So the image for this post was supposed to look somewhat like this:
Reality on a Friday night at 10p in Dallas? I’m sitting on the ground in my living room drinking orange gas station wine and yelling at the dogs to stop fighting. Yep, this is happening now, not 10 years in the future.
How did this happen? Let’s start from the very beginning… a very good place to start…
I’m having the same man troubles that my sister is having. She is 13. Thirteen. Therefore, let’s logicalize this… men never change. Sorry, boys never change.
After an exhausting conversation with a 27 year-old boy, I decided I should call my mommy. (We all know I’m not the most mature but this is my blog. I’m allowed to point fingers at others and ignore my own shortcomings.)
I told her, flat out, I’m never going to get married. Never. She then proposed I go on a date with her coworker (thanks Anne). No help whatsoever, I hang up with Anne, put the puppies in my room, charge to the Honda and make my way to Wal-Mart sans makeup or sense of reality.
$50 later?
One large bag of JetPuff Marshmallows, two large Hershey chocolate bars, one box of Honey Maid graham crackers, a box of the most sugary Swiss Miss Hot Chocolate, a pine fire starting log and a bottle of chardonnay from “Argentina.” Harmeless right? Wanting to prove canine companionship, booze and some sugar with a romantical fireplace will solve all life’s problems, right?
EVERYTHING WENT WRONG.
Stupid flue. Supid fire alarm.
Microwaved s’mores aren’t too shabby.
After my disastrous Beyonce-style Single Lady night? I sought out an empowering chick flick. Best I could do? 300.
Inadvertently striving to negate my own decisions on manboys? Do I really think the 18-pack, manliest of all men, Roman gorgeousness really exists?
If he doesn’t I’m moving to “Argentina” with my dogs.
K
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