The MVP of Wing-Women

“Wanna go to Vegas?”

“Not really….”

Thanks, Vegas. I needed bruised ribs.

“K, so we’re leaving at 7, I’ll pick you up.”

“Wait… when did we agree on anything, and why the hell at 7?”

…And that’s how D convinced me to go to Vegas on less than 36 hours notice, for 24 hours of awesomeness (which is not a word, and I don’t care).

Essentially, D let her vagina get the best of her and we wound up in Vegas meeting up with some guy she sort of liked a year ago who lives in San Fransisco at 4 o’clock in the morning after I told strange old men stories about my kid and divorce.  (I lie my ass off when I get really drunk).  And then we came back to Orange County in time for Superbowl and went to hang out with this guy who likes D who we met that time I was trying to make in-roads with the biker gang. 

Odd enough though, I’m pretty sure I had a better time than D did all weekend.  Yeah, guys love her and she could probably have enough sex to satisfy Charlie Sheen for all of this year and I am somewhat more solitary these days (by choice?), but it was awesome.  She dates, talks to, or makes out with guys I end up loving.  Everytime there’s a new love interest for her, I come up on at least 2 new friends that I adore and that I’m certain appreciate my quirky greatness.

The purpose of this isn’t to brag about how attractive I am as a wing-woman (or is it?), it’s about an interesting realization D and I had while I jubilantly announced how smitten I was by our Superbowl companions.  Why was it, it occured to me, that I always LOVED the guys she dated, and she HATED the guys I fell for?  Actually, nobody likes the guys I date…. which means my taste is really as bad as I have always feared, or… well, I can’t think of a viable second option.

Mostly because I want my friends to agree to show up at my wedding, I’m gonna try to date people they don’t openly loathe with venomous passion… speaking of which I need to talk about the guy I’ve been on a few dates with… next time.

PS. If you have come to this blog in search of Natalie Portman porn… I apologize.  These days everyone in my life is staying clothed, blog and otherwise.

Death By Diet Coke

My roommate, D, proudly announced to me that our beloved (cough, NOT, cough) President Mr. O is a smoker.  She also declared that knowing this, she likes him even more than before… and she liked him  A LOT before.  Like, annoyingly, a lot.

I already knew he was a smoker.  I already judged him for it, so this wasn’t news to me, although I explained to her that I thought it was alarming that our President fell victim to something as obviously stupid as smoking cigarettes… which, on occasion, I also fall victim to.  But before you start judging on your stupid high horse- I am not President.  I am, therefore, allowed to participate in social smoking and binge drinking and questionable behaviors in bars.  Barack Obama, is not.  (See the logic there?)

If you do see the logic, congratulations! You are already smarter than D, who told me that she preferred a President who killed himself slowly over a President who hunted innocent animals.  “So, not only do you want a President who’s a martyr, but you are hating on George Dubya because he killed animals to eat?  You want an anorexic martyr to lead the free world?”  At this point I came to terms with the fact that in upcoming elections, I would have to find ways to hold D captive so she couldn’t vote.  (Which I’m fairly certain is illegal.. but it’s for everyone’s own good).

I get it, people have vices.  I have a lot of them, perhaps more than the average person… but because I’m too frightened by drugs to be a heroin addict, my vices garner little to no attention.  I do, however, have an addiction to diet coke.  In fact, I am drinking diet coke #5 as I write… and wondering how bad it could possibly be for me.

First of all, it’s diet.  So me not getting fat is a huge plus since being fat is maybe my biggest fear. Except that it’s definitely my biggest fear.  And there’s only ten ingredients, which I know because I just spilled them all over my lap when I rotated the very full can to count them.  Admittedly, I can’t pronounce most of them and I’ve heard from a number of health-conscious (which is code for “annoying”) friends about the dangers of aspartame, but I’m feeling pretty good about this addiction.  It even has citric acid, which has to be good… Vitamin C, right?  Score.

Evidently though, this aspartame stuff isn’t all that wonderful for you.  I just googled it and was so frightened by the initial results that I x’ed out of the window hoping I could pretend like I never saw any of it.  But I did.  And it said “lupus”.  And “multiple sclerosis”.  And “epidemic”.  All of which sound only slightly less than fabulous. 

Among my other vices, I would list wine (and then list it a few more times), laziness, reading bad romance novels, facebook stalking and picking my lips until they start to bleed and make people around me nervous.  But as far as I know, facebook stalking won’t ever give you lupus… nor will any of the other listed activities which makes me start to question my love of diet coke.  Conversely, diet coke can’t steal hours of my life and my remaining shreds of dignity like alcohol or facebook (or the two combined… eek!) can.  This is tough.

In reality, it’s not so tough, because I won’t be giving up any of those things anytime soon.  Just like I bet Mr. O won’t be quitting the cigarettes anytime in the near future.  (And why would he?  He’s a good-looking Marlboro man.  See above).  I whole-heartedly that I make bad choices on what I would estimate to be an hourly basis.  On no level am I saying that I am smarter than Barack Obama (okay, maybe on like, one level).  What I am saying is that like Barack, my addiction will probably kill me one day too.  The important thing, friends, is that I don’t die fat. 

My priorities are a wreck.

I've done a little bit of all three... and I have better hair than this girl.