Last week I got a chance to see one of my besties. One of my lurvs. One of my fellow Harry Potter Musical quoters. One of my other halves floating around out there. After watching her kick some major racquetball ass (no seriously, she’s a rock star), we went the Rinc (The only Mexican place in Tuscaloosa. Ok, ok, the only one that matters.), and over a couple of cactus-stemmed margarita glasses we had the talk. The “single girl trying to put herself out there talk.” But of course since it was us, there was no crying. No moping. Just fits of laughter and elaborate hand gestures which result in the flinging of straws from said cactus marg glasses.
I guess it all got started when Miss A decided she needed to get married stat because there’s some hella cute Bama babywear out right now. Ah, yes, nothing like a ticking uterus to kick the quest for your life mate into high gear. It was decided that if she absolutely had to have the houndstooth onesie…Because she knew with all her heart that she’d never find a onesie more perfect than this onesie, that she could buy it. And keep it in a box. Hidden deep in her closet. That she’ll never speak of until she is in fact in labor with future child. Because let’s face it, the whole casual dating thing leads to an arsenal of “It’s just not going to work out,” “I don’t feel the chemistry,” “I don’t think I’m ready," "It's not you, it's me" excuses, and if something like this…That you have a stash of Alabama-centric baby gear hoarded away…comes out in conversation, you might as well call it quits and declare, “I’ve got a whole box of it’s not gonna work out,” cut your losses and run. And thus our motto for the evening was formed.
So Singletons, (or former Singletons) let’s have a little honesty. What is (was) your whole box of “not gonna work out”? Is it a baby clothes collection? Or something more along the lines of what’s in my box…?
*My need to buy cheap retro movies because I know, inevitably, I will want my future children to watch them (i.e. Milo and Otis, Muppets Take Manhattan, the made-for-TV-people- version of Snow White, the Emperor’s New Clothes [yes, the one with Sid Caesar. Think Sunday Night Disney circa 1989])
*Cat. No really. Need I say more?
*My inability and unwillingness to share. Food, TV, bed, downtime. All the most important things. They are mine and there’s no room for anyone else on a regular basis.
*A collection of nightgowns (mostly given to me by my mother), which have long been deemed my own unique variety of birth control by one of my other other halves…
Ok, I spilled. Your turn.
On a totally separate note, who’s pumped for Premiere Week? We’ve already jumped into the new Dancing with the Stars (told ya I wouldn’t miss it. And The Situation, Hoff and Dur da Dur Palin did not fail to disappoint). Tonight we’ve got Glee (Gleeeee!), Parenthood (but major catching up to do first) and Biggest Loser on deck. Wednesday is Hell’s Kitchen, Modern Family and the culmination/reunion of Top Chef and the continuation of Top Chef: Just Desserts. Thursday’s packed with Community, perhaps $#*! My Dad Says (although, I’m not trusting new CBS comedies. Mike and Molly was a big tankeroo, flush pocket last night. Woof.), the Office, more Project Runway and the popular trio Grey’s-Private Practice-30 Rock that I’m not into, but to each her own. And on HBO we've got the new Boardwalk Empire and the return of Bored to Death. Whooo.
Am I missing anything? Hurry before little DVR gets too worn out. (He really needs a name, doesn’t he? Yeah, while you’re telling me what’s in your box, give my lil buddy a name, would ya? K, thanks.)