, but every day.

The amount of personal-care products used within a half-hour? Mind-boggling:

And that’s enough of the products. That doesn’t include grabbing scissors and hacking off an inch worth of split ends, plucking eyebrows, trying on four outfits, running around the house with one shoe because the other cannot be found, etc.

Don’t get me wrong — I love every minute of it and I’ve just described a typical morning routine in general. It would be nice, though, if when you go through all the effort, it would be met with a similar standard of excellence. It’s amazing how, when it’s time to impress, so many people think they can skip that valuable step.

Of course, like I figured, it’s better than getting to know someone and then they turn out to be a dud after you’ve invested even more energy — might as well figure it out up-front and conserve your energy for the classy people and events that you deserve.

On iTunes: Britney Spears, “Don’t Let Me Be the Last to Know”

Friday Five. Shut up, I know it’s Sunday. 😉

And who doesn’t love a drunken Dawn?

This is moment No. 3,648 (this week) that I’ve wished to be private-blogging again. Because there was a date tonight and I want to dish.

Let me put it this way — it’s less a dish than wanting to hurl the fucking plate off the top of the Grand Canyon.

Oh, fuck it — I’ve been out drinking for hours. All bets are off tonight!

Apparently “8 p.m.” and “date” mean different things to different people. And if this just means that I’m another step closer to meeting Mr. Right, well then, let’s keep rocking.

Seriously, nice guy, but I am apparently a horrible judge of age. This made the Tom Cruise/Katie Holmes mindfuck seem like a couple of weeks’ age difference.

Dear God, for the love of — well, you — help a girl out here next time, mmmkay?

Earlier tonight, I had written on a scrap of paper tonight that, “If he’s a good guy, please let me like him.”

That was before I took my own happy ass out on a date with ME instead of wasting my night.

Fast-forward to the bar, where I went to ALONE. I’d left the scene and decided I was way too cute to sit home tonight (or to wait for the follow-up call that came).

Seriously, no night wearing scandalous underwear is a waste of a night, and thus, I wasn’t about to take them home when they just weren’t yet ready to retire. Damn it, SOMEBODY was gonna take me out, even if it had to be ME!!!!!

So I ended up at Bennigan’s — where, as those of you who have been with me since Caterwauling know, Shan and I LIVED when she was still on the East Coast. So I needed comfort, familiarity, friendliness tonight, and I knew where to find it.

I was not disappointed. Slainte, people.

So, OK, met this HOT guy named Tony. No numbers exchanged, but lots of hugs. I still smell like his cologne, whatever it was. And he bought me some Hennessy — amazing how good a “non-date” can be to a lonely gal. 🙂 At least he had balls enough to approach — most other guys were losing their eyeballs in my cleavage, but nobody else was brave enough to say hello.

Actually, in great news, I made a friend tonight — Michelle. She asked if the seat next to me were taken, and we proceeded to talk for hours. And it didn’t feel the slightest bit strange, exchanging intensely personal life stories and dreams like it were nothing. Again, that’s why I love Benny’s — it’s that place where everybody DOES know your name … and the drinks keep flowing. And she’s a regular, like I used to be. I foresee lots of drunken nights ahead — w00t!

Oh, and OF COURSE I had to include Shan in the imbibing — we were text-messaging across the miles. If only she were here in person, it woulda been perfect.

Anyway, I know that I am going to have the hangover from HELL in the morning, but I am one buzzy bee right now. *grin*

On iTunes: Ludacris, “What’s Your Fantasy”

(Editor’s Note: Oy — what they didn’t tell us when we started celebrating anniversaries of our 29th birthday is that mornings after alcohol consumption, well, suck. Even if that consumption only amounted to one or two Yuenglings. Jeebus.)

I was just lying in bed with my head throbbing, thinking about the conversation that inspired this entry.

And while I’d never be a bad girl — OK, let me rephrase that: While I’d never kiss and tell (that’s better) — and reveal details, I will admit that I asked said counterpart, “Do you think they discuss us the same way?” And she’d said, “Is there any doubt?”

And it occurred to me that I’d be pretty damn bummed if we weren’t the topic of their conversations, at least once in awhile. I’d rather be discussed (in a good way, thanks) than to go completely unnoticed. I mean, I don’t go to any lengths to attract anyone, but I wouldn’t mind if (generally speaking) they appreciated the lengths I go to for me.

I was chatting with one of the girls at work about bad dates in general — we were kind of outdoing each other with the horrific memories that just won’t go away. I remembered a long time ago, in high school, a bunch of us were tooling around with “The Book of Questions” and one asked whether you’d want to be the smarter person in a relationship. I’d said yes given that I wasn’t a slouch academically and that I’d be intimidated by someone smarter.

Enter the “Feed Him or Fuck Him Guy.” Like, dress him up (or undress. Whatever.) and make sure he always has a busy mouth to prevent him from TALKING. These guys are great if you’re not into, um, intellectual stimulation. (And if he doesn’t go on a smoke break with two of your exes at the same party and they are appalled that that is what you moved on to, but I digress.)

With the FHOFH Guy, you’re clearly the one making the money and, while he’s a great “hobby” to have, he’s not a long-term prospect, especially if you’re like me and just couldn’t bear having a stupid kid with him (and, ultimately, used about seven birth control methods — CONCURRENTLY).

I already have a slow-witted cat — here she is picking a fight with my old vacuum cleaner:

Boo! Hiss! You suck!

Anyway, enough with the kids-who-ate-paste crowd. I need someone to talk to who will respond with something that will teach me something and inspire me to think more about the subject. Of course, he would also need to know that a brilliant way to shut me up and pull me out of my cerebral coccoon is to throw me up against the nearest wall and. …

Sorry — guess who just woke up from a sex dream? 😉

And who got interrupted from said dream by psycho kitteh pictured above? 🙁

Anyway.

The point I think I wanted to make earlier is that no matter whether we’re single, attached or downright ball-and-chained, we all hope someone, somewhere out there is thinking of us in a pleasant way. Like we might be doing about them. But are any of us ever brave enough to admit it? Or are things like this better left unsaid?

On iTunes: Zero 7, “You Can’t Turn Me Away”

Because my brain is FRIED and will be for the foreseable future, I leave you with the lamest blog post I could possibly come up with.

Speaking of lame …

It’s time, America, to Free Katie from the clutches of the Sultan of Scientology (aka, her gay boyfriend Tom Cruise).

Seriously, why he was jumping up on Oprah’s couch that he’s dating her is beyond me, but then again, if I were doing her, I am certain I’d be exploding with joy myself. And in all fairness, I’m pretty sure that I’d know my way around a bit better than ol’ Tom. We need to slip him some Ecstasy and drop him off at the nearest boy bar and let him twirl around like a little girl in a more appropriate environment.

Seriously, I was never into him — and yeah, I saw “Risky Business” and “Top Gun” (and “Cocktail” — sweet weeping Jesus, what a waste of vodka) and all the other movies from when I was a wee lass. There are certain men who are “too pretty” to be straight, and Tom is prettier than most of the women I know.

Anyway, I was instructed to come home and do whatever I need to do to relax. So I went shopping for shoes and scandalous underwear … and found NOTHING. Argh — why is it when you WANT to spend money, you can’t, yet when you’re broke, everything catches your eye?

Oh, unrelated, I totally got busted speeding this morning. And I kept on speeding — figured it couldn’t hurt to get the hell away from the scene of the crime, and really, what are the odds of being nailed twice on the same trip? 😉

On iTunes: Nappy Roots, “Awnaw”