Most of my dreams lately involve cocktail parties.
I get the sense that I'm not invited. I just stand back between the plate of weenie rolls and rich people chomping ice cubes and stare hopelessly away at the object of my affection.
Last week, it was Maureen Dowd.
She came to the cocktail party, and I followed her around like a doe-eyed puppy dog. MoDo didn't return my advances, so I dejectedly returned to the plate of weenies.
The other night, it was this muscle-bound real estate agent. I wanted him to take me to the upstairs closet so that we could fuck like rabbits. He had closely cropped blond hair, dark blue eyes and dimples. God, he had dimples.
I stared at my vodka on the rocks with its sexy red straw poking up in a suggestive manner.
"Please take me to the upstairs closet," I mouthed to the bottom of my glass.
The blond real estate agent never did and again, I returned to my spot between the plates of weenie rolls and rich people chomping their ice cubes.