Precipice

We never did play Boggle. The making out (and the being hammered) sorta got in the way.

A few minutes shy of noon, when we finally dragged ourselves of bed, still sporting our respective wardrobe choices from the night before, Z ran out so I'd be adequately equipped for a hopefully-speedy recuperation fueled by the healing properties of grilled cheese sandwiches, apple juice and a lengthy period of uninterrupted contact between my ass and the couch. He got two kinds of bread because he wasn't sure which I'd like.

This evening, ill-effects from last night's festivities having finally dissipated, I had a remarkably fabulous 90 minute First Phone Call with yet another boy who's name, yet again, begins with "D". So, for no logical reason whatsoever other than because I can barely keep them straight myself, we shall henceforth refer to him as "V." V lives about 40 minutes north, knows how to cook, coaches soccer, and has cats. We're going to dinner on Saturday.

In the interim, because both phoned this evening while I was firmly entrenched with V, there will likely be dates with one of the other myriad Ds (this time, the SoCal artist guy) and quite possibly even with S, the boy from Boston who never misses a workout. Or an opportunity to talk about a workout. Or talk about my workout. Or someone else's workout. Anyway...he's big and buff and I should probably know better but whatever.

Before I try my luck with this latest batch of suitors, however, I have my first date with M3. Like, about 16 hours from now. He's driving down from the big city and we're meeting around noon.

I will be nervous.

(And I never get nervous.)

T-minus this so better be worth the wait.