HEY! I moved!

Mike has been pushing me to try WordPress for what seems like forever and this weekend, I totally caved. I'm sure I'll become addicted, just like I do with everything else.

So...you can now follow my blog at http://southernfriedinvegas.com/ .  That's right...I got have my own website now, bitches!  Don't worry. I imported all my blogs from here, so you can go back and laugh at whichever previous happening you choose.

You can also follow my wedding news and ramblings at http://octobertwentieth.com/ . We have to be the cool couple with their own wedding website, you know. Guess what our wedding date is.  Don't freak out. It's in 2012.

There will be lots of news and events in the upcoming year, so you don't want to miss out.  Trust me.

A Woman's Place...or...Go Make Me a Sandwich, Woman.

Mike thinks that I am afraid of being domestic.  He could not be more wrong.  I would be an excellent stay-at-home mom/housewife.  Us Cancers love domesticity and taking care of others; just consult any astrology book. I may hide it well, but deep down Mike knows I'm fiercely traditional (ok, maybe not fiercely).  I've hidden it very well for the last few years, but I welcome marriage and stability with open arms.  Unfortunately, in today's world, vacuuming in heels and pearls while making your husband a sandwich, while prepping the house for his return home, while keeping yourself beautiful, is slightly outdated and looked down upon...given women's lib and all that. Which is ok, because in my version I vacuum in heels and pearls, prep the house for his return from work, feed him an amazing dinner, tuck the kids in bed while he reads the paper and smokes his pipe in the living room, then he bends me over the kitchen table while I'm cleaning and ruins my perfect image...preferably with a pipe still in his mouth...but whatever.  Same difference.

Sex in the kitchen = YES
Barefoot and pregnant in the kitchen = NO

Trust me, there are no more babies in this domestic fantasy.  Luckily, that special day of the year is coming up that gives us all permission to live out our fantasies and be whatever we want - whether that is a slutty nurse, a slutty cat, a slutty cop, a slutty cowgirl...you get the idea. (Why must most women be sluts on Halloween? and aren't all cats sluts when they're in heat?)
I'm living out my fantasy in full force, except my 50's housewife is secretly slutty.  Until she blogs, then she's slutty for all the world to see, of course.  So, for one glorious day, I'll pretend to be everything that I'm not. (years of independence have created the 21st century whirlwind that is my life) Mike will be the Ward to my June, because he likes to chase the Beaver (his words, not mine).  He's going to give the Beaver a good licking, too, because the Beaver has been bad (my words, not his).
Anyhoo, domesticity will be at its vintage finest in October.  Until then, maybe I'll try to control the kids a little better, make dinner more, serve my man, and "understand his world of strain" like an excerpt from Helen B. Andelin's Fascinating Womanhood says I should.

I hope Mike is ok with pizza and a blow job after I scream at the kids to go to their room.

Where Does The Time Go? or...Man, Those Earrings Are Lovely

It's been too long. I know. I know.  It's been so long that I don't know where to begin! It's been so long that I almost just gave up on this blog and started a whole new one all together!

It's August.  Summer is coming to an end and the kids are going back to school soon (finally!).  It flew by, really, just like this entire year has so far.  Mike has moved in and we're cohabiting peacefully, talking about getting married, planning on opening up a business together, and scheduling our sex just like grown-ups do.  Sunday we'll have been together for 9 months.  It's love and I like it.
I honestly can't wait to get our business up and running.  It is going to be an awesome experience and we are so excited about it.  Things in the office here have gotten a little excruciatingly boring lately and I've all but given up on finding any sort of happiness in my current position.  We've lost some accounts and workload is down, so people tend to socialize.  I am forced to sit in my area because I am the receptionist.  I have to stay put.  Others, however, see fit to get up and wander and chat excessively in their boredom.  I hate this.  I feel like I'm backed into a corner.  I can't get out.  I can't say, "Can't you see I'm extremely busy refreshing my Facebook and Twitter every 5 seconds?!" because I'm too nice...and let's face it...I could get fired.  I don't make eye contact with most people that come up front because I do not want them to feel welcome enough to converse.  It's awful and rude, yes.  But, I'm sick of hearing about people's cats or illnesses or their periods or, even better, their sex life.  Believe me, it's fucking AWESOME that you have a boyfriend that can last for hours and that you are able to have multiple orgasms. FUCKING AWESOME. We should all be that lucky. Maybe...just maybe...I don't want to hear about it at work.  After a pitcher or two of sangria? Count me in.  We can talk about what positions you like too.  Otherwise, leave me to stalk people on Facebook and look at cool shit on Etsy in peace. Please. I'm begging you.  Oh! But definitely tell me about the shot glasses that look like shotgun shells that you found online..because those were kick ass.

Speaking of cool shit on Etsy, I am so addicted to that site.
(Aside: Turns out that both Mike and I were blogging at the same time and both mentioned Etsy.  This is without talking or reading each others blogs.  This stuff happens all the time with us.  We are connected on some other level that I cannot even begin to explain. But I digress...)
I have found a plethora of amazing things.  Items for upcoming nuptials, accessories, home decor, vintage engagement rings, and random oddities. It's the random oddities that keep me entertained throughout the week.  There is a never ending supply.  Let's take a moment to look at this artisan that I found last week.
VulvaLoveLovely is her name and vaginas/female reproductive systems are her game.  This is just a portion of the items she creates.

Uterus fanny pack.

Earrings. Vulva earrings.

For the woman who has everything: A pendant of her own vagina. Just send them a picture!

Uterus pillow. Soooo cuddly.

Vagina pillow.  Just in case you like to sleep with your head on some pussy.  The hole confuses me, though. Seriously.

I need to keep myself busier during the day, I think.

The NERVE of Some People.

I was standing in line at a gas station this morning, waiting to pay for gas, when I felt like someone was standing way too close to me.
I hate those kind of people...the ones that stand right up your ass in line, like we're a bunch of kids in the lunchroom and someone might come and cut in front of you if you leave too much of a space between yourself and another person.  I turned my head to glare at said no-space-giver and as I did my face was literally met with his.  An older gentleman's fucking face was practically all up in my neck.  As I turned, he caught a glimpse of my chest tattoo and said how nice it was.  "It's beautiful work. Did you get it done here in town?"

I was in the middle of saying thank you and telling him where I get my work done, when he started circling me and inspecting me like I was a display at a gallery.  He pondered over each piece...studying it.  At this point, I'm just keeping my eyes forward.  I could feel my cheeks getting red and I just wanted to push him.  Seriously...what the hell was taking the guy at the register so long?! It felt like the longest line on Earth and there were only 2 people ahead of me.

Then no-space-giver spoke. I guess he could see the look of disgust on my face or something.

"It's ok. I tattoo."

