Day Four - A Lunch Date Gone Horribly Wrong

Word Count - 10083 (and a double space)

Yep, same as yesterday. I got nothing done, though I did manage to open the document and double space between two paragraphs. I didn't save though, so maybe that doesn't count.

In my own defense, you can blame this girl I went to school with. Someone who, quite honestly, I could have gone the rest of my life without seeing and been perfectly fine with it - which was exactly the way it was 27 years ago when we were in school. Back when we were "close" according to her, but acquaintances by my memory. I don't really remember having close friends in high school because pretty much everyone in my clique ridden hell of higher learning were fucking dickheads. Most of them never grew out of it either, as evidenced at the one and only high school reunion I will ever go to 17 years ago - the one where the A crowd acted like we were the best of buds while they slobbered all over me in a drunken stupor. WOOT acceptance at last, finally I didn't have to worry about getting my underwear yanked up my asscrack in the middle of the hallway, feet stuck out to trip me while I walked to my seat, or gum stuck in my hair. But quite honestly, I was 28 years old - by then I would have just kicked their asses. Funny how much easier it is to defend yourself once detention isn't a consequence.

At 45 you kind of slip into the social expectations - you run across an old acquaintance that you were so close to that the only thing you really remember about the bitch is that once she made you pay her a buck for a piece of gum because you kept forgetting to pay her for it- and she charged you interest, and that she had a pretty vulgar nickname because she was a bit of a slut - so you say "We should have coffee sometime."  Never once have I had one of these people start badgering me about setting up a date to do it. And so, out of the desire to rid myself of the consequences of my big mouth, I agreed to a lunch date at Olive Garden. I figured I could at least get a decent meal out of it.  You know a lunch date is going to be suck-ass when you suggest Sushi and they immediately say "I don't go for raw fish" Seriously, who actually thinks that all Sushi is raw fish? Oh that's right, everyone here in my little corner of Bumfucked Egypt.

So, we had dinner, and this woman talked, and talked and talked - about her diabetes, about her cats (with pictures), about her daughters rollerderby, (?!?!?!?!?) about her upcoming laser hysterectomy thingy-majig - and about pretty much herself over the salad (which she ate all the tomatoes out of), our entrees, and dessert. I think I got a mention in about my daughters upcoming weekend with her boyfriend - which earned me a look chastising me for my bad parenting skills. After three torturous hours we left the restaurant - thinking I was home free, but alas - "I just need to make a quick stop at the grocery store" an hour later, I made it home just before my daughter got home from school -where she commented about the four bags of canned and boxed food from four days ago that still waited to be put away. We live in a friggen motel lady, bit of a shortage of storage space. Get over it Martha Stewart.

In summation - my writing time shot to shit thanks to four hours of pure torture!  So, a few words of wisdom for my NaNo friends:

1. Screw social pressures. Don't ever say "We should have coffee sometime" unless you really mean it.

2. If they suggest it, accept, but then remove and block them from facebook, whilst praying you never run into them in public.

3. If you do get stuck, claim an instant craving for McDonalds drive through- shouting cheerfully, "THE MCRIB IS BACK!"

4. Drive yourself or take the bus

5. And as an absolute fail-safe - eat something you know will give you gas - not even the most obnoxious old school 'friend' will think you were close enough to put up with a bad case of after dinner farts.

Regrets are a terrible thing, and not only am I regretting an afternoon in hell, but the loss of a good 5k in lovely NaNo words. Not to mention the mental image of this woman having her innards cauterized, her  "Oh so Cute" daughter beating up people in rollerblaes while she watches in a poodle skirt, and her husband's love of butchering Bambi's mother. Images of which don't bode well for my dreaded sex scene either.

There is a reason they were high school friends - they need to be left in high school, kind of like the ancient electric typewriter I wrote my first stories on.

Awww...my old typewriter...finally, a bit of nostalgia. At least I got something out of yesterday.

Besides after-dinner gas.