It's all about the box.

First off, an open memo to Monk: We must (MUST!) obtain more of those Oreo cookie ice cream sandwich things. They rocked my world a week ago... then brought it crashing down around me when I realized there were only four to a box and I'd been slow in protecting that box with my life.

Protect the box with your life. Sounds like something my parents tried to drill into me years ago.

Speaking of women's bits, Friday night I slogged through Dallas traffic to meet up with Monk (him, refreshed and relaxed, having been home, walked the dogs, changed clothes, etc.; me, still in my office outfit, sweaty and strung out from a week of too little sleep) at a private party for the gay and lesbian associates of four companies, and the people who support them. Or at least the people who enjoy being cornered at the sink of a unisex bathroom listening to an obnoxious young man sing his own interior designer merits- the same not-so-gentle-man who had just minutes before mocked me for the calorie count in my Newcastle, as well as complained "your boobs are messing up the lines of your shirt which is just, gah, so offensive to me, as a designer."

Okay, so "enjoyed" might not be the right word. Under the yellow glare of the bathroom lights, however, he decided we looked exactly alike (SQUEAL!), and then he looooved me.

Not sure what it is about me that attracts the ones who kick and compliment in the same breath, but I'm pretty sure I tolerated this nonsense because I was being served unlimited alcohol. For free. Even the tip was covered, people. Well, that and the fact that I would never hit a girl...

We went from the meet-and-greet to another bar with some friends and stayed about an hour past the point of avoiding hangovers and being productive the next day. Standing for hours on a patio being bombarded by so-so live music, while people pat you on the back for "being cool with" a lesbian hangout is tiring. Besides officially launching my love-ya-crazy-like-a-stalker boat towards Monk's unbelievably cool coworker, another highlight of the evening: If any of you watch The L Word, you'll know what I mean when I tell you I met a
Carmen. Same size, same style (and hey, isn't the actress from Euless, TX? Hmm). Not sure if she was hitting on me, talking to me to get to our friends, or feeling sorry for me. Although her efforts were wasted (our group being in the committed relationship camp, and feeling, by that point, quite happy), she was a very nice young lady. If the music hadn't been so distracting, I might have flirted a bit, just to see where she was heading. On the other hand, it's nice to keep it all a mystery, since it's hard to have complete faith in the intentions of ridiculously good-looking women. I'd be waiting to hear "just kidding!" or "just spotted someone more in my league!" or "can I just try on your hat for a sec?" And while I may have a fabulous sense of humor and modesty to spare, we all know where I stand on sharing.

Like those Oreo ice cream sandwiches. Seriously, Monk. Why must you help yourself to things around the house like you live there too and make my selfish heart crumble so? I now have no choice but to go out and restock times two. And this time? Stay away from my box.

2 comment:

Anonymous Monk said...

Very well, we will each have a box to eat. No, wait that didn't come out right....

We should get more Oreo ice cream sandwiches. They ruled and I only ate two so you could have two.

They are on my list....

3:27 PM  
Blogger Lisa said...

Monk, you are on her shit list. You'd better get at least three boxes of those things. And even then you should probably only eat one of those sandwhiches. heehee.

As for the compliment/kick -- I once had a person say to me, "You are the smallest person I know." I was very skinny at the time and to this day, I think, "what the hell?" I'm pretty sure she meant that as a "Small-minded" sort of kick.

So yes, I know what you mean.

10:46 AM  

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