The first rule of blogging (or texting or sexting or dialing) is not to do it drunk or tipsy.
I’m about to break that rule.
Mixed and drank a couple of “Wedding Cakes” tonight, all of the first and most of the second while working late from home (deadlines you know), a concoction aptly named by my dear and beloved NYC Gareth, a combo of Absolut Vanilla and ginger ale that tastes like a highball of butter cream frosting and goes done just as easily.
Work is kicking my ass, the boss anointing me with an expanded leadership role of writer, editor and project manager. What the fuck is a project manager other than the person who stands over shoulders, cleavage exposed and folded into a fortune cookie seam, gettin' her done? May soon head back to collegiate halls to learn the tools of a graphic designer. The first two classes are scheduled most of a Saturday and all of Tuesday night for a bit. Work is kicking my ass, did I mention?
So many words to share through my hands so quickly that the typos and thoughts are running like vomit after bad shrimp. First thought, women. Women friends. For those without a uterine device, friendships with women are hard, or can be. If you find the real deal broads, you're golden. But insecure women don’t feel for other women, really, and when one tries to make amends it often feels as if it comes with an addendum, an apology with a side of "told you so." Do you men get that from your ladies because, Jesus man, I’m sorry. And really, the reason us chicks argue or bicker or bitch is because we want what the other has, to be desired too, fawned over. I was just always too tall to ask for help getting anything off a high shelf so I dislike helplessness in you and, yes, my bad not yours.
I’m in bed, green afghan and cat nearby licking the tops of her paws. I never thought (although I imaginated) companionship could feel so wonderful and vanilla at the same time. Comfort like a shoe that fits without blisters and I fucking love my pointy-toed red flats. I don’t know what I’d do without them, worn and spotted from running around in the wet as they are. Last night my shoe skipped in quietly, after two days in the air and on the road, through the unlocked front door. And it was good, so good.
Been thinking of the guitar player lately, not in a sexual or wanting way but because of the experience and the escapade. The butterflies in the stomach, being the girl with the band. Sharing secrets. He was a marker, a beginning and unfolding of long-under-lock-and-key frisky adventure and ending for the memoir. Advice from an author who gave it said a memoir must read in the classic format of enticing fiction – situation-conflict-resolution. Sometimes I think at the end of the final chapter it should be him knocking on the door, all scruffy beard and gorgeously-dark washed jeans and hip shoes, strap across his back, ready to keep his generous penis out of strippers.
It won’t be, but it plays well. Renee Zellweger could play the shit out of that.
In summation, happy. And it’s good. Still figuring out the woman I am and want to be but for the most part getting there with fewer bruises and a few more pounds. He simply holds on to them, pulls them closer.
And did I mention it feels good?
If only you’d read this before spell check, you’d be laughing a liquid straight out a nostril.
And now I want popcorn.