The Over-Educated Nympho

I rang the doorbell at Sweetie Pie and Trouble-Maker’s apartment tonight with a bottle of champagne in one hand and several grocery bags in the other.

“IT CAME OUT TODAY!!!!! THE HOUSTON PRESS AWARD FOR MY BLOG!!!!”

“Wow, who gave you the flowers?!” Trouble-Maker asked, eyeing the large bouquet sticking out of a grocery bag.

“ME MYSELF AND I GAVE ME THE FLOWERS BECAUSE THE THING ABOUT MY BLOG CAME OUT! WANT CHAMPAGNE???””

I admit it. I’ve been harboring a secret. I knew before today that my blog had been voted “Best Local R-Rated Blog,” but it’s so much more fun to see it in print and/or on screen. There’s always that chance that something wonderful will be ripped out of your grasp before you have a chance to enjoy it, so I didn’t want to jinx it until I saw it in front of me.

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Today on my lunch hour I went to the pharmacy to pick up this month’s birth control and anti-depressants. This time I had plenty of money so I was also getting the wine I so desperately wanted/needed last month and couldn’t afford. But for those of you who don’t know, you can’t buy wine at the pharmacy counter.

And you know why that is?

BECAUSE THE PHARMACIST WILL YELL AT YOU IF YOU DO.

“Uh uh, Ms. [OEN] you shouldn’t be getting that bottle of wine. You know better than that. You’re on anti-depressants.”

A million snarky things ran through my head (the one that nearly slipped out was “Oh no, it’s ok. I take my wine with a Xanax chaser”) but instead I took my prescriptions and walked away with my head lowered, pretending that she had successfully shamed me into returning the wine.

What-the-fuck-ever. I got another bottle on my way to the front counter. Wine helps me blog.

I just dropped a cracker down my shirt. At work. I automatically went digging for it until I realized that I am at my cubicle within plain sight of anyone and it would be inappropriate to dive down my shirt and between my boobs to pluck out the single cracker wedged between my bra and breastbone.

This isn’t funny in itself, it’s funny because this happens to me with surprising frequency. Fuck me, and now there are crumbs stuck inside the damn built-in shelf-bra of the camisole top I’m wearing underneath my button-up shirt. I’m going to be dropping crumbs for the rest of the day. I’ll leave a little trail every time I go to the break room to get more coffee. Maybe a cute little puppy will start eating my trail and following me. I like puppies.