The biggest loser

It is now officially 10:43 on Saturday night. At 10:43 on Saturday night I was supposed to be balls deep in a pool of martinis explaining the art of the stretch mark via pencil diagram to men twice my age wearing affliction shirts trying to pick me up while I dance with my Fancy Friends at Harry's.

Am I?

Well, not unless you consider sitting on the couch polishing off a six pack of Blue Moon Spring Blonde Wheat Ale (thanks Joe and Mariela for your contribution to our Super Bowl party, and by Super Bowl party I mean coming over and eating pizza with me so I didn't feel like a total douche watching the Super Bowl alone) while wearing the baby monitor as ear phones listening for the slightest wheeze that may escape my baby's lips upstairs.

I'm not exactly sure what bronchiolitis means but all I know is that on Friday she coughed something up that looked like a parakeet and I took her to the doctor and the next thing I know we're doing this:

Obviously that's a baby playing the part of Lila because she's fast asleep upstairs in a Benadryl-induced coma but I wanted to give you the jist.

The only good thing about this whole situation is that get to I put on my Bob Marley CD before I put it over her mouth and start singing "don't worry... bout a thing... cause every little thing... gonna be all right..."

So anyhoo we had to cancel our babysitter and I drew the short straw which means Nick is somewhere fabulous drinking in the company of others like normal people and I'm sitting here like a 15-year-old alcoholic watching Purple Rain. However, in my defense, before Purple Rain I watched a documentary on Sudanese refugees. So that pretty much cancels each other out.

Watching this movie for the first time since high school has given me a whole new perspective. Like every other child of the 90's, in high school I dreamed that one day I MIGHT be so lucky to find a guy as hot as Prince and we would spend our nights oiling ourselves up and gyrating on the floor of our parents' basements in the warm glow of a lava lamp.

But now... well, now...

5. Prince looks like a little black Polly Pocket on that big motorcycle
4. Watching a man skip rocks while wearing black leather lace up chaps may be the one thing that could turn a gay man straight, then drive him to shoot himself in the face
3. When in doubt, strap on a bandit mask, spray on some chest hair and cover your nipples in vegetable oil

2. I don't grab my crotch or stick my fingers in my mouth nearly enough
1. Ok, even though he's wearing a ruffly bib under his mile high shoulder pads, and his hair looks a little like a Labradoodle, Prince still makes my knees a little weak when he sings Purple Rain.

The End.


K. said...

I don't remember how I came across your blog but I'm glad I did. You crack me up! He DOES look like a Polly Pocket on the bike...and it got funnier from there!

The Klinge's said...

My hubby and I watched Breakin 2:Electric Boogaloo last night. Oh, sweet 90's! Nothing like a date with Kelly, Ozone, Turbo and the little hispanic girl who speaks no English but can bust some tight moves ;)