Speaking of which, I’d like to bring to the board a complaint if I may.
What the hell is with this aging shit and what does it have to do with alcohol tolerance?
I’ve been drinking vikings under the table since birth. And when I drink, I drink. None of this pussy-ass squinty-eyed, drooling, slurring, blacking- out bullshit.
The men are crying and throwing up on themselves and I’m jabbing at them with a pitchfork.
Come on princess! Driiiiink!!!!
I’m like a tequila shop-vac and I’m on full force until the sun comes up.
Or at least I was.
Now it’s more like.
First glass of wine – warm and comfy
Second glass of wine – cocky and belligerent, pogues blasting, blatant abuse of ebay account.
Third glass of wine – full-on all-out pants-off dance party, signing contracts to co-star in naked cooking shows, texting pictures of my boobs to virtual strangers and waking up in the contents of my toy-box with no vivid memory of using any of them.
Really? This is what being in my 40′s means?
Oh and speaking of aging, Franky decided to initiate a spontaneous wrestling match on Monday morning.
No, not sex you losers, actual wrestling. It’s the real deal over here at The Lady’s Lounge.
And it was all cool, I was totally *winning until mister decides to try some fancy move that I don’t know the name of but basically translates to jump on Jen and land with all your body weight, directly onto her chest.
I heard the crunch and panicked for a second, but everything was fine, until the next morning, when I put my shirt on with too much enthusiasm…
I heard it again. And I felt it again. In the same spot. Only this time, it hurt like a bitch.
And it still does.
In fact I’m quite certain at least one of my ribs is displaced or fractured.
Franky, now that the novelty of winning has worn off, is devastated and feels horribly guilty but let’s face it folks. This has nothing to do with his brute strength. And we all know it.
I’m just not as young and agile and bendy and I used to be.
God that hurts to say out loud.
So yeah, aging pretty much rocks.
I’ve become a cheap easy drunk (well, I’ve always been easy but that’s another 100 posts) and I’m breakable on contact.
Oh and also, apparently my metabolism packed up and moved to a retirement home in Florida without me because all it takes for me to gain weight these days is a basket of french fries and 6 cupcakes and Bam! 10 pounds. Just like that.
Speaking of cupcakes, the weirdest thing happened the other day.
I have two friends who have this rather unfortunate penchant for Malibu Rum & Coke, for which I like to ridicule them, on account of it tasting like something a 14 year old virgin would drink. One of said friends also, incase the R&C wasn’t enough, has an almost debilitating cupcake addiction.
So I was sitting around questioning our friendship and wondering if I should wean them off slowly or cut them out of my life cold-turkey – because honestly who can afford such embarrassing friends? – When this happened.
That picture is making me hungry and I can’t remember what this post was about – You know what they say, first thing to go is the memory – Also, my rib hurts too much for me to scroll up. It was probably about how awesome and inspiring my friends are and honestly, I hate to put the spotlight on other people so I’m calling it a post and going to see if there are any cupcakes left.
Tune in tomorrow for – How obese is morbid, what are those giant freckles on my hands and why does my bedroom smell like old people in the mornings?…