Hooker shoes

When I got divorced, my lovely friend Emily called me up one night and said "Put on your hooker shoes, girl, we are going OUT!"

There is a lot of goodness that can come out of rampant bad behavior, I have found. At six feet and change in my platform sandals with my boobs hoisted up under my chin, dancing to a cover band playing the very best of Winger, I felt pretty good again. I felt a million miles away from huddling in the spare bedroom, clutching a baseball bat in desperate fear of the ex. And, though I wasn't quite a million miles away, I was at least headed down the road. So, when I hang out with Shaun's ex on Saturday, I plan to bring glittery makeup and a pair of Lucite heels for her to wear. She lost two years to this ass. Thank god I only lost two months.

Last night, I had a long and gorgeous conversation with New Orleans Boy (I will refrain from calling him NOB because that ain't right) that concluded with him saying "I can't seem to make myself hang up. It just gets harder and harder to do." That was sweet. He may be coming to Chicago for a month to stay as sort of a trial-run to see if he'd like to live here. That's a scary thing, but also pretty exciting. After I talked to him for the second time, I remember hanging up the phone and saying "I'm going to MARRY this guy!" Maybe, maybe not. We'll see. That's all we can do, right?

Tonight, I have a date with a sweet guy who's taking me out for sushi. He may prove to be a little too sweet, but we shall see. Tomorrow I have a date with another guy, who is sweet to me, but has apparently broken at least one girl's heart along the way. Saturday, though, is the date I'm looking most forward to: the one that involves hooker shoes and gin drinks.

Let's all get better by being a little bad.