Like this is supposed to make me feel more comfortable about him being all up on me.  Really.

So, if some random dude in a bar starts pawing at my boobs with one hand and sticks his hand in my hoo-ha with the other, then tells me, "It's ok. I'm a gynecologist." I shouldn't be worried? Or freaked out in the least bit?

I felt yucky.  He did step back when I obviously wasn't going to engage in conversation and told me to take care of myself as I walked out the door.  Oh, I'll take care of myself, mister.  Especially with weirdos like you walking around this city.  Fuck.

Feed the Beast.

Feed the beast (as found on UrbanDictionary): to send a high-maintenance partner a text message in order to keep them sweet and avoid them getting upset that you are ignoring them.

Similar to a feeding a tamagotchi, you send these texts to keep the relationship alive.

A: You coming to the pub mate? 

B: Yeah, of course. One minute though, I just gotta feed the beast first.


I do this with Mike.  I don't think feeding the beast is a bad thing and I will go way beyond texting in my efforts. I will feed that beast, stroke that beast, surprise that beast more than once a day with gratifications of an oral nature...whatever I need to do to keep that beast happy and our relationship alive.  Why?  Because I love him and he is a good man.  He deserves it.  This is not a one-sided gesture, either.  Oh, no.  He feeds my beast all the time.  
Even when he's tired and doesn't want too. :)


Take this weekend, for instance.  I am headed on a mini vacation with Sailor Girl and Young 'n' Sassy (I gotta come up with a better name).  There will be mountains.  There will be ocean.  There will be a drunk picture or two as well, I'm afraid.  The getaway is much needed and Mike was gracious enough to offer to watch the kids while I go.  He rocks my socks.  He is amazing and wonderful and everything that a man should be.


He taught me how to play Pai Gow poker a few weeks ago while his parents were in town for his oldest son's graduation.  His mom loves the game and he knew that we would be playing it at one point.  Since I'm not much of a gambler and I hate having to count to 21, it's pretty much perfect for me.  I can sit and drink for free, the game gets more fun the drunker you get, you can interact with other people, and if you can't tell what cards you have because you're seeing 14 of them instead of 7, the dealer and other players can actually help you.  I figure with my love of Asian food of all kinds, Buddha, giving massages with happy endings, and now Asian games, I'm that much closer to becoming an Asian.  Something tells me I won't get any complaints about that.  My next vehicle will be a drift car.  Or a rickshaw.  I haven't decided.


Things became more official with he and I over the weekend.  It was the next step in becoming officially official, say...in October of 2012.  It was a few months ahead of schedule, but what is a few months anyway?  I am happy about it, he is happy about it, the kids are happy about it.  It's all good.  It's even good when I start craving chocolate and become Medusa for a week or so every month, which in itself should seal the deal (that, and when he told me to think of all the tattoos I could get with the money we'd be saving).  Before we know it, this might be me!

I don't fucking think so.

I Think It's Gonna Be a Great Day!

I was in the grocery store this morning getting ice cream for my company's monthly pot luck.  I love the grocery store early in the morning, when most of the lights are still off and the stock boys are out...it's quiet and soothing.

I got what I needed.  (Random rant: Seriously, when the hell did it become necessary to charge almost 6 fucking dollars for a carton of ice cream??!!)

At the register, someone before me had left a bag of celery and grapes.  I considered keeping it, but being at the self checkout, I would have ended up having to pay for it because the whole system trips out if items are left on the little bagging area before it's been scanned.  I handed it to the attendant, with a, "Someone left this behind".  Yes! Took care of my good deed for the day!  I was thinking that it, indeed, was going to be a great morning.  It had nothing to do with the gigantic skinny vanilla latte that I had been sipping on since 7am. (not entirely, at least)

I was on my way out, when I passed a boy who was standing alone at the claw machine.  He looked back at me and screamed, "LOOK!! I GOT IT!".  And he had.  There was large alien-looking stuffed animal dangling from the claw.  I didn't know how long he had been standing there or how many of his quarters it had taken to get the prize, but I felt the need to indulge him anyway.
Me:  "That's AWESOME!"
Boy:  "And isn't it adorable too?!"
Me:  "It sure is! Those are SO hard to win!"

That kid was grinning from ear to ear.  He's gonna be talking about that damn stuffed animal all day long.
I'm so nice sometimes.
Where was the kid's mom??  I have no idea.  He was probably about 15 and so packed full of redbull at 8am that he didn't even know where HE was.

It should be the simplest things in life that amuse us all.  Like the first day of summer vacation, being at the grocery store early in the morning, being highly caffeinated, and winning adorable stuffed animals out of claw machines.

This Animal is Domesticated.

I get excited about going home, popping open a bottle of wine, cooking dinner in the kitchen with Mike, getting on a treadmill, doing yoga in the living room, and sitting next to him on the couch while watching "So You Think You Can Dance".  He watches it with me and enjoys it.  Plus I get nice little kisses on the neck and lots of snuggles and shit.  This pretty much makes him amazingly awesome in my book.
Tonight, he is helping me make a middle eastern feast (which is going to be fucking fantastic) and we are making our own tahini and hummus in our food processor! It's sickening to a certain extent! As is my use of exclamation points!!

I am domestic.
And I love it.
All I'm missing is a really cute apron.  And maybe some khaki capris...and a mini-van with a soccer ball sticker on the back.  I'll just stick with the apron.

P.S. - I am totally disgusted with the lack of pictures of chickens in aprons on the internet. I'm supposed to be able to find anything on this bitch.

Alone Time - Chicken Style.

I think this song is sweet, but this video really glamourizes women's alone time.  Does he really think we drink, then slide down the hallway in our socks like Tom Cruise?  He did get a couple things right, though.  I totally paint my toes, especially since I bite my nails and there is also some extra-special alone time activity on occasion...if you catch my drift.  Don't get me wrong, I would LOVE for my nights to involve sinking into a bubble bath.  I'd have to have a bathtub for that, though.  (Note for to-do list: Get a house with a huge bathtub in the master bath)

I need alone time.  I always have.  When I was little, I used to stay up until the wee hours of the morning with all the books I owned laid out on my bed.  I'd read, I'd build things with them, I'd just spend some time in my head...not having to interact with anyone.  

Last night I had a little of that...except it kind of looked a little like this:

Fresh faced, nerdy, still bored, and still not sleepy.

Yep.  I take pictures of myself sometimes when I'm alone.  Gorgeous, right? I also stalk people on Facebook that I know.  Then I stalk people on Facebook that I sort of know but maybe am not friends with.  Then...I stalk people I don't even know.  If it gets to a point where you don't recognize anyone in the pictures you're looking at...it might be time to stop.  Just a word of advice.  What else do I do? Let's see....I drink beer, I eat things that are not necessarily good for me, I listen to girly music, I always think about reading but hardly ever do, I walk circles in my house bra-less, I look at my closet and tell myself I need to clean it out then I turn around and continue my aimless, bra-less, circles...

