Happy Saturday, Reader – it’s almost Cocktober, which is why the girls and I celebrated with a few dancing tushes last night. Yes, yes, save your words if you’re all offended. I’m not here to please you. We’ve already established that. If I were, you’d get way more content and of much better quality.
Instead you get things like ‘Cocktober” which will now be stuck in your mind for the next 31 days.
I’m not above ogling, and in fact I rather enjoy it, and also I feel like it’s part of my humanitarian relief efforts, because these guys need jobs, too, and they are providing something towards relieving humans.
I’m pretty sure that’s how charity works.
We had VIP tix, because that’s how The Hoff rolls when she does something. Which is reason #32 why we get along so well. She’s part of my Golden Girls Squad, which is a group of us who figure we’ll for sure outlive the guys and will need to rely on each other in a nice “flat house” with no stairs, and help each other out to the lanai.
The Hoff somehow got it in her head that she was NOT going to be Dorothy, but she’ so absolutely Dorothy with her no-nonsense sarcasm, so I’m not sure who else she thinks she is, and frankly I’d be happy to be the Dorothy except I’m also the more slutty one out of the troupe so I’m obviously Blanche. We told her she can be Sophia then, because she’s a little cantankerous at times. So those are your picks, Hoff. Don’t hate the player, hate the Which Golden Girl Are You game.
Speaking of the players, this one happened to be Blanche’s Pick.
Going to a Chippendale’s show made me realize a few things last night.
1/ My best sex years are probably behind me. I know, I know. That’s not how Blanche would think! But let’s face facts. I USED to be able to be flipped over and turned around and pulled up and pushed down and all that fun stuff. Now? My knees just aren’t going to participate in all those shenanigans. They’re just not. It’s a whole lot more like, “don’t try anything fancy, just get the job done” around here. I KNOW, now you can’t unknow that, but it’s TRUE and I’ll all about speaking the truth(ish)!!
2/ No matter how cute and thrust-y they were, I seriously had this thought while looking at them: My brain: “They must spend an awful lot of hours in the gym to look like that. You know they’re not doing a fucking thing to help out around the house.”
3/ And the other thought in my brain said this: “As cute as he is, and as flippy and twirly and pumpy as he looks, I’m sure at some point he’d end up disappointing me.”
Now, Reader. That is a rather sad commentary on my view on guys. Apparently, I invented, “It’s not you, it’s me.”
Now, I know you’re probably all wondering (not one of you is actually wondering this, I’m sure, but you’re going to know my answer anyway), if they did the trick of getting me all worked up and then a whole bunch of this happened later that night:
I’m sure a member of the household would like to say it did. But when it was suggested, Grouchy Old Lady Blanche said, “Let me just live with my fantasy for one night. I can’t risk being disappointed.”
And instead My Mister got me a glass of Alka Seltzer because my Peach Bellini’s gave me indigestion, and he was too full from the all-you-can-eat clambake we had after the show anyway and we are saving my
disappointment enjoyment for another evening.
And now you know just another glimmer of the magic that happens if you get to live with me, Reader. Who’s sorry now. Besides My Mister.