October 3, 2011


A few Saturdays ago was filled with tasks such as cleaning the shitters, vacuuming, dusting, taking out the trash and the obligatory 3+ hours of yard work.  It was a day I set aside to take care of all my grown-up responsibilities that just had been staring me in the face for days.  The loads of dog hair I swept up could have stopped a train dead on its tracks.  And cleaning the toilets is always a good time and reminds me that I am not yet royal enough to have the monarchy attend to all my medial tasks.  Needless, I was committed to attending to my home rather than spending a gorgeous afternoon patio-side drinking sangrias with friends watching college football.

But then I received an invite to (hold for it)….. to join a group of girls consuming sangrias patio-side.  Of course, I dropped my cleaning sponge like a bad habit, jumped in the shower and spent some time in the mirror fighting with my hair.  And then I spent some more time in the mirror screaming at my hair and berating it to death in disappointment.  It was just one of those days where what ever I tried, my head of faux brunetteness wasn’t going to cooperate. 

Fast-forward two hours, 2 shots and 2 sangrias in.  I have forgotten about my rat’s nest head of hair and kibitzing with a group of funny gal pals.  College sports make me happy and so does the blanco queso served with warm tortilla chips.  Part of the group dwindled due to family responsibilities and children to tend to at home.  The remaining warriors and I moved on to another locale with visions of filling our wine glasses with quenching new wines.  Throughout the afternoon I had befriended one of the ladies in our group who I respectfully referred to as the Cougar.  She was hilarious, pretty, straightforward, divorced and holds a powerful job.  We hit it off immediately and began exchanging jokes and camaraderies.

So on we went.  We ran into a fine gent who stopped to give us a lift and befriend us in the 4 blocks it took to drive to the next watering hole.   He was good looking.  He was charming.  He was my age.  He was personable.  He was well groomed.  Did I mention he was my age?  He was also more interested in the cougar in our group than holding a conversation with me about well, anything.  Maybe I had food in my teeth or a booger hanging out or something?  She had charm, she had confidence and she had great one-liners.  She told me right out of the gate she was going in for the kill and that I needed to layoff.  I didn’t realize chics marked their territories so quickly.  Apparently, those of the feline species do.

Even if I  were interested in him, I had struck out before getting up to bat.

I don’t mess with cats.


  1. The funniest part of that definition is "cougars are gaining in popularity." HA! I'm dying to know what happened between the cougar and the hottie. Did she spill any deets?

  2. How old is a cougar that's what I want to know. And what happens if you reach that age and you're not a hottie or a milf. I guess you're put on the scrap heap.

  3. claire i was just about to say the same thing!!! haha

    i want details too! in your witty words please! :)

    i wish i could go out with you, bed head and all.

  4. Oh what I wouldn't give for photos of this 'event'....

  5. As a witness to this debacle, I think you did just fine! He looked like he was 18 and he messes with feet for a living. Let the cougar have him ;)