It's exciting stuff. It really is.  Sometimes girls just need time alone to do stupid girl stuff, without their man getting some weird look on their face like you're a crazy lunatic walking around with blue clay hardening on your face, half naked, and lost looking.  Mike is going to be moving in and around a lot more often than he already is.  It really doesn't freak me out as much as he thinks.  He is extremely understanding (when he wants to be) and I know I'll still get the time I need...even if I have to kick him out of the house and tell him to go play poker for a few hours.  Or, if he doesn't give it to me, maybe down the line I'll have a blog with pictures of him with clay on his face.  Either way, I win.

"I Know A Guy"

Those are some of my favorite words, especially this week.  If you're a resident of Las Vegas, you'll hear that phrase spoken to you more than once during your stint in this great city.  I realize that most places are probably like this, but somehow, those words are like the heartbeat of this town.  As big as it is, and with as many transients as it has, it really is a close-knit community.  Everyone knows somebody and the shadier the business is that you need to take care of, the better.  Maybe it's our mob roots or something...but there is someone for everything.
In one conversation today, I was able to find a guy that can give me a passing smog for registration (for a fee of course) and obtain the inventory to a tow yard, that is owned by someone I know, that will give me a killer deal on a car for Mike and a , second, more gas efficient car for myself if I want it.  That's what I'm talkin' about right there, baby.  I love this town.

All you gotta do is speak up.  Talk about yourself and what you need.  Someone within earshot knows a guy.
Hell, I might even know a guy or two.

Damn, I love this town.

Some Chickens Should Probably Be on Zoloft.

I had a rough day.  I was all set to vent about it here, say a few rants about my significant other, and get out all the anger and frustration I was feeling all day long.  I'm over it now.  Granted, I've still got a lot of things going on in my head, and I wish that Mike would not automatically assume that anything that puts me in an off mood is about our relationship.  We argued practically all day today and most of last night about whether or not I needed space.  He's trying to spend less time with me because he thinks that is what I want or need and I stubbornly said that he was wrong about a million times.  He was taking it a little to the extreme, though, to the point that we wouldn't even be spending nights together anymore (and yes, the fact that it would mean we wouldn't be having sex crossed my mind).

So, I'm sitting here in my chair in my dark room with one candle lit. Honestly, this is a miracle in itself, because this chair is usually covered in laundry - either folded or unfolded...or both.  The house is completely silent.  I don't have to converse with anyone.  I don't have to go to bed because I want to snuggle with Mike before we go to sleep.  I don't remember the last time I had this.  I can just sit here and be in my own head...and I'm realizing that on some (very tiny, minuscule) level that Mike was right.  I know in my heart of hearts that I don't need any less time with him, but I definitely needed some quiet.  Some "me time".  I feel like I have hundreds of things on a very small plate that I am worried about.  I get overwhelmed easily most of the time.  Being alone helps me hear MY voice and get mentally organized.  God, I feel so unorganized...so reactive.  I am the human version of (pardon the pun) a chicken running around with its head cut off.  Circle after circle...squawking away...running into things...making a lot of noise but not really accomplishing anything.

Somehow I need to get over myself and learn to recognize when I need that alone time...and ask for it.  I also need reassurance (through action, not words) that Mike will not get upset and take it to heart if I do need it.  It doesn't mean that I am having any kind of second thoughts about us or where we are headed.

Tomorrow I begin the task of my personal to-do list.  It has nothing to do with any kind of goals that I am trying to set for myself.  Just run-of-the-mill (sort of) everyday tasks that adults have to deal with that I am totally slacking on, yet I continue to worry about.

1. I have to get my truck re-registered. No big deal. I just have to make sure I can get the illegal smog from the guy I got it from last year, pay out my ass for it, and truly...I need to have this done by Friday morning preferably.  Then I have to go to the DMV no later than Saturday morning and hopefully register my truck without any problems.  All while trying to not miss any of my 40 hours of work.  Plus, I do not need another reason for the police to pull me over.

2.  The other reason police would pull me over: an unpaid ticket that went to warrant.  It's a shitload of money to pay off.  I'm tired of being afraid to drive anywhere in the vicinity of a police officer.  I see police and my heart literally palpitates.  I shake.  I was informed that in order to renew my license (which has to be done by my birthday), I have to take care of this issue.  Why?

3. My license is suspended. Yep. I'm a walking driving criminal.  Here's the best part!  After I take care of all the ridiculous fines, in order to get my license back, I have to retake my driving test.  I'm 31 years old and I have to retake my driving test. That makes me throw up a little in my mouth.

4. I've decided to finish what I started 2 years ago and go back to massage school.  (My mind keeps telling me that something is going to happen, it's going to get fucked up, and I'm not going to be able to finish...just like last time) I now have to find time to get my grant paperwork done, call the school and probably go in for some meetings with my registrar.  All while trying to not take time off work because my vacay time is negative, because the brother to the above warrant had me in jail about a month ago for several days.

5. Which makes me worry that I might not have enough vacation time to take the vacation that I am supposed to take with Mike and the kids at the end of July.  We're going to Utah for a long weekend to drive Mike's youngest son Adam back home and to get away.

6. Which makes me worry about the fact that I am going to have Adam and Mike in my house for a few weeks.  Not because I don't want them staying here, but because I want to make sure everything is perfect for Adam and that he is comfortable.  Then I wonder if the kids are going to get along...

DL is suspended because I have a warrant.

8. I need brakes on my truck.  BADLY.  By now I probably need brakes and rotors.  I need to pay my fix-it guy to do this.  I need to have said money to pay said fix-it guy. I need to have one day out of one weekend that is not scheduled, in order to have this done.

9. Oh yeah...along with all of that, I'm planning a wedding in my head.  Yep. In my head.  I don't have a ring yet.  There is a date and venue picked, though. lol. And a wedding dress.

So, while I was stressing over some stuff today, Mike was thinking that it has everything to do with our relationship and whether or not I want him around...which sent me into full on freak out mode.  So bad that I almost cried at work out of sheer frustration.  I do it to myself.  

I seriously cannot believe that I haven't put myself in a loony bin by now.

Jealousy and a Box of Bad Memories

*Warning: (Mainly to 2 girls who follow my blog for entertainment purposes only) This blog isn't going to be funny. Suck it up and read it or go on about your business. Love you.
I know I've said it before...I'm totally lacking in the funny blog department lately.  Not for lack of events in my life.  In fact, it's been a bit of a whirlwind lately.  I've been struggling with writing this blog and I think I've probably written about 20 different versions of this in my head, but certain events in the last two weeks have led me to finally get it out.  I realized this morning that maybe I haven't been able to sit and write on this subject because I had a lesson to learn of sorts.  This may be long, it may be boring (if so I apologize)...I have many a sentence jumbled in my head and no focus.

