Drink to Unwind......or just drink!

Strap in, People.

I've had a shitty day; my buzz is wearing off and I have no filter.


First up: Dana.....Where TF are you?
(For those of you who don't remember {Shame......}, Dana is my Plus One. The inspiration for my post "Sally Field". My first stranger comment.)

You've been MIA for months, and frankly, my ego can't take it! I'm opening myself up to potential ridicule (What if she doesn't like me anymore? And what if she responds to this and tells everyone else how much she doesn't like me....? Shit.), but I gotta know.

What are the odds Dana's fallen and she can't get up? And it has nothing to do with me?

Pfffffffffffffffffffffffffffffft! Who the fk am I kidding.....everything has to do with me!

Alright......next!

KB sent me the latest trailer for Sex & the City 2. Gotta say- didn't really love the first trailer. All about the Girls traipsing around the fkn desert. Who gives a shit? The show (and movie!) is called Sex AND THE CITY! But this new trailer......... that's what I'm talking about! Spoon feed me the continuing saga of 4 female relationships; toss in a few vignettes of Mr. Big (Oooooooooh, Baby. I do loves me some Mister BIG!) and suddenly the desert doesn't concern me so much.

EXCEPT AIDEN IS BACK!

I hate Aiden! (Shut up, Lynda. Seriously. Shut. UP!) Furniture making; in touch with your male feelings proclaiming; all for the love of a good woman professing; overall wearing; dog loving WEENIE! I've got two words for Aiden: Nut. Up.
(And, your name is gay. And not in the way that I admire or want to be a part of!)

Which, of course, means my ass will be planted in a theater seat, Opening Day; sporting my sexiest heels and holding the hand of Lynda. And in my perfect world, KB would be there too. Holding my other hand. Squealing right along side me!

And speaking of squealing......ok, it's more like wailing- I'm being held hostage by American Idol. Marky loves this show. And he is currently in control of the remote......and I'm apparently to fkn lazy to remove myself from the room.

I hate this show. I hate all reality shows. But this show in particular, Hate. It. Why? Usually (Carrie Underwood & Kelly Clarkson would be the exceptions), the winner has no business being called an Idol. Case in point: Fantasia.

Or, Ruben Studdard.
(Where's this fkn guy?)

Or, last season's winner......... who I remember nothing about other than he was white, married and played the guitar.

It's not about talent, but popularity. And misguided votes. And stupid ass teenagers with unlimited texting plans; who have no parental supervision and nothing better to do than text
1 800 IDOL a gazillion times in one evening.

And yet here I am. In front of the TV, critiquing the Idol hopefuls and getting all sorts of wound up over the judging. Shameful.

(I blame Mark. And the cocktails I've consumed this evening!)

And speaking of cocktails- I've been such a Good Girl these past 2 weeks.....what with my NOT drinking during the work week. Funny how the combination of a shitty day, hormones being completely whacked out (Thank You, Seasonique!) and no sense of self control can just, Poof! Throw all your hard work right out the window!

The downside would be obvious: now I gotta start all over again.
(Good thing I'm not in AA, I'd totally have to give my chip back!)

The upside would be: Booze always makes for better writing.
(Or maybe that's just the booze talking?)

Whatever.

At this point: sober living blows.

And finally, I'm beginning to question my skills as a parent. Case in point: my son, Sam. He's 7. He loves me, his dog and his weiner. In that order.

He's also really into music. He loves all genres; from Classical to Grunge. Pop to Classic Rock. He feels it; just as I do. It moves him. And, apparently, the lyrics are not lost on him either. As I'm heading downstairs, and past Sam's room; getting ready to leave for work, I hear AC/DC's "Girls Got Rhythm" coming from his room. I call out: Dude. Momma's leaving! He pokes his head out and says: Bye, Momma! I say: Best AC/DC song ever, Sam. At this moment, my son exits his room and comes to stand directly in front of me, wearing nothing but his Transformer butt huggers. With his hands on his hips and his eyebrow raised (just like his Dad!), he says out of the side of his mouth: No it's not. So I say: What are you talking about? YES. It is. And Samuel says while grabbing his crotch: Got You By The Balls, Mom! That's the best AC/DC song!

And my Mother questions my drinking..................