I have a new favorite, bad but good radio station.
apparently Little Rock has some new things on the dial.
The one I located this morning was WB 101 - "Little Rock's old school station"
And boy was it . . .
Shake Your Groove Thing - Peaches and Herb
Superstition - Stevie Wonder
The Pina Colada Song - Rupert Holmes
Get Into the Groove - Madonna
This was the playlist that had me hopin into work this morning.
I admit, I rocked out to some old-school goodness.
My butt's still shakin a bit.
I realized, while talking with a blogger last night, that I mislead people.
I don't mean to do that.
So I'm clearing it up:
It's not that I can't find a man.
I have four in my life right now, and before you ask - yes, they all know about one another. I'm using middle names, kinda, to keep them anonymous.
Blain - 31 - guy I dated in college, we've re-acquainted ourselves, but not sure where it's going. He's not what I want and we know things don't work between us, but every 6-8 months we start talking again. Bad habit.
Drew - 28 - bartender at the bowling alley. We have very little in common, very little to talk about, and no future what-so-ever but he's a very good guy and I have no real reason NOT to date him. Other than there are no sparks. But . . . eh, what can ya do?
Hess - 28 - His middle name is heinous so I'm shortening his first name. I can't keep things with him up much longer. Mainly because he's too metrosexual. If we're on the phone and I jokingly ask "Whatcha wearin, sexy?" he launches into NAMES, not clothes. It's "My Kenneth Cole jeans, my purple Prada shirt, my black Cole Hahn shoes and Kenneth Cole Black cologne." Ummm, "jeans and a button up" would have sufficed. And this is the LEAST metrosexual thing about him.
Dave - 34 - Dave's been in my life for going on 6 years. He keeps asking me to marry him . . . and he's serious. I called him last week in a tizzy about something Hess had done and he again said "Why do you keep fooling around with these idiots? Just marry me and get it over with. Go pick out the ring. As long as it's not over 20,000, it's yours. Go tomorrow." He was serious. He's a wonderful guy, but again, no sparks, nothing there. It's like kissing my brother. Ugh.
Oh crap, I guess technically there's a fifth one, though not really.
I went out with my friend Stephen Saturday night. After many rounds of margaritas, we returned to his apartment and started drinking Crown and cokes. I have NO idea why I did this. I'm sick and shouldn't be drinking at all, but we needed the stress relief. Needless to say, I was a bit tipsy. And BOB just wasn't doing it for me anymore - - and no way was I sleeping with any of the above listed men, so I pulled the ole drunk dial.
Yep, I called an ex. One I hadn't been in touch with in months.
But that never seems to matter.
And we had 4 hours of hotel room sex.
The drought was about to kill me.
But then the bombs started:
*BOOM* - "I meant to tell you this before we . . . before this happened, but . . . I'm engaged."
*KABAM* - "I've been thinking of calling it off, because I can't get you out of my head. I've called and hung up several times, I just wanted to talk to you."
*BAP* - "I'm so glad you called. I've missed you. Now we can just start up where we left off."
Oh holy hell.
I can't even have a one night stand without consequences.
I jumped outta bed, dressed faster than I ever have in my life, yelled at him that he's an idiot and he should marry this girl he's engaged to and ran like the wind out the damn door.
He's called 6 times this week, and it's 7 AM Wednesday.
I'm hoping he hasn't been stupid enough to tell the fiancee any of this.
I've scheduled dinner with Birdie tonight to get her take on all this, other than the blogging friend I told last night - - and now, you guys, no one else knows about this.
My other real friends would kill me.
Birdie won't. Because she never met him. She was in New York when he and I were together.
The ex - we'll call him K - never made a good impression on the friends.
In fact, he turned kinda stalkerish (okay, REALLY stalkerish) on me after I called things off.
WHY I chose him for a booty call, I will never fully understand.
Drunkenness does bad things.
It makes you call the guy with the biggest appendage and the best moves in the bed.
Not the guy that would let sleeping dogs lie.
I feel like a snow cone today.
Rarely am I this colorful.
The sickness has taken a toll and I have about two weeks of laundry piled up.
I'm hoping the maid takes the hint and does it for me today.
However, this means I'm left with only the really happy scrubs and undershirts.
I'm a snow cone.
Pale yellow t-shirt.
Bright aqua blue scrubs.
Bright pink "cotton candy" - no really, that's the color on the label - scrub jacket.
Great, now I'm hungry.
For sugary, frozen goodness.
Do any snow cone places deliver?
In the dead of winter?
With a quickness?