5 year plan and all that

I'm getting ready for a major upheaval and I paused to consider a few things.  Usually, I spend most of my time chasing my tail.  Work, drink, sleep, drink, eat, sleep some more, drink some more, and back to work.  It's like trying get a Mustang out of ditch in January.

So, I decided to take a job back in Fort Wayne.  It's pretty much just a change of scenery doing the same crap I'm doing now.  Other than getting to hang out with the Granola family, I get guaranteed hours and possibly a little overtime.  

I'm going to work as much as they will let me for the first couple of years.  With reduced expenditures, I should manage to pay off everything.  Possibly even the house if I play my card properly.

Once I'm debt free or nearly so, working for money to pay bills is over and done with.  So then why work?  Other than beer money, seriously why continue doing mindless repetitive work?  

That's where the five year plan/vision board/finding my calling comes into play.  Once I have all my shit paid off, I get to figure out what I want to be when I grow up.  And  I think I've got a plan.  

I like wine.  And beer.  And margaritas.  Oh hell, I like to drink.  So why not make a living with what I enjoy.  At first I thought about a winery in Indiana.  I will miss the weekends at the winery listening to bands and drinking wine.  Currently, there are six or seven wineries in the area and a couple of real nice wine shops.

Then I remembered all the rose bushes and other herbalesque victims I've nurtured.  At least when I plant things, I'm halfway done with the burial.  I'm sure given time and patience, I could grow some lovely grapes and other fruit to ferment.  But that sounds like more work than I want to take one.

Then I remembered the Tin Roof.  It was a nice little place with fancy frou frou coffee drinks and a nice selection of wine and beer.  They served dinner and often had bands entertaining customers.  Why not bring the winery experience to the Fort?  A nice building down town an extensive selection of wine.  I was even thinking of doing something kitchy, like featuring only domestic wines. And, since there are now wineries in all fifty states, I'll have the largest selection of domestic wines in the country.  At least one from white and red from each state.  B.B. King will provide the blues.

Sucker!!

Yup, I'm a sucker.  For a free tote bag.  If the bag is roomy enough or exceptionally cute, I'll bite on a purchase with purchase offer.  The last one, the obnoxious metallic Pink tote Victoria's Secret they at me on the Saturday after Thanksgiving. 

I was going to buy some of the fragrant lotions and potions anyway, but a huge shiny bag for an extra ten bucks, jackpot.  I think.  

That's why I love this time of year.  All the department store cosmetic counters will throw in a shit ton of freebies if you spend enough money.  And the fragrance gift sets are full a swag this year.

And now with the emphasis being green, the free and cheap tote bags are everywhere.  And extra dollar or two will garner a reusable grocery bag at most grocery, discount, and department stores.  Some even offer to donate part of the proceeds (not sure which part) to some environmentally friendly charity.

At this point, I have so many large totes that I use them as shopping bags.  I am the most fashionable bitch at Wal-Mart.

So I got approved for a transfer back home.  In a few weeks, I'll be back home again in Indiana.  I've got to pack my shit and hit the road.

What I'm not packing:

Clothes that don't fit

Dishes. It's not like I'm using them now anyway

Wore out towels and other linens

No more than two comforters, three quilts, and a three throws

Broke down anolog TV

Any cheesy pictures and plastic wall decorations

Lawn mower

Furniture

Food

What I am packing

Can't leave behind the shoes

Electronics

My power tools

The cat

Wine, lots of wine

Heat

One and Done Tour

After spending Thursday night with my sisters watching a drag show (queens, not cars) Friday was spent recovering after combat shopping.  (more on that later, maybe)

Saturday night inspired my sister, Heather, to take me on a tour of some of the questionable places in Fort Wayne.  Most people would referee to these places as dives, but they are more than that.  Most are small neighborhood joints that cater to a small, yet surprisingly diverse, clientele.  The only criteria was no cover charge.

I was going to go into detail about each places, but ADHD is a bitch.  So, all the places were pretty much the same.  They were dark with beer limited to the standard domestics. The entertainment was either karaoke or some guy playing CDs on a stereo.  So, I'll just give a few awards.

