...it seems odd, but it happens. So when it does, it is vitally important to remain in control of the situation. First, remove all cats from the premises; their perpetual look of chagrin only invites more self-scrutiny. Once the area is clear, scan the floor for errant obstacles that might remind you that you have to clean this shit up, for godsakes! and swiftly shove them aside with the outer end of your foot, in an arcing sweeping motion. Try not to fall. If at all possible, you should be holding a glass of wine in one hand. Avoid beer and Martinis. Beer, because of its co-ed connotations, and Martinis because we all know what a piece of rubber doo-doo Sex and the City 2 was. *Shivers*
Make your way across the room and promptly begin to do something productive, like pay bills, or listen to Bessie Smith. You'll soon find you are quite at home in $25 dollars worth of nickel-plated rhinestone frippery.
The other day I accidentally said I was 35 years old. I'm not 35. I'm 34. I guess I decided to face the inevitable and start getting used to the number before I had to wear it for real. I've led an odd 34 years. For one thing, I've only had two relationships, both monogamous. Both long-term. Both Libras, actually, but that's irrelevant. My boyfriend would love for me to find a girlfriend, a thought I am not completely averse to, but find very unlikely.
For one, I find most women unattractive. I'd say my ratio is somewhere in the 8-to-2 range in favor of men. For every eight men I find physically attractive, I might find 2 women attractive. Considering the fact that I am also uncommonly picky about men, that leaves very little room for the ladies. Nevertheless, I've come to terms with my latent homoerotic inclinations and have to admit that I am completely capable of hosting a Tupperware party, given the right circumstances.
As Oscar Wilde once said, "Experience is one thing you can't get for nothing..."