Jealousy.  I suffer from it.  I suffer from it greatly and I have all my life.  You'd never know it, because of my insane ability to always find the good. (I also have what I now call Pollyanna Syndrome.  I can always be glad about something.  I even sicken myself sometimes with that nonsense.)  Jealousy has been eating me alive the past few months and I didn't know why.  When you feel like life has been a little more rough on you than you would have liked, like maybe you've had to work a lot harder than some people for what little you have, it's hard to watch people who you feel have not been through that. There are just people in this life that do have everything handed to them, that are constantly taken care of by others, that have never had to work for things, who just coast through life without a care in the world, who have different opportunities.  It's just the way it is.

More than a month ago I saw a post on Facebook from Glamour about their Tell Somebody campaign.  It is their new movement to put an end to relationship abuse.  I had thought about writing some of my story then, but didn't.  I couldn't get it started - daily life, lack of alone time, lack of ambition, and a major case of writer's block had me stumped.  I had the thought again 2 weeks ago when someone close to me mentioned that reading that exact article (and the relationship checklist that goes with it) had led her to the decision to leave her fiance.  Still, I had no luck with the writing.  My inspiration finally came to me last night as I sat helping Mini-Me with a school project.  She is creating a timeline of her little 8 year old existence in class and needed pictures to use for parts of it.  I sat in front of a 50 gallon Rubbermaid container flipping through pictures of the most painful 10 years of my life.  Finding pictures for her was hard (I knew it would be).  I don't have as many as I probably should.  The amount of pictures I have of the kids directly coincides with how bad the relationship was with their father.  Autumn was born during the "ugly years".  For the last few years of our relationship, the uglier years, I barely have any pictures at all.  Looking at those pictures last night was a time warp into a period that I would gladly forget.  Autumn was excited for the experience and I was too, at first. I wasn't expecting the wave of flashbacks and feelings that came from looking at those pictures.  She saw family outings, birthdays, and holidays. I looked at the date July 4, 2003 and remembered that it was the first time their dad punched me in the face and gave me a black eye.  I saw the arguments that surrounded the event, how I felt being there, and how I struggled to get just that one good picture where there wasn't someone being yelled at and there wasn't anyone crying.  When you can't get that one good picture anymore, it's time to stop taking them all together.
The kids' dad is bi-polar and a drug addict.  I didn't know that when I fell in love with him.  HE didn't know.  The abuse started after we were already living together. I was 19, pregnant, and scared...and I told him that I was moving back to Georgia...without him.  He went into a blind rage and trashed our apartment, then stormed out, leaving me crying and cleaning up glass.  He came back later, apologized, cried, and told me that the only reason he did that was because he was so upset that he was going to lose me and our baby.  I stayed.  Then I spent the next 9 or so years living through the same thing, over and over again. I spent those years trying to control everything around me, in order to prevent an outburst.  I lost all my friends because I was bordering on being a shut-in.  I went to work and I came home.  I couldn't leave without him needing to know exactly where I was going, making me feel guilty for leaving, calling me the whole time I was gone, or coming up with some emergency so I would have to leave and come home...even when I was at work. His disorder got worse over the years and once his drug use graduated to meth, my kids and I were living with a psychopath. I've been yelled at, called names, had things thrown at me, pushed, choked, hit, been barricaded in a house with my phone smashed and tires slashed, talked him down from suicide, had CPS called to my house...the list goes on and on.  Everything was my fault. I made it all happen, he said.

So, yeah...it's easy to get jealous when you see people who have had it much easier than you.

This morning it hit me on the way to work that I am so very lucky. Not for the first time, mind you.  I have this conversation with myself often...but I guess I just needed to remind myself.  I may not have fancy vacations, I may not have a new car, I may have to work my ass off every day instead of being able to just do whatever the hell I want, and I may not have it easy...but I have a lot that some people could only hope to have...I have what I thought for YEARS was never a possibility. Simple things like happiness, a running vehicle, a roof over my head, happy and healthy children, a life without torment and fear, a life with love (a love so amazing that I couldn't have even dreamed it).  I'll have everything that I want, eventually, but for now I have what I am supposed to have.  There is a reason for everything.

"Success is not found in what you have achieved, but rather who you have become."

The only thing that still sits with me to this day is that nobody ever talked to me about it.  Yes, it's a hard subject to bring up...but I guarantee that if you think someone you know or love is in an abusive relationship...THEY ARE.  They might not listen to what you have to say.  They may be in denial.  Or, they could be waiting for someone to help them, because they can't get away on their own.  You can't make the decision to leave for them, but the minute they make that decision, they will need someone's support.  Reach out. Tell somebody.

For more information on mental, verbal, and physical violence, go to the Glamour link above or go here.

Seriously, who needs therapy when I have a blog??  Remind me sometime to tell you about the scariest night of my life.  No...it wasn't a month ago when I spend two nights in jail.  THAT was a piece of cake.  I'll tell you about that sometime too.

It's Here! It's Here! Oh my God...It's HERE.

My son, Little Man, is 11.  He is a truly awesome kid.  You can spare me the crap about parents not having a favorite child.  The status of who is favorite may be on a sliding scale that changes several times a day, but it's there in the back of all parents minds.  I'll admit that about 20 times out of 10, he's my favorite. He's pretty self-sufficient now and he gets on my nerves a lot less than Mini-Me does.

Yes, he and I have our problems.  He likes to think that I am not the boss of him and likes to slam doors when I throw my authority around and say things like, "Because I said so" or "Because you live in MY house and I make the rules".  Ugh. I can't believe I say those things. He's growing up super fast and I cherish the sweet moments when he tells me he loves me from across the room or hugs me out of nowhere. He's my sweet little boy that once was a huge chunk of baby fat sitting in a laundry basket full of toys.

There have been signs since this school year has started that something big and dangerous is afoot.  It starts with the mood swings and slamming of doors....and leads to armpit hair, deeper voices, and..."alone time" in his bedroom.  His mood has been in an upswing this week and he has been the most loving thing ever created.  Then, last night before I went to bed, I saw that the light and TV was still on his bedroom.  I peeked my head in the door.  My sweet little baby was sleeping all cute like.  I walked through the disgusting boy mess that has become his room, turned off the TV, bent down to tuck him in....and that's when I saw them out of the corner of my eye.
Two pictures of half-naked women, evidently cut out of a magazine or something, pinned to his wall across from his bed.  Within eye view.  When he's laying in his bed.  I shrieked a little, then hurried out of the room.  I have to give him credit, though...they were pretty hot.  And just like most heterosexual boys, he loves big titties and a little girl on girl hugging action.

