Oh how I have missed thee! It is pure insanity that takes place in this brain of mine when I am unable to write!!! Between not being able to see and then not being able to BREATHE (damn Sinusitis!), it's damn near a doe-eyed lambs-wool headed sweet baby Jesus restin' on a prickly bale of hay MIRACLE that I didn't kill somebody!
Seriously ya'll....my brain was on overload....so grab a martini (I don't care if it IS only 9 in the morning - you know at least ONE person in your house has already annoyed the hot mess outta you) and enjoy the ride because I am about to go there.
Don't like it? Blame it on the meds...
Remember being
Well, I do....however times have changed. And now The Rabbit is no longer a handy dandy replacement for man candy. It is a pet. In my daughter's classroom. Alli - The Rabbit. And she eats carrots and lettuce and some sort of weird rabbit pellet food. The Rabbit of my day took batteries. Today's rabbit takes walks. On a leash. Through the schools' courtyard.
Times.Have.Changed.
Remember when "Skinny Jeans" were called "Skin Tight", and "Dark Wash" was for old people, and "Dirty Denim" was dirty because you were outside playin' all day, not because you payed Sir Ralph $60 to run over them a few times, and shoot bebee gun pellets at them? Now my skinny jeans are dark washed. Is this so you a: can't see my booty jiggle when I walk, b: can't see the cellulite masquerading as a well traveled parade route, c: get distracted by the dark blue hue in the jeans, not the dark blue hue spreading across my lips from lack of oxygen, or d: all of the above? (If you said "d - all of the above", you are officially dead to me - I'm just sayin'). And they are definitely skin tight. Know how I know? Because when I take them off the imprint of the seam runs down my leg like an inverted racing stripe. Yes. I just admitted that. I really.just.admitted that. Perhaps I should refer to them as my "would be skinny on a skinny girl but I'm not skinny so they are more like thick, sexy, and not fully exhaling because the zipper might pop" jeans. Yeah. That sounds about right.
Remember being 21, 22,23 and being at the club with your girls? Remember booty bumping the hoochie next to you out of the way because she was dancing "in your space"? Remember giving your girlfriend the "save me" signal from across the bar, being rescued from the guy with the speech impediment that left the side of your face littered with more DNA than a hooker's bra strap, and repaying her with an Amaretto Sour? (OMG - I try NOT to remember that I EVER drank those!) Remember when you had your first Cosmopolitan? Remember when you had your fifth Cosmopolitan? I remember when I had my THIRTEENTH Cosmopolitan. Of the night. And I passed out in the Maloney's bathroom. And I didn't go back to the bar for a few weeks. And when I finally did come back (and the smell of alcohol didn't make me wretch in my own cupped hands), some girl came up to me and told me she thought I had died of alcohol poisoning. Because she hadn't seen me at the bar for a few weeks. I laughed then. I want to say I've grown up and that I would say to my former self "Self, don't drink so much - you should be embarrassed that they thought you were dead because you didn't make your weekly bar appearance". But no. I still laugh. Because the memory of the whole night is vague, but hilarious. Because of the absurdity of the notion that since I decided not to drink for a few weeks in my 20's, naturally I must have died. And because now, at age 34, the thirteen Cosmos I have are in my magazine rack with ear marked pages telling me how to "bounce my badonkadonk to break his bad habits", how to "canoodle my mans' noodle in the new year", and how to angle my hips just right when I'm laying in bed so that I look like a hot mama and not Mama Cass. Sadly, there is no mention of the Rabbit. *Harumph*
Lastly...I remember when break ups meant you called all your girlfriends, who naturally bashed your ex in their undying love and support for you. You likened his sexual prowess to that of geriatric amputee, and may have used words like "tic tac", "pencil dick", and "shotgun sam" in the same sentence as his name. Today, break ups mean splitting kitchen appliances, transferring bills to the other person's name, and explaining to the kids why "it's just not working out". It's contemplating whether or not to put it on facebook, which has effortlessly taken on the role of our supportive, albeit mean/well meaning girlfriends, and doing your best to protect him from your family. You don't share the ins and outs of the breakup/breakout/breakdown. You don't tell cousin Pookie to "go beat his ass". You don't let your mama call him out his name, or stick pins in the voodoo doll she just happened to have in a box under her bed that shared and uncanny resemblance to your ex. (But you do take the box home with you for "proper disposal", and feign complete ignorance the following morning when you wake up with a basket of pushpins at your feet and 3 empty vodka bottles on the table). Nope. You don't do any of that other stuff. Whereas before you cried,boohooed, and screamed bloody murder...today, you simply walk away....
My....How.things.have.changed.
