after a very depressing and sad conversation with a dear friend about grandmothers, death and dying, red bull faintly and longingly started to call my name. long gone are the days of a friday afternoon, drinking mixed cocktails while dancing alone in my desolate living room to a blaring stereo full of loud screaming nin music. the room is now full of the mellifluous screams of children fighting over polly pockets while i try to take back control of once upon a time adult programming on the t.v.
three or maybe four red bull and vodkas later, i settle on a sappy movie, the notebook. yes, i know, i'm year late and a dollar short but i don't get out much anymore. two kids for the price of one are hard to unload on anyone willing to take on the challenge so, i patiently wait for cable to air last years fare. while trying to watch the movie on a palette comprised of chocolate milk and cheetos, i find it hard to watch the sappiness through my tears and grime. damn you nicholas sparks, why did you have to go and write such a cheese whiz book for me to lament on what might or might not be in my future with my husband? needless to say, i'm definitely more depressed than i was before i started the lame evening.