Oh, sweet beer-drinking Jesus...
PUBERTY IS UPON US.

Puff Puff, Pass.

If this chicken has been sitting at her desk contemplating the celebration of 4/20 and how wonderful it sounds, then it's been a really rough day.

First of all, I have PMS.  I'm generally in a cranky mood and my nerves?  I have none.  Don't mess with me.

Second, I have been dealing with idiots who don't want to do their job.  They are supposed to be providing ME customer service and providing me a product.  The correct product.  I shouldn't have to track down said product, then call said idiot, so he can order it for me.  This is ridiculous.

Third, I hit my head on the paper towel dispenser in the office bathroom.  That just sent me over the damn edge.

Sooooo...this is the dilemma:
Do I celebrate 4/20 by smoking a big, fat bowl of chronic (for the first time in years) or do I celebrate the anniversary of Columbine (which also happened on April 20) and just start shooting?  Decisions decisions...
Tasteless joke?  Yes.  Again...don't mess with me.

Ok, you got me. I won't do either.  I'll go home, eat fish tacos (and I mean actual fish tacos...not pussy), go Zumba at 24 Hr Fitness, maybe drink a beer, and my boyfriend who can do amazing things with his hands and mouth will give me at least one orgasm.  I suppose my ideas of what relaxes me have shifted.  We all can't be Snoop and Willie.

Hmmmm...THAT explains a lot.

I have determined tonight that I cannot watch porn and cook dinner at the same time.  I think that's going to be my new saying.  Like when people say, "I can't walk and chew gum at the same time".
"My goodness she gets distracted."
"Yeah...I don't think she could watch porn and cook at the same time!"  
So, how was I able to come to this conclusion, do you ask? Well...it's very simple really.  I was watching porn and trying to broil some veggie burgers. DUH.

Actually, it went a little something like this:
Last night, Mike and I were sitting at my kitchen table. The subject of porn came up while we were talking about the video on Tosh.0, appropriately named Stripper Soaker. He found it gross and I will admit, the only thing I thought of when I saw the video was that I wanted to see it without the body parts blacked out. (And wondered how she did that of course)  He told me that the first pornographic movie he ever saw was pretty graphic (there were fists involved).  So in turn I, not so reluctantly, confessed that I had watched my first porn when I was at the ripe old age of 11 or 12.  One that I found hidden in a box in a closet (thanks dad).  I was not disturbed at all.  I was quite intrigued.  I watched the whole thing and got my first ever feeling of: oh my god. why am I watching this? I can't look away. holy crap I hope someone doesn't walk in on me while this is on!  
I still remember the damn video.  It was from the 70's.  There was a lady that kept her freakin' neck scarf on while she did the nasty.  And she did the nasty with several men, including the standard black man with an afro and...her "niece".  There was not a lot of waxing that went on and all the boobs were real.  There was even some naked hot tubbing.  I googled today in an effort to make sure I had the name right and come to find out, this just wasn't some chick that kept her scarf on.  She was famous!  So...yeah.  I actually did find the video that I watched several times over the course of my pre-teen/teen years. And I watched it again, 20 years later. And I got entirely distracted, then burnt my veggie burgers.
Mike says that it explains a lot about some things.  I don't know what he's talking about.  I thought all women had an insane infatuation for men with mustaches, hairy chests, naked hot tubbing, and...fudgesicles.

What Can I Say? I'm Enthusiastic.

So, I just got an email from Mike.  Evidently, I left one hell of a bruise on his neck Sunday night and he got a "talking to" at work today.

Oops. Sorry, sweetheart. LOL

"Strong women leave big hickies." ~Madonna

It Must Be Friday.

FIRST Friday.  I went by myself last night in an effort to just spend some time with myself and wander around.  I started the night, though, at my office's monthly karaoke party, which honestly turned out to be a huge mistake.  I left karaoke about an hour and a half after I should have, leaving me stuck in traffic and desperately looking for a place to park downtown when I finally got to the festival.
I did rock two songs from my standard repertoire at karaoke (Joan Jett - "I Love Rock and Roll" and Blondie - "One Way or Another"), but really...I ended up not giving myself enough time where I really wanted it and I am a little disappointed.

Anyway....
I was lucky enough to find a parking spot (not anywhere NEAR my usual place).  I walked over to the Arts Factory first.  I wanted to stop in to see an artist whose work has recently caught my eye (it's very dark and much more powerful in person than online. the characters literally seem to be staring at you wanting your soul. slightly un-nerving) and to use the bathroom...porta-potties are scary and the Arts Factory has actual toilets to use.  I was minding my own business, waiting for the crosswalk sign to change, when I hear: "Hey! Southern Belle."  He introduced himself as JR and as soon as I said "Yes", when he asked me if I was there alone, I regretted it.  He offered to buy me a drink and I declined, saying that I was just there for the ladies' room.  He laughed at me and said that he would see me around and that I needed to stop and see his friend who was playing the guitar around the corner.  I didn't plan on it, seeing as though I am not much into ghetto fabulous with gold chains, smooth come-ons, and bling.  "Oh shit" was what I mouthed when I spotted them on the sidewalk on my way into the heart of crowd...but I saw them too late.  There was no avoiding it. "This one is entitled Southern Belle! Just for you!".  JR was laying it on thick.  I told him I had a man and that I wasn't giving him my number. Regardless of JR's lack of tact, his friend was talented.  I was willing to put up with JR to listen to his music for a minute.  He had CDs on sale for $2, which really is a steal, considering I can't get a good coffee for that price.  He assured me it was enjoyable...just acoustic guitar that he composed himself...no singing, no screaming, no rock n roll...just light, chill music.  I got one.  I listened to it at home later last night with a beer while I was going through some pictures.  It was everything he promised.
Mike had told me about a booth that he had come across with a guy that illustrates these cards with sarcastic, hilarious cartoons on them.  I fell in love with them.  I picked up a couple for Mike, then headed over to Cornerstone Gallery to see my friends' artwork.  It was a circus theme.  Here are some examples of the amazing work they did.

This one was my favorite.

This was so creative. My friends from Red Handed Tattoo Gallery.

I didn't get pictures of them all.  There were a few others that I really liked and am thinking of purchasing.  I hung out with a few friends for a bit outside the gallery.  I had to get home at a decent time to relieve my mother of her babysitting duties, so sticking around and going downtown when I was invited was out of the question.  I really wish I had had more time to walk around and enjoy myself without the constraint of a schedule.  Maybe another time. I really did enjoy my night alone, though, and relaxing with a beer, the windows open, and some guitar was the perfect ending.

