Caterwauling

I’ve refrained from blogging about squeak toys, although I seem to meet them all the time.

A “squeak toy” is Sabre’s word for the variety of bubble-headed bimbettes we come across who get an “9.5” for the hair flip and the high-pitched giggle but a negative score when it comes to mastery of English, abstract concepts or just plain fuckin’ sense.

The original squeak toy, I remember not (completely) because of her yellow polka-dotted high heels and Daisy Dukes, but for the fact that her boyfriend had such a hard-on at the party that he was trying not to visibly cringe every time she emitted a squeak that made us all look at him with pity.

I know, I wish I were dumb and pretty myself. I admit it. I’d probably be too oblivious to the world to actually care about it. In fact, I was watching Fox News Channel (*stabs out eyes with pen, hangs self with iPhone charger*) yesterday, and they announced that a new study says men choose beauty over personality in the opposite sex.

Um, DUH.

Glad to see Fox is just as adept at making up news as ever. The world hasn’t yet gone mad.

The thing is, I guess I think dumb is ugly. Or, at least, most of these chicks aren’t cute enough to be airheads. I mean, I’ve had to define more fourth-grade vocabulary words so that they could participate in the grown-up conversations to last me a lifetime.

Case in point: I was in the purse aisle at one of my favorite stores, and this dumb bitch and her dumber-bitch daughter — who was about 22 or so — were looking for a new purse. Now, Baby Airhead knew a Michael Kors bag on sight, but she wasn’t impressed by it. In fact, in her words, “I am mediocred by everything.”

*eyeroll* *headslam*

Dear “thinkerbelle”: You might be pseudo-cute to look at (and that’s stretching it, to be perfectly honest, as your mouth hanging open did nothing for me), but that will fade soon enough. And the idiots who pick you over the smart girls may never be smart enough themselves to see past the tips of their dicks, but we won’t feel bad for them when they wake up and realize they could have done better.

Hopefully by then, the rest of us smart girls will have found someone to stimulate our brains, although if these guys have been spending their lives not having to kill themselves to make conversation with the likes of you, no wonder none of us can find our intellectual equivalents. Thanks for dumbing down the population, one conversation at a time, and perpetuating the stupid genes. …

Time to say goodbye to yet another summer. Had one dinner made on a grill and never once had a whole holiday to myself. Sounds like every summer for the past five years.

I’ve been sure to pack weekends full of activity, though, and this one was no different. First, everyone wish Sabre a happy birthday! We celebrated Saturday at Ned Devine’s, where we saw a comedy show, hung out at the piano bar and also danced — I like how it was a one-stop shop like that.

One member in our group gave me pause as to his man’s man uber-straightness. Maybe it was the Polo bath he’d taken, but my suspicions were confirmed when he would only dance to trance music. 😉

I must say that the suburbs attract some fine-lookin’ men, although Ned’s crowd skewed a little young for my tastes. Which was cool — I was plenty liquored up on Guinness and was happy to go dance like no one was watching because, well, no one was! I liked the mix that DJ Phenomenon was playing, although white kids + hip hop = lots of laughter coming from my table. And when the trance came on, shit, everybody but three people in my party left the floor.

It was a good night, although I had a “moment” at the piano bar when I asked the guy to play a song my grandfather used to be known for in his rock star days. Somebody who’d drank four Guinnesses at that point lost her little mind in the blue room. Here I thought we’d be comforting Sabre on the 10th anniversary of her 29th birthday, but she was my rock during those excruciating three minutes. So by the time I cried off all my makeup, it was time to hit the dance floor and show all those kids how to use their hips and not dance like they’re a bunch of fucking hitchhikers with their thumbs out. 🙂

Yesterday, I dragged my hungover ass to Rockville for Uncorked, the wine festival held in the middle of Town Center. As soon as I got there, I was pleasantly surprised to run into Princess Cat there, and we, along with her posse, probably tried every wine there with our $10 wine glass engraved with “Un-corked.” Although it bothered both of us to have the word hyphenated and, if we had full use of our faculties at the time we were discussing it, we might have tried to scratch it off. 🙂

I had mentioned to Cat about dating a guy with kids, and she looked at me so curiously and said, “But don’t you hate kids?” I’m like yeah. See, even people whom I only run into every couple of months know that about me! What’s funny is that after I left the friends to go to my car on the opposite side of the Town Center, a guy with a kid stopped to smile at me. I kept walking. I don’t care that he was cute — I felt it was best to keep movin’ on.

There’s photographic evidence of me being at this wine festival, as they got Linda and me in a shot. And the friends were laughing at me, as when the photographer asked what city I’m from, I totally froze. Because I’ve been spending more than two years NOT saying exactly what part of the city I live in. All anyone needs to know is D.C. So finally, I sputtered, “Rockville!” and yeah, that was ever-so-convincing. And the woman’s all, “Are you in Fallsgrove or King Farm? Which area specifically?” And I was struggling for the word “Travilah” because I ate pizza there once, but I’m like, you know, Rockville Rockville. LOL.

We ran into my friend J. from work, which was a pleasant surprise, too. I realized that, for all the insensitive douchebags who seem to roll into my life, I’ve got many more good people of which to speak.

Speaking of douchebags, we ate at Austin Grill, where the food was better than the service. The server kept ignoring us (all I wanted was a damn refill on my water or, better yet, an iced tea. Matt finally had to flag down another server just to ensure I got a drink … and this was when the rest of them had their meals and I was still sitting there, looking stupid. I finally got my freaking iced tea — for $2.50 — and there were onions on my Hangover Burger. Which I had explicitly asked not to have. I tossed the onions in my empty water glass, which the gang said would no doubt make the girl remember to refill our water glasses! (She didn’t. Surprise.)

Today brought more work. Shocker. Finally left the house at 8 p.m. to get dinner that included a bruschetta burger and garlic-cheese fries. And then after the heart attack. … LOL, just kidding, although I really can’t move my left arm after THAT meal!

Anyway, just watching Justin Timberlake on HBO this evening. (Actually, watching Timbaland. Easier on the eyes.) I’d say the perfect end to the perfect weekend, but I’d do so with the caveat that the “perfects” cancel each other out and it’s just another average, ordinary day fading into another. …