Men spend a lot of time trying to make women come. Not working to actually give women orgasms, but endless hours researching hidden gem techniques…Those holy grail moves that will have the chilliest ice queen screaming their name in utter surrender. “Research” in this case usually refers to getting drunk at the bar while your college buddies describes the classic “Come Here” move.
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*That one girl at the rock show who was totally rocking out, fist in the air, singing along amid a sea of nonplussed concert goers waiting for the opening band to end.
*”The lady at the container store totally blew my mind.”
*Calendars and buffet until 2am!
*Macaroni salad
*The Algonquin Kid’s Table (Okay, this one is just too good to resist…)
The cartoonist carefully traced it out…Lil’ Dottie Parker with a martini glass of milk tossed off a bon mot about naptime, Jimmy Thurber colored with crayons and Bobby Benchly was tweaking the braids of a wee Edna Ferber. As the cartoonist leaned back to examine his handiwork, he smiled confidently. If “The Algonquin Kid’s Table” didn’t get him into The New Yorker, nothing would.
I would like this cartoon.
I had a great time at the Superbowl party. Tasty cheese dip was consumed and copious amounts of alcohol imbibed. I indiscriminately cheered for both football teams. My “zingers” outnumbered my “groaners.” Mostly.
(My favorite comment of the night, made after a beer commercial where a bird defends an attractive woman from the men hitting on her: “That’s a Cockblockatiel.”
Shut up. I thought I was funny)
After the conclusion of both the game and the special Simpson’s episode, I head home. I yell at a man begging people on the train for 20 bucks each. Seriously. What the fuck? He informs us that “If I don’t come up with 2400 bucks in the next 24 hours, they’re gonna kill me.” I respond “If I had 20 bucks, don’t you think I would have taken a cab?” “I’m just telling you, they’re gonna kill me.” “I guess you should have planned better then, huh?”
I’m a true humanitarian.
But karma’s a bitch. I stumble home, check my email and AOL IM to see if anybody cool’s online, then pass out at the stroke of midnight.
20 minutes later my phone rings.
“Booty call?” I perk up just enough to reach for the phone, don’t recognize the number, and blearily lay back to wait for the voicemail.
“Uh, Karla, this is ____ at the station. It’s 12:30 and you’re supposed to be on next…I guess I’ll just keep calling you, but um…I kinda need to take off here.”
You’ve got to be shitting me. I was apparently scheduled to work the overnight shift tonight. Not that I’d been informed of this, but I was indeed on the schedule. Christ. I contemplate ignoring the call, murdering my boss, and quitting my job.
Rent’s due this week. I pull on a pair of pants, rinse the beer film out of my mouth and grab a cab.
I’m half drunk, sleep deprived, and the hosts of the Superbowl party had a cat. I could ignore the allergic backlash if I was asleep, like I should be. As it is, I’m stuffed up and my lungs feel like they’re on fire. Positively en fuego. I still have 2 hours to go. I feel like death.
This is turning into quite the buzzkill.
Oh well, Mardi Gras on Tuesday, Chinese New Year Wednesday, and Thursday is my birthday. A full week of celebration, just for me? Hell, yes.
And if I get anymore late night calls from work…Well, damn if I didn’t just lose my cellphone. I’m ever so sorry.
Fuckers.
I’m going to a Superbowl party today. I stopped keeping track of football after the Bears broke my heart one too many times, so I really could give a shit about the game itself. But I’m always up for a social gathering, provided we’re gathering around booze, and I’m looking forward to it. It’ll be nice to make fun of the commercials with other people this year.
Side Note: One of the 6th grade teachers at my elementary school used to play for the New England Patriots. Serious. The kids in Mr. Smith’s class were always exceptionally well behaved. In fact, after he started teaching, we were ALL exceptionally well behaved. He was a really nice guy, but when the shadow of 6 feet, 2 inches and 250 pounds of pure ebony muscle suddenly looms over you…That spitball doesn’t seem quite as important.
Additional Side Note: I will tell this story at least 10 times during the course of the next day.
However, with 12 hours to kick-off, I’ve already managed to be the worst guest ever.
Yesterday I bought a case of beer to take to the party, and somehow a third of it ended up in my gullet. And there’s still 12 hours to go…
Guess what? I am totally bringing half a case of beer to a party. I’m justifying it by also bringing the crackers and french onion dip that I’d purchased for my own selfish consumption. These have not been tampered with, even though I had every intention of devouring them in a stomach wrenching fashion. But I will be generous. The host requested merely that you bring either something to eat or drink. But I shall produce both. The case may be missing a few bottles, but I am a good person, and a gracious guest.
12 hours, huh?
Do you think they’ll notice if I dig into the dip? Just a little bit?
Yeah, I know. I suck.
Just wait ’till I actually get there. People really need to learn not to invite me places.
The EL is a bit creepy at 6 in the morning.
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