Tonight, the kids and I are going to a BBQ.  It's that time of year again...beer, good food, friends, and jacuzzi!  I can't wait.  It seems like forever since I've just kicked back with friends and enjoyed an evening together.

Creative Minds Are Rarely Tidy.

"If you have nothing at all to create, then perhaps you create yourself." ~ Carl Jung

I have had this unfailing urge to be creative lately.  Not necessarily with my writing...obviously, since I haven't blogged in 2 weeks.  I've been keeping myself really busy.  My life and my mind have seemed a whirlwind of activities lately and getting myself to sit and concentrate on ANYTHING, let alone a creative project, seems like it would be next to impossible.  I lack the focus I once had with such things. No...I'm not on drugs.  Maybe I have had a late onset of ADHD. (joking. sort of.)

My camera is dead (literally).  I am taking this as a sign that I need to go ahead and invest in a totally bitchin' camera that has many cool functions.  I've spent a lot of time researching possible options (not).  I will though.  Unless various friends and family members want to pitch in and get me a really snazzy one for my birthday? You have 4 months to save up.  Get on it.  If that is not your thing, then I will be completely self-absorbed and post a list of other acceptable gifts.  Actually, I probably won't.  I usually don't celebrate my birthday with a party (although Mike brought it up and I'm considering it) and I certainly don't expect presents.
Back on subject.  My camera is dead, so said whirlwind from above has not been photographically documented.  Sadness.

Cliff's Notes Version of the past 2 weeks:
St. Patrick's Day was a blast at best, a dramatic unpleasant experience at worst.  My cupcakes were amazing.  Even the burnt ones.  Saw some of my favorite guys, went to a party, saw lots of friends old and new, got tipsy, got chatty, and Mike and I ended up in a fight.  I didn't like it.  At all.  It is significant enough to mention, but not significant enough to detail.
Last weekend was the Mardi Gras birthday party.  Friday night I made red beans and rice and bedazzled some pasties. Saturday morning/afternoon Mike, my mom, Mini-Me, and I went to a Renaissance Faire in Boulder City.  It was good fun. We've decided to go to the large one in Las Vegas this October and dress up.  Mom is making me an outfit. Yay!  Mike and I almost got married (yeah, you heard me right). It would have been completely romantic, but not at all legal.  That night I went to the birthday party and Mike stayed at the house and watched Mini-Me.  I drank some, almost nobody saw my perfectly pretty pastied nipples, got some beads (not by "earning" them, except for one set), and went home to my man at a fairly decent time.  Am I getting boring?  No.  I'll prove it...but not by showing my boobs (unless I take a Burlesque class...which sounds fun!).
Mike and I have been spending amazingly domestic Sundays together with breakfast/brunch, newspapers, PJs until afternoon, and glorious day sex...with the occasional Farmer's Market and gym visit.  Like I said...amazing.  Until I have to take him home.  Which, I keep slipping up lately and calling my house his home (and being ok with it).  More on that later.
Mini-Me tried out for a school play on Monday.  Mike and I thought for sure she would get a part. Mini-Me IS drama. Lessons on rejection were learned that day.

So, Mike is off to Utah for several days and I am here.  Tomorrow night I'm attending First Friday by myself, to wander, take pictures, and bask in my aloneness.  Saturday will be spent at Zumba, the pool, and with beer/BBQ/Jacuzzi time with some friends.  Relaxation is the key word, because I've got a busy Spring ahead.
It's filled with a bellydancing class, charity walks, a course on summer wines at a local cheese and wine shop, Stripper 101 (seriously), outdoor concerts/festivals, out-of-town visitors, and

men in kilts.

Oh yes. There will be kilts.

What can I say...I'm a sucker for something that combines two of my favorite things. Outdoor festivals and...

well...you know.

If You Don't Like Them, My Boyfriend Will Donkey Punch You.



Presenting: The Irish Car Bomb Cupcake

 I am not a butcher, a baker, or a candlestick maker.  I tell you, though, after my baking excursions last night, I surely needed a tub after I was finished.
I don't bake from scratch and now I remember why.  I've been excited about baking these damn cupcakes since I found the recipe online a few weeks ago.  Like, jump up and down excited.  I ordered pizza to be delivered last night, so I didn't have to worry about dinner, opened up a Guinness, had the music going, and got to work.  "Woo hoo!!! Cupcakes!!!"
 4 fucking hours later, I was ready to scream, rip my hair out, then pass out in my clothes on my bed.   I did stop during points because I ended up not having enough butter, had to go find some, and had to vent and whine to Mike a little. Oh...and I had kids coming into the kitchen needing something every 5 fucking minutes.  Let's not forget that.  There was no yield on the recipe, so I...being the genius that I am...doubled it.  Holy batter, Batman!  I ended up making 52 of those suckers, which ended up being a good thing, because I burnt the bottoms of the first batch.  Here's what I learned during my escapade:

1.  Don't double the recipe.  Just make 24 god damn cupcakes.
2.  Sifting dry ingredients together sucks.  Especially when you don't own sifter.
3.  Don't worry about drinking too much while baking...it COULD make the situation a lot happier.  I, obviously, did not drink enough.
4.  It's best NOT to use margarine in your buttercream.  They don't call it BUTTERcream for nothin'.
5.  SugarFree vanilla flavoring for coffee works wonderfully when you run out of vanilla extract.
6.  If you don't own cooling racks, the bottom rack from the oven sitting on top of a roaster pan works like magic.
7.  Do not try to make buttercream with a cheap $6 hand mixer.  It will burn up the mechanics and it will no longer mix...ANYTHING.
8.  Trying to whisk your buttercream by hand to the right consistency sucks more than sifting.
9.  Getting a ganache to the right consistency is harder than the internet tells you.
10.  Buy the bigger bags for piping the icing.  Always buy the bigger bags.
11.  I am one hell of a messy baker.

Regardless of all of this, the cupcakes are delicious.  And they look pretty.  Everyone says they are awesome.  Which, they better...because Mike said, and I quote:
"I had no doubt about your baking ability and I hope that EVERYONE truly appreciates the sacrifice that you made so that they could have some of your alcoholic based baked goods. Or I will donkey punch them. I love you very much dear."  Booyah!
You better like those cupcakes.

So, here's to chocolate-Guiness-whiskey cupcakes, with Bailey's buttercream, and a whiskey ganache.  Now let's go enjoy ourselves and call ourselves Irish!

Stroking the Furry Wall

I was going to say you need to google the title if you don't know what it means, but you'll probably also come up with a whole slew of other nasty, tasteless images.  Let's google, shall we? :)

This is what I'm referring to.

Anyway, I feel busy.  I feel busy (according to Aldous Snow, stroking a soft furry wall will ease my tension...if you haven't seen "Get Him to the Greek", you must!). It's probably the jellybeans I just ate.  My head is racing, filling with all these things I've got going on, but in reality...I'm sitting at my desk bored out of my gourd.