Best Beer O'Sullivan.  They have Guinness on tap.  'nough said.

Worst Beer The Rock.  Domestics served in cans. 'nough said.

Best Smell Broadway Joe's.  Not sure what the were spraying, but it masked everything unpleasant.

Worst Smell  It's a tie.  The sewer gas odor at The Rock was a little off putting  While the distinct herbal smell at was enough to turn tail and find another place.

Best Bathroom Fatboy's.  It had lockable multiple stalls, which was a rare find that night.  It was also very clean and there were plenty of supplies for wiping and washing up.

Worst BathroomCurly's.  Where to begin.  OK, the vomit on the floor. It was hard to see on the red carpet on the floor, but the smell was unmistakable.  Not able to rest on their laurels, the shiny silver wall paper knocked any all other rest stops off the map.  

Special Hot Bar Tender Award Uncle Lou's Steel Mill.  You might want to stop by and see for yourself.

Tires and sometimes dirty is good

At what point did I get sucker tattooed on my forehead? And more importantly, why is it only the people working at tire shops notice it?

My kid ran over a raccoon a few weeks ago. OK, a couple of months ago. Ever since, the tires vibrate and there is this strange "whirrr, whirrr, whoomp noise." It wasn't the whooomp whoomp noise my old car made when the lug studs were comng loose. Or the creaky, creaky, grinding noise a bad tie rod makes. More like loud humm or buzzz.

And the last time I got oil changed at the good Wal-Mart Tire and Lube Express (yes, they exists) the tread wear indicated that the front tires should have been replaced a while back. The amazing thing, they didn't try to sell me tires. Since, the wear was uneven, I was thinking I might need a front end alignment.

So, I go to my local Plaza Tire to take care of business. It's a nice clean tire shop. They also do some mechanicaning work. So, lots of birds, one stone, radda, radda, you get the idea. Well, they wanted eighty dollars a tire and fifty bucks for a front end alignment. It would be seventy for a four tire alignment. I was waiting for the quote on topping off the blinker fluid. Oh, and the road hazard warranty was extra.

I decided that maybe I should go a little out of my way to go to my regular mechanic. Certainly Luther would at least offer to kiss me first. Unfortunately, Tire Bargains was closed. So, off to National Tire and Wheel. Yeah, sixty-three or so a tire. That's the mounted and balanced price. But they don't have my tire size in stock. Why do I always end up with difficult to size tires?

Only options were to get up early and take my chances at Wal-Mart, wait another day, or drive up to the Fort with really bad tires and take my chances. I went with option three.

So, brother Fred has a tire guy at Discount Tire. This looks like a newer shop with a clean waiting room and lots of garaage bays. We're back to eighty dollars a tire plus the hazard insurance. The sales drone noticed my out of state plates, but offers the road hazard warranty any way. Guess I'll be needing a little windshield grease to keep the bugs from sticking.

Wal-Mart seems like a nice alternative. Seventy dollars a tire. Oh, and extra ten dollars each for mount, balance, valve stems (why do they get away with that? That's like charging extra for the mascara brush.) Still eighty dollars a tire.

After driving to a couple of other places to get quotes, it looked like that would be the best we could do. So Wal-Mart it is. For some reason, it takes almost two hours to get tires at the Jefferson Pointe Wal-Mart. Two hours!!!! WTF happened to the EXPRESS part of Tire and Lube Express? This was after the service writer waited on the four people that walked in after I did. Obviously there is a maximum IQ for working on the west side of town. And these people weren't even close.

After driving in circles looking for a independent tire dealer or anyone that wasn't Wal-Mart, I find a couple of places down on Jefferson. The first place didn't have my size in stock in their cheap tires, but could sell me some for $92 each. To their credit, they didn't try to sell the road hazard crap and informed me that they would have them early next week.

