The Dog-gone Years

Another week has zipped by. At the rate the days are flying, Christmas is going to be upon me before I know it. And chances are, I’ll be late for shopping and everyone will end up getting food hampers whipped up from my work kitchen.

I’m actually goofing off. Waiting for a 5 pm meeting to kick off to discuss the managers going on a sort of shift mode. For some strange reason, our Operations Manager seem to think this necessary – like we’re not responsible and sensible enough to ensure that we can work around our own schedules.

Long and short of it, this posting is a “meant-to-look” busy posting *grin*

And since it is a whimsical thing, we shall write about nonsensical stuff. Like Shags!

When I was seventeen
It was a very good year
It was a very good year for small town girls
And soft summer nights
We would hide from the lights

On the village green
When I was seventeen

There’s a “drought” going on. And no – I am not embarrassed to say it out loud on this blog. Come on – do you seriously think I have time to go search for the orgasmic paradise these days? But yes, it is happening. And it’s not good. Not.Good.At.All!

Life used to revolve around nothing but the endless search for the nasty. It didn’t matter if you were drunk or sober. Properly dressed or scantily clad. It was all coming off anyway. And it was written in the stars – nothing to hide behind!

When I was twenty-one
It was a very good year
It was a very good year for city girls
Who lived up the stair
With all that perfumed hair
And it came undone
When I was twenty-one

Then life got better as we grew up and became legally entitled to shag. Oh what a happy camper we were in those days. In between lectures, on Friday nights out – it was the works I tell ya. Of course, back then, being young and naïve, one never thought ahead of the “what ifs” and in a way, it was a heady reckless existence we led.

When I was thirty-five
It was a very good year
It was a very good year for blue-blooded girls
Of independent means
We'd ride in limousines
Their chauffeurs would drive
When I was thirty-five

I suppose having moved out to live on my own, one could say that it’s no holds barred Barbs. Unfortunately, while the reigns of freedom has been let loose, one has also grown up. Gone are the nights when it didn’t matter what you woke up to the morning after. When it didn’t matter if there was a deeper attraction or not.

While my best buddy seems to think that I have no lack of “offers”, I would also like him to think that at 32, I have standards of some sort. And anything falling short of any of these quality benchmarks, it just ain’t worth the trouble of getting all dolled up and such.

Does this mean I’ve gone off it completely? Of course not! ARE YOU FREAKING MAD TO THINK THAT?

But now the days grow short

I'm in the autumn of the year
And now I think of my life as vintage wine
From fine old kegs

From the brim to the dregs
And it poured sweet and clear
It was a very good year

It just means that Barbsie’s grown up just a wee lil bit and less likely to do stupid things like go out, get drunk and do a Grey’s Anatomy *grin*

It was a mess of good years

So with that, be a pal and start praying for Divine Intervention. Cos it looks like only God can make it rain *LoL*