I can’t drink coffee this morning. This is a huge problem.
I got my teeth whitened yesterday and have to go 24-hours without eating or drinking anything dark [racist, much?]. So, I’m stuck at the office [yep, on Columbus Day] drinking white tea. Fuck this.
Anyway, I’ve been in the damn dumps all weekend. By hey, what else is new? I showed up at work Thursday, for a meeting in which they basically told us our company is declaring bankruptcy at the end of the year. Splendid. I left work, hooked up with Fratty, and went to the Melting Pot with Anne to stuff myself with meats and cheese.
Anne is going through a hard time, too—her fiance has two weeks to prove himself at work or else he gets canned. So both of us felt guilty for spending the money, but it is a treat we give ourself about every other month. So we get there, order the usual: Spinach Mushroom salad, Wisconsin Trio Cheese, steak and seafood plate, and the s’mores dessert.
I just proved Gizzy’s theory that all of our readers think we are huge. I weighed in at 124 at the dr’s office two weeks ago, so draw your own conclusions.
So the salads are great, and then the cheese comes. The Melting Pot prides itself on mixing everything right in front of you, so the waitress pours in the wine, a variety of cheese, and proceeds to beat it like she’s scrambling eggs for her ex-husband. It was real awkward. She tells us to enjoy.
Umm, she just mixed up a batch of cheese soup. Anne pulled up the fork and the cheese dripped off it, with the consistency of honey mustard dressing. Uh no. I have a horrid fear of soggy bread, I was not about to dip my cubes of rye in that shit. So the manager walks by and this conversation happens:
Anne: We don’t think our cheese is thick enough [takes the fork, shows him the drip].
Mgr: it’s supposed to be like that.
Anne: nnoooo. We’ve had it many times, and it’s never been like this.
Mgr: your waiters probably made it wrong before.
Anne: Well, we aren’t going to eat it.
Mgr: I can add more cheese, but it’s supposed to be the consistency of warm honey.
Anne: Honey is thick, add the cheese.
Mgr: ok, you had the Big Night Out cheese?
Anne: no, see? You don’t even know. It’s the trio.
What in fucking hell? I’m not a food snob, but shit, if the food I’m paying for isn’t up to par, then fucking fix it. I’ve waited tables, and guess what? The customer is always right. No one would’ve dipped their bread into that cheese broth. It was disgusting. And then you’re going to throw your very own staff under the bus and say they’ve made it wrong every time we’ve been there? Christ.
Anyway, the cheese was fixed and the rest of the meal was quite delish. Friday night was ultra-depressing, to say the least. I stayed home to clean my entire apartment, from top to bottom. Saturday, I ran errands all day—buying gifts for a baby shower I have to go to next Sunday [kill me]. While I was out, my phone was blowing up—lights, vibrating, sirens, the works. What was all the racket? This:
Your anniversary with
Disgusting Trashy Cheating Bastard Ex
Is in: 7 days
Well, fucking hell. So it is. What would’ve been three years will be Saturday. Three years, wasted, of my precious life, and all optimism that I once had for love and marriage gone down the shitter. I’m shopping for other people’s success getting reminders of past love, while I’m sure he’s fucking every cunt in town. Live it up, you bastard.
Needless to say, I needed a pitcher of beer. So I met up with Anne, her fiance, and her dad Saturday night to watch a football game. Everything was going pretty well until I get this on my piece of shit phone:
Pageant Queen: WE’RE ENGAGED!!!!!!!
Fucking fuck fuck. It took everything I had not to slam my face into the wooden table and just drown myself in my 4th pint of beer. Later, when I was bitching to Gizzy about it, she told me we need to get over it and stop making a big deal out of it when people get engaged. I can say I’ll try, but honestly, there is no one left to get engaged. Seriously when The Ex gets engaged NO ONE tell me. Seriously. Do not, because I will kill myself.
Sunday, I got my teeth whitened, which was fine at first, then it hurt like a bitch for the remainder of the day. I tried to sleep it off, which resulted in a dream about McFaggot. In the dream, I was at a party and McFaggot showed up in a limo. He got out of the limo, wearing the tuxedo he had on when I met him. But when he saw I was there, he turned around and left.
I had to go to a writer’s meeting Sunday night, for a local magazine I work for. There, I saw this guy I’ve seen at the meetings. He is kind of cute, in a nerdy way, and I’m pretty sure we had a college class together or something, but I can’t figure it out. He flips burgers and writes for the magazine. No, really. And that’s what my life is now. Thinking about cute guys flipping burgers.
I drove home from that meeting listening to country music. And yes, I considered just driving off a cliff.
So, as much as I don’t want it to happen, I’m thinking I might need to meet 100 guys for the 100th post. But hey, it’s up to you. So if you haven’t voted yet, go do it! For the sake of my sanity.
I should sign off with something positive, right? Last night, I had a hot dream about ShyGuy. Seriously. I was on the beach and he came out of nowhere [there were even rays of sunshine behind him] and I tackled him. Right there in the sand. I was supposed to be on vacation with Gizzy, but she was late. When I called her, she was all, “I’ll be there tomorrow,” so there I was stuck at the beach, alone.
ShyGuy was all, Lucky, I’m not going to leave you here alone. Mmmmhmmm.
I’m no dream-reader, but I’m pretty sure I know what it means: we need more ShyGuy! Holla if ya hear me 😉