I needed tires today. Really, I needed them right away. So, the nephew and I go next door to Tire Barn. It resembled a warehouse with a bathroom. Nothing fancy. Concrete floors and a dirty bathroom. On the upside, the tires were cheaper than Wal-Mart. When I asked about mounted, radda, radda, the guy looked at me funny. Guess he wasn't aware most places try nickle and dime customers instead of giving a price for the whole enchilada.

So, the dirty little tire shop got my business. All the shiny tire shoppes with their complementary coffee and plate glass windows could learn a little from a ship without garage bays and fancy lifts. If you don't have to pay a cleaning lady, you don't have to sell valve stems.

PLus Size Chocolate Pie

Every year at Thanksgiving, I experiment.  Usually my dinner experiments work spectacularly.  Last year, the crab dip was a hit.  And the cheddar bacon dip, was marvelous.  Oh, and the pepperoni pizza dip was finished off pretty quickly.

Before you think I'm a one note artist with dips, I do some incredible work with dessert.  I created a local treat commonly refereed to as Christmas Crack.  I waited until the last minute to make it last year, because I was trying to weasel out of any Martha Stewart tricks.  It didn't happen.  And give me half a bag of Oreos(crumbs and all), a couple of boxes of instant pudding, and cool whhhip, and I'll come up with something.

This year, I'm trying my hand at Plus Size Chocolate Pie.  Have I ever made it, well no. I have just finished fleshing out the design.  Implementation is another matter, but that can wait until Thursday.

The base of the pie is an Oreo cookie crust.  Oreo cookies are a perfect, because the cream filled center makes a good binding agent, so no extra butter is needed to make the crust.

The first layer will be no-bake cheesecake.  I found a fabulous recipe at kraft.com.  On top of that is a thin layer of chocolate fudge.  Not the stuff you put on ice cream, but actual fudge.  And then I'll follow with the standard chocolate pie filling of whipped cream and chocolate pudding, in that I'll mix either toffee chips or chocolate chips.  For the top, I'm still wavering between meringue and whipped cream.  I'll figure that out later.

Apathy as a political movement

I guess apathy sums up my social political views.  Gays getting married, don't really care.  Marijuana legalization, don't care.  Smoking, don't really care.  What two, or three or four, consenting adults do is not my business.   I would hope that anyone I extend that indifference to returns the favor.

Most of the country is all in a twitter about the gay marriage ban in California.  I don't care if they marry.  I honestly don't think that it's the government's business in telling me who I can or can't marry.  Of course, the government shouldn't be able to force any church to recognize or bless such a union.  

There is a strong segment of society that believes that being gay is a choice.  So frigging what if that's a choice, smoking and drinking are choices, too. Homosexuality is an abomination of God's will.  I'm no theologian, or Christian for that matter, but while we have access to God's words, from a myriad of sources each of which translated several hundred times, very few people are privy to God's will or inner most thoughts.   

So who am I to judge the choices others make?  Who am I to deny  people the opportunity to make a heartfelt commitment to each other?  Just make sure I get an invite to the celebration.

Like I said, marry, don't marry, don't really care.  And I don't think the government should care, the government should take the $80 filing fee and buy the good toilet paper for the ladies' room.

 

To each their own, addiction

I was going to go on about my obsession with free stuff from the Lancome counter at Macy's and Dillards.  How dangling a tote bag with a coordinating cosmetics bag free with a $29.99 purchase and I'll buy your $28 Art Liner (damn it, now I have to buy a lipstick or a eye shadow), what a scam.  Buy hey its free.

But then I found my new addiction, Whatever, Martha on Fine Living.  Two thirty somethings, Alexis Stewart and buddy Jennifer, sit in a cozy urban living room watching clips and talking like the camera's aren't in the room.  And nothing is off limits.  They poke fun at Martha's clothing, her mannerisms, and her guests.  Most segments turn to sexual innuendo if not straight up sex talk.  But it just girl talk.

Sometimes, the girls try their hands at some of the projects demonstrated by Martha, only with less than "Good Thing" results.  At the end of each show, things really devolve.  Alexis and Jennifer talk about things not even relevant to Martha, like dating,  food, and sex.

