You really want some space, or are you and I going to go get drunk?

As you may recall from previous blogs this week, I went out on the town with the girls Saturday night. And by 'girls' I don't mean my boobs. Those are ladies. I mean the other stay-at-home moms that want some time away from changing diapers and whiny husbands and children. It wasn't filled with nearly as much alcoholic fun this go-round because, after a sit down with myself figuring out who I am in this relationship, Margarita and I have decided to see other people.

Margarita's an enabler. Margarita always wants me to do things louder and without thinking. If I'm out with a drink, I need it to be a good liason between my brain and my vocal chords. I don't need Margarita shutting off my filter and having me blurt out my bra size and sexual curiosities. Okay? That's why I took Rum out on Saturday.

Rum's a boring, fruity, fucker. You ever go out with a friend that's too timid to make any decisions or speak up and just shrugs any time something might be interesting to him or her? Yeah, that's Rum. That's me on Rum because when I ingest it, I become Rum's boring ass proxy. I only had 3 drinks the whole night and I wasn't feeling buzzed with any of them. It made me really miss Margarita's wild side, you know?

I did manage to fall off the curb of Heidelberg's though. That was completely sober. But again, classic Cassidy behavior...especially since we were trying to make a quick escape from Geraldine's new stalker.

He seemed normal at first and I even felt bad that he bought a round of drinks for a table of married women. But I certainly got the "creepy dude" vibe after this conversation:

Geraldine: "The three of us met online and now we're friends, we babysit for each other, and even work out at the gym together."

Stalky Creepsmith: "Oh, what gym?"

Geraldine: "[actual gym name]" (of which she instantly regretted mentioning)

Stalky Creepsmith: "Which one? [Location A] or [Location B]"

I just got the feeling that I was going to be running on the treadmill one day and have Mr. Creepsmith wave a jolly "Oh, didn't realize you worked out here." I would probably trip, land my face on the track, and be promptly shot out onto the floor via conveyor belt. Not that I'm terribly worried about my own safety, he was all about G-dawg. He even gave her his card after trying to shoo Kelly and I away from the table. By the way "Stalky Creepsmith" is a step up. His real first name was Quitman. It wasn't a codename either. We saw the business card.

Long story short, one shit-hole karaoke bar and a near DUI arrest later abd we found ourselves at some honky tonk joint that played a combination of AC/DC, Country, and Booty Rap--of which everyone still line danced to. They even had a mechanical bull and a stripper pole. Totally a step up from "T's Toothless Karaoke Lounge." Seriously, the door hadn't even closed behind us before we walked right back out. It was a tiny room so filled with smoke that it made a fog that rolled off it's whopping 3 tables. And yes, there was at least one toothless man.

If Margarita had been around, I probably would have been singing karaoke on the bar and later been heaved off of a mechanical bull.