Tonight I’m going out with the illusive IJC and MT for some BYOB… clearly no photos to follow. Stories, however, hope to prove plentiful and posted here once I’m drunk.
I’m not drunk but on Linus duty. It’s much easier to be a proper alcoholic when you’re married. Then there’s someone home to walk and love the dog for you while you’re out loving to love your company. Which I was. The only caveat tonight: I have nothing juicy to report other than I WAS STOOD UP. Go ahead. "Good the bitch deserves it… finally someone brought her down to reality." I’m not stopping you… insert stupid chuckle *here.* Besides who chuckles anyway besides an entertainment mouse handing out pizza at a kid party?
As I fingered the rim of my Cabernet glass I tried to recall a time when I’ve been stood up previously. Not in a, "wow, I’m better than any fcuking guy" kind of how could he stand me up kind of way. More like a, "gee, I guess I really am fat so he took one look and headed for the door" kind of way. Thankfully it has only happened once before, while I was with pappoo in Florida, after the purchase of my first pair of thigh high stockings… but I digress.
MT didn’t show. Thankfully, I had Chris in clutch. After pork sandwiches to celebrate my final night of Hanukkah (or however the hell it is spelled), we sauntered across the street to meet the illusives.
The IJC, who has previously marked me as a black kettle, arrived on time and approached in a long coat. I was happy he noticed me from one of my hundreds of online self-promotional photos, as his face was a mystery to me. I’d only known him through his bashing of Interchangeable Jewish Chicks, and our limited comment correspondence. He was decidedly charming and surprising. But I’m a lady… so I can’t divulge too much. I would never "talk" (unless a blowjob and interesting blog entry were involved). After all, MT set up our little meeting and didn’t show, very Jewish meddling mother. I was expecting candlelight and U2 songs.
I bought Chris and the IJC some beers as we waited for MT’s arrival. The boys spoke of big titty erasers (how naturally large breasts can erase all bad behavior) and fringed Burberry scarf fetishes. Sometimes, despite myself, and the beer, I’m too much of a guy; I let it all hang out. "She’s so your type," I assess as I point to a pink Burberry fringed girl with a pink face and personality who has just interjected, "I’ve just matriculated from Columbia." "As a nurse" came later. "Matriculated" was invented by the drunk redhead who is now typing.
"I should take you out more often. You’ll save me a lot of time." The IJC concurred. I was quite right. He’s into pink fringe, straight hair, and your basic Murray Hill nightmare. But hey, I’m as pathologic as the next guy… and as we’ve established, my kettle is black. Love. Hate. Love. Hate.
Meanwhile, Chris is ready to let his balls loose at the nurse table beside us, so I’m ready to pack it in for the night when the IJC counters with, "Yeah, and you could never date him because you always need to be the center of attention." Okay, clearly I’m not the only one with the money calls. He is dead on balls accurate. Thank you Marisa, despite your token Oscar. Time for my exit. Linus needs me. Kiss. Kiss. Jackets. Swig of water.
On our way out, I spot MT cell phoning it in the vestibule. "Ahem, you so aren’t just showing up now."
"Oh, no, I’ve been here a while. I was on the phone."
"But didn’t you see us?"
Well, alrightythen. I left the boys alone and opted for the man in my life, Linus, who now, as I write this, is beaning in my lap, licking my leg with his sandpaper pink tongue. And all across our fine city, pink scarved women with pink tongues and pink personalities are doing the same. But we’ll have to check in with the boys to see if they verify the story come the AM.