So, if you've got time to kill, come on over.  Just kick off your shoes and bring a bottle of wine.

Sometime a joke isn't funny

I can't eat meat  Seriously, I can't eat meat anymore.  I turned to vegetarianism a couple of years ago as a bit of a joke.  A few days  a week I'd go meatless, but when a cheese burger craving occurred or  the BBQ chicken heart attack on a bun  I would indulge.  I wasn't really concerned when the meat craving became fewer and farther between.

And then I decided to rejoin the ranks of the carnivore.  Mostly because i was tired of sounding like a picky eater, which I've always been anyway.  And, even though I hate the antibiotics and growth hormones being pumped into the industrial farmed animals, I actually liked the taste of meat.  So I figured, joke is over.  

I went back in whole hog.  Ham, egg, and cheese for breakfast, you betch ya.  Cheese burger and chili fries for lunch sounded like heaven.  Chef salad with extra meat was a dinner staple.   Mmm pork, chicken, and beef.

But then something happened.  I didn't notice it right away, it took a three or four days.  It seemed like I was extra gassy.  Not belching in public or ripping one at inopportune times.  It was more like a perfume that emanated from every pore of my body.  And, like anyone that spent anytime in the field in the service, when you can smell yourself it has to be bad.  And it's wasn't our standard rotten egg gas or the brief burst stink.

No, this became an aura of stank.  It had an initial tinge of rotten eggs, but evolved into a foul stench that followed me everywhere.  And not like crop dusting in Wal-Mart that leaves a brief trail of odor as you stroll the aisles.  No this is what being Pig Pen must be like.

So I decided I need to find a cause.  What had changed over the last month or so.  I hadn't changed beers or wines.  I was still using the same soap, shampoo, and deodorant. Oh, that's right, I'm eating meat again. 

So I stopped eating meat again.  And the force field eased.  No longer did I stink.  Thinking that the answer couldn't be that simple, I sampled a little meat.  White Castles probably wasn't the brightest choice, but I wanted something to remember.  And it was back like a Stephen King boogie man.

So, I guess I'll be parting ways with meat again for good this time.  I guess my body would adjust in time, but the unpleasantness isn't really worth it.  I survived just fine without meat before, guess that's one steak for you to enjoy.  Now, where's my salad

I just want to be tall

When I was a kid and then in high school, people were concerned about my future.  They wanted to know if I was going to college or what I wanted to be when I grew up.

Well, I didn't make it to college right after high school, I ran off with the circus.  Not really, but the Marines was close enough in the 80s.  We had tents, occasionally we liberally applied thick make-up, and we had a serious kick ass band.  No elephants or trick dogs, of course, but there were plenty of jack asses.

After a couple of years as a stay at home mom and part time college student I ventured into the employment market.  Fast food is a make or break industry.  Either you learn to flip burgers and take the bullshit or you go nuts.  Usually you do both, sometime in the same shift.  

Follow that with a brief stint in full service restauranting, inbound customer service, and finally I landed in the post office.  The amazing thing, no matter where I've worked or how much I've been paid, the characters are pretty much the same.  The petty games and jealousy always seem to pop up.  

I never wanted to work at the post office as a kid.  Hell, I don't even remember playing post office as a kid.  Really, all I wanted to be was taller.  Guess that's why they make 4" heels

You know you're a douche nozzle

You know, when you take a can of Diet Dr Pepper out of the break room refrigerator that is mine, you're a douche nozzle.

You know, when you take frozen food out of your cart and let it thaw out in the cleaning supplies, you're a douche nozzle.

You know, when you are making a left turn out of a parking lot and you don't leave enough room for anyone to make a quick right, you're a douche nozzle.

You know, when you spread your seed  all over town and then don't bother to pay child suppport, you're a douche nozzle.

You know, when you lean across someone filling their diet coke at the quicky mart to  grab a  straw, you're a douche nozzle.

