10:11 PM |
My best friend and I went to dinner in the one "good" restaurant in our town. Since it is Saturday, one must wear an Hermes scarf with one's jeans, old cashmere, and down jacket. Oh, and DuBarry's. DuBarry boots are a lovely brown leather knee-high country boot from Ireland. They sell them at the races. The guy selling them is an incredibly sweet young man with ivory skin and a rose blush. He stands in a dishpan of water in his boots, demonstrating their waterproof qualities.
I have had a tendency to drink too much lately. The restaurant is a BYOB (although they finally got a liquor license), so you can bring better wine than you could afford on a wine list. I pulled this one from my dusty old rack and looked it up on the web. $100!. I guess I wouldn't be embarrassed when they corked it. I also read that it was meant to be drunk young. It was 2006, good until 2011. I guess that's now.
We skipped the lettuce and had two desserts. Why didn't we think of this before? Ran into my lawyer (we all know each other in the neighborhood), and he cautioned that we should make sure not to miss our roughage. Roughage. We're in the era of fiber, so roughage seemed so nostalgic, the mystique of grapenuts or the canned prunes your grandmother ate. I happened to like the prunes, even as a child. Back when Dannon's came in a waxed paper cup, they had prune whip flavor. Also prune danish.
At the restaurant, I was parked between two pickups, in front of two pickups, and across the aisle from two pickups. Some people in cities drive SUVs in case someday they might actually need four wheel drive. In the country, we drive pickups and keep them somewhat clean in case we might actually need to drive them somewhere with paved roads. I only have one pair of heels because I cannot get to my truck on the gravel without scraping the heels up.
Luckily, I made it home in the snow. My pickup is sort of mildly jacked up, pretty good for adverse conditions such as rising creeks and going across the cornfield across the street to watch the hunt (or if nothing so picturesque is available, the men take down deer-- thank god, they're eating my beets). My township, though, doesn't plow like the rest of the civilized world does. They say the tradition is to leave it for the horse-drawn sleighs. Makes it tough for the postpeople (mail deliverers? I prefer postman, but mine is a girl).
Everyone knows it is always a mistake to text drunk (well almost always). I swore I would hide my phone from myself. I didn't.
There's something like a little extra tippling to get to the heart of matters of the heart. My girlfriend and I decided that tonight's adult theme would be naughty sommelier, naked with a white towel on her arm, spilling the wine, and ready to be spanked. Picked up the phone and texted to that effect. And added In general I care but I don't care any more. Where did that come from? I picked up the phone and left a message that I needed closure. I have not heard anything and do not expect to. Remember, this is the child that moved out on his girlfriend one day while she was out. No note, no nothing. The problem with young men is that, well, they're young men.
Then the urge came upon me to text what I know had been on my mind for so long. Why did you never touch me? I do wonder. I probably will never know. But it suddenly came to me that I didn't want to be the whore in the bedroom without being the lady in the parlor. At least until I actually get to be the whore in person.
I am mourning my almost-real imaginary boyfriend. The clock is ticking until I hit the road. I want to go to the unclaimed baggage place in Alabama and score some used shoes.
I have had a tendency to drink too much lately. The restaurant is a BYOB (although they finally got a liquor license), so you can bring better wine than you could afford on a wine list. I pulled this one from my dusty old rack and looked it up on the web. $100!. I guess I wouldn't be embarrassed when they corked it. I also read that it was meant to be drunk young. It was 2006, good until 2011. I guess that's now.
We skipped the lettuce and had two desserts. Why didn't we think of this before? Ran into my lawyer (we all know each other in the neighborhood), and he cautioned that we should make sure not to miss our roughage. Roughage. We're in the era of fiber, so roughage seemed so nostalgic, the mystique of grapenuts or the canned prunes your grandmother ate. I happened to like the prunes, even as a child. Back when Dannon's came in a waxed paper cup, they had prune whip flavor. Also prune danish.
At the restaurant, I was parked between two pickups, in front of two pickups, and across the aisle from two pickups. Some people in cities drive SUVs in case someday they might actually need four wheel drive. In the country, we drive pickups and keep them somewhat clean in case we might actually need to drive them somewhere with paved roads. I only have one pair of heels because I cannot get to my truck on the gravel without scraping the heels up.
Luckily, I made it home in the snow. My pickup is sort of mildly jacked up, pretty good for adverse conditions such as rising creeks and going across the cornfield across the street to watch the hunt (or if nothing so picturesque is available, the men take down deer-- thank god, they're eating my beets). My township, though, doesn't plow like the rest of the civilized world does. They say the tradition is to leave it for the horse-drawn sleighs. Makes it tough for the postpeople (mail deliverers? I prefer postman, but mine is a girl).
Everyone knows it is always a mistake to text drunk (well almost always). I swore I would hide my phone from myself. I didn't.
There's something like a little extra tippling to get to the heart of matters of the heart. My girlfriend and I decided that tonight's adult theme would be naughty sommelier, naked with a white towel on her arm, spilling the wine, and ready to be spanked. Picked up the phone and texted to that effect. And added In general I care but I don't care any more. Where did that come from? I picked up the phone and left a message that I needed closure. I have not heard anything and do not expect to. Remember, this is the child that moved out on his girlfriend one day while she was out. No note, no nothing. The problem with young men is that, well, they're young men.
Then the urge came upon me to text what I know had been on my mind for so long. Why did you never touch me? I do wonder. I probably will never know. But it suddenly came to me that I didn't want to be the whore in the bedroom without being the lady in the parlor. At least until I actually get to be the whore in person.
I am mourning my almost-real imaginary boyfriend. The clock is ticking until I hit the road. I want to go to the unclaimed baggage place in Alabama and score some used shoes.