Partying like one of the guys. Stop here if you’re squeemish. Wait, if you’re squeemish, you shouldn’t even be here.

I went out with some guys from the office on Friday and holy shit, we had fun.  There was all kinds of inappropriate rubbing of body parts, extremely poor karaoke and I witnessed so much behavior that qualifies as blackmail material that I will never want for anything.  (Thank you camera in my phone, you are all kinds of awesome.)

But…I would never use that info to blackmail someone.   That’s why the guys are ok with bringing me (the chick) along.  I don’t get jealous (although I did lose some of the attention when we hopped to another bar and that pissed me off, cock-blocked without even wanting the cock!!) and I won’t tell their wives they ogled every waitress and I couldn’t care less if someone has a little too much to drink and whoops!, accidentally on purpose touches my boob. 

They know that when I say “Come here and show my kitty some love!”, I just mean come here and pretend like you’re going down on me and everyone will have a good laugh.  When I flip one of the guys off, he mimics jacking off and shooting cum all over table and we all move our drinks out of the way.

I did a bump and grind with a guy and a lesbian, 2 guys, then put on a little show all by my lonesome.   We sang till we were hoarse, laughed till we cried, I threw up because I drank Dragonberry rum and Diet Coke with no dinner, and I think I might have peed my pants but I’m not completely sure about that one.

It was all completely innocent and there were no regrets.  We all laughed and reminisced when we got in Monday morning, compared notes and asked questions because somebody invariably missed something.   I hear there were some pissed off wives which is just stupid but expected I guess.  They should be happy their hubbys had fun and let them do it once in a while without fear of “getting in trouble”, but I know that this is just not how it works.   Wives should get the same privilege (as I do).

The only thing hubby asked me was where we went and did I have fun.  He totally rocks the casbah.

I was meant to be rich…shut up, I’m serious.

Supposedly, there are people (unicorns) out there that live all happy and content with what they have (dirt).   They claim to be ok with simple things; roof over their heads (rental with leaky basement), clothes on their backs (rags we wash the car with) and food to eat (Ramen and ketchup).

 What-the-fuck-ever.  *condescending eye roll

I’m not one of those people.  Not because I want a lot of stuff, I actually hate having lots of stuff*.    I just want GOOD stuff.

*That means I have to dust it (correction, I should dust it…wait, that’s the maid’s job!!).

I buy my shoes from Payless but I want Jimmy Choos.  I buy my purses from Kohl’s but I really want a purple leather Michael Kors  handbag (rich people call purses “handbags” which I discovered when I tried to Google “purse”)  I shop at Wal-Mart and Target (tarjay is fun though) but I really want to shop at Nordstroms and Saks.  I want some of that “If you have to ask, you can’t afford it.” lingerie.  I want to eat brunch at the Ritz Carlton and dinner at Morton’s and winter on the islands with my entourage.  

I want a housekeeper, an assistant (ya know, to do all that crap stuff like renew licenses and pick up prescriptions), a manicurist and pedicurist.  I want a dude that details my car (my 2009 Corvette Stingray) and a gardener that can cut straight lines in the grass and actually NOT run over the flowering shrubbery.   I must have a pool boy for the in ground pool* I would have in my modest 4000 square foot home overlooking the city skyline

*if you let me have one, I promise to exercise, REALLY, I promise!

And I don’t like nice things because of the ”designer” labels (I lie, I do just a little), or the expensiveness.  I love the quality, the feel of rare materials, the delicious smells of natural fabrics and properly prepared foods.  I like it when someone says “Cute shoes!” or “I’ve never seen a purse like that before.” 

But I’m a bumpkin.  I wouldn’t know a Gucci from a Chanel except that I do know G from C.  I also wouldn’t know fake from real.  I’ve nearly exhausted my vocabulary of designer names above.    Most of them I learned on ”Sex in the City” like Blahniks and Hermes.

 I did get a Coach bag once from my husband when he got a promotion.  He surprised me with it, it was fucking awesome.  I had seen it through the glass case at Macy’s but never imagined I would own one.   It was $258.00!!!  I treasured it, till I was at a fall festival and the acne infused angst filled teenage boy forced to be a funnel cake dipper sprayed grease on it.  They bought me a new one but it just wasn’t the same.

I’ve never spent more than $50.0 on a pair of tennis shoes or more than $30 on a pair of jeans.  I can’t recall the last time I paid full price for any piece of clothing (except my 6 pack of underwear and if all your underwear are dirty…well then you just have to pay full price).  My own daughter bought herself a pair of Miss Me’s  and I cringe when I see them.  $100.00 on a pair of jeans?!  My last pair of sunglasses were $9.00 and I think I paid $19.99 for my last watch.    It killed me to pay $6.00 on some eyeliner Saturday and I eat off the dollar menu at Micky D’s.  I dye my own hair and pluck my own eyebrows.  I even have a fake wedding ring because our original set was very very…young and I wanted something more mature but we couldn’t afford it.

Just once, I would like to go to Stein Mart and not have to think about having to transfer money out of my bill account to the spending account so I don’t go in the hole if  buy these 2 tops off the clearance rack.   I would like to buy the ultra toilet paper instead of the store brand, Lancome instead of Mabelline and Crown Royal instead of Southern Comfort.  (So-Co and diet coke please…)

Now, I’m going to go ignore the story floating around FB about the dude with no arms and legs.

Sunny

Random Thought: You are a fucktard.

Dear Mr/Mrs/Ms Fucktard who parked too close to my car.  Just how the fuck am I supposed to get in it without either:

1) shrinking like Santa Claus (impossible)

2) employing Harry Potter and have him turn me into smoke..or a mouse,* 

*sorry but if I get one chance with Harry Potter, it ain’t gonna be this stupid ass stunt.  I would have him give me [get your mind out of the gutter..just for a sec babe] my idea of the perfect body.

2) denting your car (not a horrible option but would involve denting my door as well so..no)

3) crawling inside the passenger side, hiking my fat ass over the center console/arm rest and shimmying under the steering wheel (winner winner chicken dinner).

This infuriates me so bad, I get an anxiety attack and I actually have to talk myself down from keying the side of their car, kicking in the quarter panels or hiding somewhere close till they show back up, then jumping out and going witchshit crazy on their ass.  Just get over it Sunny, no big woop, think happy thoughts…like them getting rabies or a pilonidal cyst or…or a squirrel crawling into their vent system only to be discovered 5 days later.

And yes, my rage continues onto the road but I’m much better than I used to be.