You know, when you run over a pet in the road and don't stop to help, you're a douche nozzle

You know, when that cute confident lady you email and Im tells you to sod off and you chose to cyber stalk, you're being a douche nozzle.

You know, when you interrupt the DVR to catch a game, you're a douche nozzle.

You know, when you break up with someone and hold on for their stuff for three months, you're being a douche nozzle.

You know, when you bounce a check for a party lite party, you're being a douche nozzle.

 

You know, when you take the last beer and didn't bother to bring any, you're being a douche nozzle

You know, when you always end up being the designated passenger while one of your friends gets to stay sober, you're being a douche nozzle.

You know, when you "find" some more stuff your ex forgot and you pretend like you lost her address, you're being a douche nozzle.

You know, when you call anyone at 2 O'clock in the morning to cry about being a lonely drunk loser, you're being a douche nozzle.

You know, when a friend goes out on a limb and includes you on their family plan and you duck out on a $150 cell phone bill, you're being a douche nozzle.

And finally, you know, when you're the spewer of hate for a major political party, you are a douche nozzle.

Fat and Not Happy

I use to be a size 4.  I liked buying anorexic sizes.  I still had the trademark pouch on my belly, but I wasn't fat.  I was just starting to firm up my jiggly bits. 

There was a time when I worked out at least three days a week.  It wasn't particularly structured, but I did work up a sweat and stayed small.  There were times I would stray from my routine and I noticed a change in my body and mood.

After my last tragic romance, I fell into a funk.  I started to eat meat and just didn't feel up. Well, seven months later and thirty pounds later, I'm a sad Amy.

The hardest part is getting back into the rhythm.  I worked out a little Monday and plan to go back Friday. 

My One and Only Politcal Post this Election Season

I live in an area dominated by cornpone conservatives.  These are farmers, small business owners, and discount non-unionized factory workers.  Many still buy into the belief that the Republican Party is the party of small government, fiscal conservation, and family values. And the Democrats are all about big government, tax and spend, and killing babies.

The truth is, the Republicans are, in my opinion, taking us towards a fascist state in the Orwellian tradition.  They've expanded the government.  They've created a network of private armies and mercenaries that answer to the dollar and not the Constitution.  And they can spy without reason or warrant.  No, I haven't forgotten about 9/11.  And no, I don't feel any more or any less safe than I did on 9/10.  I don't associate with terrorists and don't personally know any Muslims. 

And the number of people I know that are honest to goodness convinced that Barrak Obama is the anti-Christ, a Muslim, or not really a natural born citizen is just insane.  Some of them even quote the chain emails that taut these "facts."  They are also convinced that Sarah Palin (who really isn't running for office by the way) is an intelligent, strong, and independent woman.  Again, their source is either Rush Limbaugh, Sean Hannity, or another email.

I was convinced I was surrounded by idiots until I started to see the Obama signs springing up on lawns.  And a few people I work with started chiming about the Republican failures and that change has to come soon.  And then I saw this:

The truth is, most of the people I know supporting McCain are white males. I don't think that they are racists, I think they're scared. For centuries, white males have dominated American society. They've run the government and they've run the companies. Up until now, they've given token power and influence to a select few women and people of color. Usually they were selected for their ability to conform to the white male proto-type.

This year, we've seen a serious challenge to that power. These men are not scared that Obama is a Muslim or a black man or a friend of terrorist. No, he is an American that happens to be black. And the white male establishment is terrified that someone my want paybacks. Or, that the new America will no longer treat them as the chosen ones. They are scared that they now will honestly have to accept that women, blacks, Hispanics, and the other non white males are their equals.

So my sisters are on patrol to find me a man.  I think it's part of a greater conspiracy to convince me to move back north with the rest of the family.  

These crazy girls have found one candidate.  Apparently the sisters, Erin and Heather, were at the Black Cat (funny I have a black cat) listening to the 80's cover band Brother (I have brothers, too).  And they find him.