I finally tried Zumba last week and it totally kicked ass.  The teacher was awesome and the class was filled with fun people, cool music, and great dance moves.  It was a titty rubbing/shaking, gyrating, ass-slapping good time.  I am not exaggerating on any of those points.  We did all three...several times.  The teacher slapped my ass a few times and we all know that if the class totally sucked, I'd probably go back just for some more of that.  I made a friend who was also just joining the class and I can't wait to go back.  I don't know when I will be back though...because I broke my toe...or jammed a few really bad...I don't know what the hell I did, but my foot hurts and my toes are all black and blue.  Pretty damn disgusting.  I can move my toes, but it hurts like hell to have my foot in a shoe and walk.

Here's what happened:  I wore flip flops and I'm clumsy.  The End.

Actually, I took Mike for his birthday to see the Cubs play this weekend.  I was walking down the cement steps to our seats, when all of a sudden, my foot flies underneath me and I'm landing on my ass trying not to spill my beer all over myself.  It was comical.  Embarrassing.  I wasn't even drinking yet!  What was even more comical was that I almost did it AGAIN after a bathroom/beer break.  Flip flops will be the death of me.  We had a great time, regardless.  We went downtown afterwards and walked around, until I just couldn't take it anymore and had to go home to put my foot up.  We spent Sunday having coffee, reading the paper, and watching movies.  It was gloriously lazy and I enjoyed having him around.

On the agenda of possible blog-worthy life moments:

Wednesday night I will be baking (yes. baking.) Irish Car Bomb cupcakes for some of my favorite people.  I'm not a baker, but a recipe with Guiness, whiskey, and Bailey's in it cannot be passed up.  Truly.

Thursday is St. Patrick's Day.  I'll deliver cupcakes and do a little drinking with some industry peeps (HOA industry...NOT entertainment industry) and Mike at a local event.

I should be getting a new hood for my truck this weekend. Woot!

There is a certain young and sassy person's Mardi Gras themed birthday party coming up in a few weeks as well.  Beads + Margaritas = Good times!

Luckily, I have a new battery on order for my camera.  I need to incorporate some photos, I think!

It's So Quiet In Here!!

You know, it is amazing how my favorite jeans, my Chucks, a triple venti skinny vanilla latte, and a little Billie Holiday can make a morning practically perfect.

And a quiet, quiet office.

I spent last Friday with Sailor Girl.  We began the evening at a very crowded First Friday, hanging out drinking with the people from Red Handed Tattoo at Cornerstone Gallery.  We left early (at the urging of Sailor Girl) and headed back over to her side of town to two different bars.  Many beers, several Buttery Nipples, thinking we were locked out of the truck, and lots of laughs later...we made it back to her place.  Saturday was spent in what I was convinced was going to be my death bed.  Then, my Knight in Shining Armor showed up to take care of me.  It was very sweet.  I recovered, not so gracefully, and we spent Sunday together...snuggling on the couch with coffee and Hall&Oats (Don't ask. Yacht Rock is awesome, ok?), eating a nice breakfast outside, walking around the Farmers Market, and just generally enjoying each other. 

Mike and I have been doing wonderful.  Something has changed with us in a good way (or maybe something has changed with me?).  We went out for Cuban food/mojitos last week (Havana Grill. You must go there.), spent some time together this weekend, and he came over last night to make me and the kids a Mardi Gras dinner.  Shrimp po boys and red beans and dirty rice with sausage. Yum! And he brought wine.  Our food fest was followed by "a nasty ass, hot, steamy pre-marital boink-fest" (those are his words). 

I am finally going to a Zumba class tomorrow night, which should be great fun.  I'm going to start going Thursday nights and Saturday mornings.  I kind of wish I had a friend to go with, though.

This weekend, I am helping Mike to celebrate his birthday by taking him to see the Cubs play.  It's one of his life-long dreams and I tried to keep it a secret, but he knows me too well.  All I had to do was say we were going to be outside and he guessed what we were doing.  One day, I will actually surprise him with something.  It's a new goal of mine.

The kids?  They're the same.  Little Man consistently wears his hair in a mohawk and is stylin' the skinny jeans.  How I hated to buy those.  He was doing his hair in my bathroom this morning, and all I could say was, "Those jeans are so...tight!".  His response: "So?".  I'm giving up on that.  It makes him look older and I think it freaks me out a little.  Mini-Me still refuses to clean her room.  It is a shit-hole.  I keep saying that I am not going to go in there and do it myself, but it is inevitable that I probably will.  She has also been hanging out with Sugar Free again. Can you say "Drama Waiting to Happen"?

Breathing Might Be Overrated, but Being Loved Is Not.

Mike and I are working on it.  The Sunday after our breakup, I had to go drop off some things to him and found myself not wanting to leave and thinking possibly that we were making a huge mistake.  That night I texted him that I wanted him to come over Monday night.  I think it was all part of a (somewhat) evil plan of his:
1. Make sure she's really sad and crying...A LOT. - check.
2. Tell her to come over. - check.
3. Tell her you don't want her to leave. - check.
4. Offer her your sleeve to blow her nose on and touch her face gently when you kiss her. - check.
5. Text her incessantly afterwards and tell her how much you love her. - check!
She's yours, dude. You got this. Go get her back!

Really, it wasn't like that (much)...the important thing is that we love each other and two people shouldn't be so miserable apart when they could work on it and stay together.  So, we're trying.
It's amazing the amount of unsolicited advice one gets when they are having troubles in the relationship department (not to be confused with the "Children's Department", which shuts down for brief periods every month...because my body is like a mall or something to my boyfriend, but we'll discuss that another time).  I got advice from friends, coworkers, my children, and a boy or two....including, but not limited to...
"But why, Mom??  You had happiness..."
"You know how you tell me that sometimes when friends spend too much time together, they start to get cranky and fight a lot? Maybe it's like that."
"If you think it's a mistake, go back to him."
"I don't know if I could deal with that. I plan on getting married, but when I do, I'm going to have my own residence."
"Honey, all men are needy."
"You can't change a person.  Love everything that is good about them, accept the things you don't necessarily like, and realize they are who they are.  If you are changing to try to suit a person or you are wanting to change THEM, something is wrong."

It came down to the fact that I was devastated and regardless of everything, I knew that I needed his love. It is quite possible that I would never again find someone that loves me like he does. For some reason, the Facts of Life theme song is running through my head.  "You take the good, you take the bad, you take them both and there you have..."
Mike got advice of his own, of which I am unaware...except for the anonymous person who commented on his blog that there would be another fried chicken stand to eat at.  Hmmmm.  Seems as though Mike's blog isn't the only one this person reads? (Hi there anonymous person! Thanks for reading my blog, too!)
Anyway.
Mike sent me a dozen long-stemmed roses today at work and we have a date tonight. Why? Because he loves me.  And I am his heart. And he doesn't want to eat at any other fried chicken stand.  This chicken is TASTY. Ask him...
I can also provide references, if necessary.

