Worked out with a boxing trainer last night for the first time in a long, long while. Though it took a bit for my muscles to remember all the moves, I immediately enjoyed the sensation of knocking the shit out of something. It works for me on such a primal level.
After my great workout, I went out drinking. Of course. My friend Lisa is in town from NY and staying with her parents for the holidays. Since her parents live close to the Kirby/Bissonnet area, we decided to go to Kay’s Lounge, a place I’d only been to once before a looooong time ago. It was populated with the cap-wearing ex-frat boys and squealing girls in spaghetti strap tops even though it was cold as shit outside that I expected it to be. The crowd was pretty tame, though, and we only had to deal with one jackass who wouldn’t leave us alone until he figured out that no, we weren’t going to play pool with him, and no amount of crappy flattery was going to make that happen. I guess some women like a guy to get up in their grill and boss them around, but I don’t dig it when a guy comes up to me and tells me what I’m going to do. Guess he didn’t realize who I am. He figured it out.
Someone else who has figured it out is my friend Robert’s boyfriend, who gave me a Root’n Toot’n Singing Santa for Christmas. This is a 15″ high mechanical Santa figure that dances and sings Santa Claus is Coming to Town. And farts. I realize how ridiculous it is for me, a 35 year old woman, to find it immensely entertaining, but I do. Farts are funny. And judging by the group of laughing people I had around my desk this morning (none of which were twelve-year-old boys), other adults think farts are funny too. Especially fake ones.
And wouldn’t you like to work for a company that produces shit like that? Can you imagine the meetings? You have a Power Point presentation, complete with market studies, demographics and trends. You have one of those telescoping pointer thingys. You’re wearing a suit. And you say the words “mechanized farting Santa” and other people think it’s a good idea. They give you a raise and pat you on the back. You go home, satisfied yet nervous, wondering how you will top the farting Christmas icon. Briefly you think of a farting Jesus, but realize that probably wouldn’t be a good idea. It is this sense of the line, and where to draw it, that makes you the success you are. You think about trading in your Camry for something a little flashier but decide to wait until the next big hit. You get home and your spouse has made meatloaf. You are happy. Good for you.