Aaaahhhh, what a lovely time!

Just had the BEST, most romantic first date ev-ar! It lasted two whole days. There was a roaring fire, there was good Vampire wine and vintage shopping. There was a Celtic pipe band, and dinner with friends. There was chocolate shampoo for everyone!!! And I am a radiantly gorgeous Irish wench with a new growly Bear friend who is coming to see me again this weekend. PURRRRRR!!

basking in the glow at janeh928@yahoo.com

BuZZZZzz......

The Starbucks is very strong in this one.
Oh my goodness, I have a really, REALLY crazy buzz from my coffee break this afternoon.
I am pretty sure my Cafe Verona was laced with meth.
And now, I feel I could take over the world, Pinky.
Working--faster and smarter. That should make my new boss--The Death Lord--quite happy.
I feel like a husky working for him--MUSH, MUSH!!! Slogging through 20-foot snowdrifts on my way up a mountain of ice! HOORAY!! and all for a little bit of dogfood and a warm place to sleep.

life is grand, can't wait for tomorrow! at janeh928@yahoo.com

These things really do happen to me.

I don't make them up. This Saturday was no exception.
I went out with Big Red and Monk, only to find myself in the middle of a nightmare.
Smokey the Tanktop showed up, of course, complaining about G-field's new smoking ban.
AND Big Red had invited a blind-date for Monk.
HORRORS!!!!! He told her in the middle of the date that Monk had dated both me and Smokey. Now that's the way to get a girl for your best friend!
I believe the girl was terrified of us, and rightly so.
She, however, was nice, though obviously anorexic (sadly, I'm being serious about that, not catty). And blonde. with nice legs. (hate, hate)
But, she didn't eat anything at dinner. She had 2 beers.
Then 3 more when we went out to the club.
I don't blame her though. I would have tried my hardest to get drunk in a situation like that myself.
In fact, I handled the situation very well. I am pretty well over the whole Monk crush.
I didn't even scratch Smokey's eyes out!!

it was a real possiblity at janeh928@yahoo.com

The Photo Shoot...

For some reason, my alma mater, good old HC (I miss thee, dear friends and freedom and long weekends of fun!) wants to do an Alumni Profile on--ME. Kitty. For REAL.
I am flattered, and think it's ridiculous at the same time.
What shall I wear for the photo... what shall I wear??
Now, if you read this on a regular basis, you'll know I'm a flat-out, hands-down, out of this world fashionista with a terrible shoe fetish. (Read: a good pair of knee-high black stiletto boots could very well put me into an orgasmic state.)
SO, the shoes are VERY important to this photo.
Black, peep-toe slingback satin stilettos? Hmm...too much kitten for work. Must be more professional.
The afore-mentioned boots, or one of the many tall-boot sisters? Maybe too kick-ass, though I AM a police reporter, set to destroy bad guys with my lightning quick PEN OF TRUTH!
OUT go the boots, goodbye sweet boots!
No flats. Flats are boring, even if they're covered in sparkles or look like antique bedroom slippers.
This is going to take some work. Any suggestions? (AND LUMBERJACK, if you suggest ANYTHING covered in plaid flannel, I will personally invade WV and kill you myself with a good cleansing scrub and a complete hair makeover, just out of revenge!!!! bwah-ha-ha!!)

mulling over whether the leopard-prints are professional enough at janeh928@yahoo.com

Licking trash cans...

What can I say about drinking 2 margaritas and 2 long-island ice teas other than, if you don't want to kiss weird men, you probably should refrain from drinking that much!
Okay, Friday night and we're about to hit the town. I was lookin' foxy in a low-cut black rocker-tee with a Fender guitar spraypainted on the front of it, jeans, my leopard-print slingbacks and black and white pearls. PLUS a brand new punk-ass, japanimae style hair cut. Pretty cute.
I was with the Bread Ladies--a group of girls who own and serve at our local coffee hangout, including the cashier girl, my sister--known after hours as the Bread Bitches, baby, and tonight we all had special Barbie-related monikers.
Our waiter, Marky-Mark, was pretty fine, and served the drinks with a pearly smile and lots of alcohol, and head Bread Bitch, Donna "PrimaDona Barbie" was footing the bill, so things got a little crazy. Plus, we randomly chose a location where the night weekend DJ from the local punk station was broadcasting his beats.
THAT's where the fun begins. He was cute-super cute. But come on, people. We all know that DJ's are trouble, trouble, trouble. I mean, all this guy does for a living is play music and go to different bars to drink and talk the long night away! Plus, I am positive that these kinds of guys go into the DJ business so that they have an endless supply of women to hit upon.
And on Friday night, I, "Plucky Reporter Barbie," was that woman.
The DJ comes up to me, all Seth Green-like with his red and blond spikey hair and some sort of goggle contraption taped around his head, thinking it's time to chat me up.
We got on the topic of careers and I told him I was a journalist and he said, "Wow, we're sort of in the same line of work."
Um, yeah. NO.
Criminal reporter vs. DJ for Punk Station. But whatever, it's 3:30 a.m.
THEN HE GRABBED MY BUM.
"I'm sorry, but under any other circumstances," I slurred, "you would never have gotten away with that."
AND THEN WE KISSED. A long and passionate Kiss of Very Bad Judgement.
WHAT THE HELL WAS I THINKING????
These guys kiss and have sex with ev-ry-one. Probably because we are all drunk.
I got out of there real quick after that, went home and drank Lysol for breakfast, ate some soap too.
i also accidentally gave him the business card with my real phone numbers on it. oops! at janeh928@yahoo.com

