Good Sport

I can't remember the last time my bra and panties matched. There's a story in there somewhere. Some pithy, hilarious, meaningful saga full of colorful characters and action scenes about how long I've been married and though I'm not yet to the granny pants stage yet (but I hear those work just as well as the lacy blues) versus some of the single, then not, single, then not swanky hot to trot friends in my world. I could have been at my writing class right now writing about just that. Writing class. Writing. Right. Except I dropped out. Scared-y cat. Loser. Off to a Lipstick Call with the girls instead to Sportsman's Wine (whine) bar. Be a good sport. Wine, cheese and Bruges beer just like the old back in April times. There were nonstop tales of It's Pat!, the deep-voiced Patty in a dress, the transvestite forklift operator hauling bricks, the $6500 toilet with the heated seat that rises upon approach, and even rinses and dries, oh my. There was the traumatized at Miraval neighbor that is about to see the real side of drop your pants in the kitchen Dr. M, the vulva in a Volvo, cut the cards for the rising from the dead past, Art or Todd, maybe Chuck or Rusty, can you cure a commitment-phobe, drinks too much, likes to stay up high but still lots of chemistry with silver shoes? Or say good-bye to the blue truck guy that's impossible to forget and the mom knocking on the window during the St. Patrick's Day - Easter bunny festival? How about the "have I taught you nothing?" candy ass comedienne that will soon be on a stand-up stage doing her schtick, bringing on the pee in my pants laughter. So much material for a dropout like me. Matchless undies, old shoes, plain toilet, home to hug, hug hubby, still cracking up. Cheers.