Fin.

I can't breathe and my heart feels like it is going to burst. I'm a blubbering mess who can't catch her breath; breathing is probably overrated, anyway.  It's one o'clock in the afternoon and I'm still in my pajamas, sitting on my bed surrounded by balled up, snotty bits of toilet paper.  It really isn't a pretty picture.  I'll have moments where I think I'm ok, I'll stop crying, I'll be able to take a deep breath, calm myself...but it only takes a split second of me remembering something, some insignificant little thing, and I'm right where I began.  Isn't it funny how the memories you cherish before a breakup can become your worst enemies afterwards? The thoughts you loved to think about, the memories you wanted to hold up to the light and view from every angle--it suddenly seems a lot safer to lock them in a box, far from the light of day and throw away the key.  It's not an act of bitterness.  It's an act if self-preservation, but this is only day one.  I should allow myself to feel this.  Eventually, I'll move on to thinking of things that were causing frustration,  that I thought I couldn't live with, to try to make myself better.  Even that may not work, because the sweet loving memories that will stab at my heart and make my eyes swell far outnumber the negative ones.  We talked this morning about the fact that what makes this even more sad is the fact that there is still love there.  It's not a bad breakup, with fighting, arguments, or ill will.  Something just wasn't right.  I couldn't look him in the eye last night and honestly tell him that this relationship was what I wanted.  I tried to hang on, but I ended up forcing it and made things worse.  Maybe he's right and one day, 6 months from now, I'll tell him that I was wrong and that I want to come back. 


For today, I'm glad I have a bottle of wine in my fridge.  I don't want to be the sad girl with the puffy eyes wandering around the grocery store, lost, scanning the aisles for something to numb the pain.  There is something so cliche about eating ice cream after a break up, but oddly enough, the thought had crossed my mind.  I have also just discovered my need for more toilet paper.  I guess I should have checked my supply before I started crying all over the place.  

Drunks With a Camera Meet the Don Juan of Lesbians...and other adventures.

I haven't been writing! I don't know if it is a lack of things to say or a general lack of interesting things going on.
First, I must update everyone on the Valentine's Day situation with Little Man and Shannon.  She's a bitch.  Enough said.  Really, though...my sweet boy finally got up the nerve to ask her.  She said that she couldn't go because she had a club meeting the same day as the dance and wasn't able to.  He decided to go anyway without her.  When I asked him how it went, this was the response I got:  "Well, I was having a really great time mom....until I saw her there...".  I swear my heart broke into a million bits.  I came up with every excuse I could to make him feel less rejected.  That's not what he wanted, though.  What he really wanted to know was whether or not he should go up to her the next day and say, "So how was your CLUB yesterday??".  I advised against him being a little jerk.

So, this past weekend was a long one and I needed it.  I actually had 5 days off.  I took 2 extra days to spend some time with my sister, Tattooed and Organic (aka Freddie), and my cousin (aka Flossie) who were coming into town.  Thursday was spent with sister and mom.  I got my hair done (I got bangs! I look 13!), we did lunch, and shopped to our hearts content.  I finally found a hairdresser that I like.  It's been years since I've had one.  She is a zombie loving, tattooed, wild child and is just right.  Our conversation consisted of her trying to convince me not to wash my hair as often as I do and that I should go into Roller Derby.  I said I like to skate, but I'm just not aggressive enough.  "Oh, we'll teach you to be aggressive, sweetie."

Hmmmm...I'm thinking about it.

Friday was spent at my tattoo shop of choice, Red Handed Tattoo Gallery, finishing off my chest tattoo. My mother, myself, sister, and cousin were all there.  Telling you that we pretty much took over the shop while we were there would be an understatement.  My work took the majority of the day.  Sometimes I wonder what, Chance, my tattooer thinks of the fact that every time I get work done, I have a barrage of girl visitors that come in and proceed to divulge the details of their sex lives. (It's the only time I seem to get my girl talk in!)  I like to think that most of the time he is tuning us out.  Hopefully.
Anyway...the wine was flowing, there was beer drinking, cupcakes, babies, laughing, tattoos drawn up on dollar bills in a sushi bar, and a very expensive camera.  Drunken debauchery ensued, until some sort of stomach bug caught up with Flossie, and I had to take them home.  For reasons not needing to be mentioned, we deduced that it was not the alcohol.  Saturday we met for dinner at Firefly, because quite honestly, they have sangria and mojitos that are to die for...and they're sold by the pitcher, which is even more delightful.  It gets crowded, but is sooo worth it.  I came in, looking through the crowds of people, trying to find my dinner dates, when I was approached by a female server.  She proceeded to tell me how much she liked chest tattoos, open up my shirt to take a closer gander, ask me where I was from, then tell me how much she liked the South.  You know that feeling when you walk away from a conversation, asking yourself, "Was I just being hit on?".  Yeah.  That about covers it.  My girls were at the bar, joined by an odd looking fellow who I had never met.  When Flossie whispered that they didn't know him and she had almost put her fist in his face, I took it upon myself to make him go away.  He was hurt, until he found two other ladies to have a drunken convo with.  We were able to finally get our table...and guess who our server was?  Mandi.  The chick who looks at chest tattoos because it is "just another way to check out someone's chest". She actually did describe herself as the Don Juan of Lesbians.  She was cute, and a flirt, and looked like Shane from "The L Word" (who I had a major crush on when I used to watch the show), and made us all feel like we were the only girls in the place...until she got distracted and went to another table to flirt/serve/make another woman's night. 

The TV version of Mandi

She loooooved Flossie's accent.  In fact, after we left, we went to the tattoo shop to get Flossie's tattoo, then went back for a few more rounds (of drinks and of hanging with Mandi).  We stayed until closing, turned down Mandi's request to go out for drinks, but left with her number.  She was disappointed when she didn't get to go out Sunday and see Freddie and Flossie before they went home.  I'm sure she found someone else to flirt with, though.  I'll be returning for some Sex in Jamaica with Mandi for sure.  (We developed a new name for the mojitos we were drinking...but I gotta throw an innuendo in here somewhere!)  Hopefully I made a new friend.  I mean, I may not have an accent, but I have a chest tattoo that I'll let her look at...that should count for something.
I didn't get to see them before they left for home either.  Freddie and Flossie are gone now and I miss the laughter.  I don't think I ever laugh as much as I do with them.  Hopefully we don't have to wait another 11 years to all be in the same room again.