Updates

I have been on vacation--to Mississippi, otherwise, and from now on, known as The Seventh Circle of Hell. Truly.
I saw sides of meat, raw, being sold from the backs of pickup trucks. People were sitting in their yards, still filled with Katrina trash, complaining about being jobless and how the government won't help them, yet local restaurants are closing at 7 p.m. and going out of business from low profits because they can't hire enough help to run normal business hours.
EVERYONE is a chain-smoker, and though I am allergic to cigarettes and was miserably sick all week, I did not ask a single person to stop puffing away, yet when they found out why I was sick from one of my friends, they GOT MAD AT ME, and said, "I hope she doesn't expect me to not smoke in my own damn house, 'cause it's my own damn house and I'm not putting this out."
So much for southern hospitality.
Mother of the family hated me for the following reasons (and it's not as if I'm a date or fiancee or potential threat to her family unit in any way, I was just there to babysit her grandson):
I am not a morning person, therefore, I do not jump out of bed and greet everyone with a cheerful "good morning", which is apparently, appalling in her eyes; i was sick one night and didn't help wash the dishes (I must point out, she didn't help either, because she was watching American Idol); I am allergic to smoke; I was there to help out with her grandson and she wanted to be in total control of his upbringing for a week, though she lives 800 miles away and the poor child is terrified of her; she thinks I could be a threat to her son's marriage, because I live with them (SO far from the truth. I would NEVER be interested in Big Red, and Franny is my best friend in Indiana.); I talked to her husband one time; AND I DIDN'T SHARE THE CHOCOLATE I BOUGHT FOR MYSELF!
Clearly, respectfully, she is right to hate me. From that list, you can see that I am a total BEE0tch of the highest order and deserve to find love from no one. I am a horrible person.
Moving on...
A former boyfriend, The Gypsy, may have recently been murdered or at least abducted, by mob bosses in Florida. (I totally wish I was kidding here) His mother called me this week to inform me that he went back to his old job for a week to help Mike and Anthony (real names, I couldn't think of anything more appropriate than the truth in that case!) shut down their "business" at their repeated request, and was to be back within two weeks, but hasn't returned and he had a round-trip ticket. She believes they killed him and wanted to know if I knew anything about them. I didn't, but it would be sadly appropriate if the Gypsy died at the hand of foul play. He never made the best decisions. I think he'll turn up in 6 months asking me to marry him. As usual.
In still more news, Monk says he only has good intentions towards me, and that I will eventually find out how he really feels, but he can't be in a relationship right now. I think he thought I'd buy that for real. I don't, but am willing to see what happens next, out of pure curiousity as to how he thinks that could possibly be true.
I had to write yet another story for the paper this week about an old man attempting to establish a relationship with a very young woman and realized something: The reason I can't find a boyfriend in this town is because I am over 18, and therefore, too old to be desirable. I can't believe I'm such an old, horrible, let-myself-go, 25 year old. I should have committed suicide for reasons of old age at 20!
My friend, Florida, and her boyfriend, have conned me into going on a blind date with his best friend, who, at current count, has slept with 114 (that's not a typo) different women. Bravo for me, I think I've found the man of my dreams! More on that after the date occurs, but just to give you a taste of what is bound to be an EXCITING EVENING FOR SURE, I have been advised to show up wearing something, "tasteful, yet slutty". That statement has SO MANY things wrong with it, I don't even know where to begin. My brain hurts!

queen bee-otch signing off at janeh928@yahoo.com