Of course it was too dark to take camera phone pictures.  I did get a blizzard of text messages attempting to describe him.  Since my sister is one of the short hand type of texter, it took a bit to decipher, but this is what I've got out of those messages:

He's tall (which is good)

He was wearing a kilt (also good)

A Harley kilt (even better)

He's not a item from aisle 23 (I always end up in aisle 23 or 24)

Erin claims he's nicely built and smokin' hot.  But we have different taste, so I'll have to judge for myself.  That is if she ever tracks him down and gets a picture.

Well, Erin has decided that finding Kilt Man is a worthy quest, so she's going to track him down.  

Since there is a oh hell no list of names, I asked if she knew Kilt Man's name.  She thought is was Matt or Mark, which is bad.

The Of Hell No List if you have one of the following names, you're shit out of luck

Mark, last guy I dated named Mark was a total piece of shit

Mark, Chrsity dated a mentally damaged guy named Matt

Steve, things ended badly

Todd,or Doug,they just sound gay

Rob, too many in the family as it is

So, fast foreword to Saturday night.  Sister Erin finishes bowling and off to find Kilt Man.  The night's hunting wasn't completely fruitless.  Erin talked to Auburn Ron and got a few more tidbits of information.  Kilt Man's name is Rick.  He lives in Auburn.  He rides a fat boy.  

That's it.  Still no last name.  How can I google him and search the sex offenders lists without a last name?  Still don't know if he has a job or wife or kids.  

Guess Erin will have to dog a little deeper if she thinks this is my next ex.

This is an actual factual Transcript

A little background:

On Saturday night, my sisters, my friend and I ended up at a karaoke bar, again.  And there was kilt boy.  He recognized my sister by her tattoos.  Apparently they were in the tattoo shop getting inked at the same time.  

So the ritual showing of the tats ensued.  Leg tats, tramp stamps, and a few other were bared.  I didn't have any to show, because I have commitment issues, and permanently stabbing ink under the dermis is pretty much more commitment than I can handle.  Hell, I don't like buying canned foods if the shelf life is too long.

Well, I talked to kilt boy and found out that he's a vet and fireman (and will be hence forth known as fire boy).  I knew I shopping in aisle 27 or 29, but that's better than aisle 22.  A few beers and several shots of vodka later, I decided to talk to fire boy in the parking lot, since it was quieter.  

Well, I shot him down.  Not because he wasn't cute.  He was plenty of that.  But I didn't know his last name.  I'm not on any type of birth control and I don't like kids much.  And, my sisters would have broke into random window rapping, setting off car alarms.  

So, I go back to the herd and we go home.  OK, back to Erin's place, but close enough.  Sunday morning bring demolishing the breakfast buffet at Azar's with the family and headed south and west for home.

On the return trip, I decided to stop at Chateau Thomas and pick up a few bottles of Indiana wine.  As I was getting back in the car, I had a text message.  What follows is a transcript of the three way text message conversation with my sister, fire boy, and myself.  Keep in mind I'm flying down Highway 70, so all this takes place between Indianapolis and Terre Haute.  Anything in italics is what I was thinking.

FireBoy: Id nail ur sister with the irish tats.  huh

Me: I'll let her know

FB: Tell her to text me double huh

ME:No problem this is going to be funny

ME:  forward slimy message to Erin

Sister: huh?

ME: I just got that from the fireman

SIS: that cuz men r pigs!

ME: See it was good that I left him hanging

SIS:that y i dont pick up men in bars. i just go out 4 the music & beer.. met will bowling.. met matt bowling.. met beerman bowling.  c the pattern!?!

ME: Yuo.  What's up with the ColtsD

Some random texts between Sister and I about football

ME: Fireman wants you to text him

SIS: no thanx he made out with my sister

ME: No glory pinch hitting

SIS:aint pinch hittin.. men r just pigs & that 1 of the rules  no sharing

ME: Sister said she's not a relief pitcher

FB: Ouch

ME: We never were much on sharing

FB: Haha she'd fuc me and the one in the black shirt prouby would toits the kilt and big cock haha What a tool

ME: The one in the black is terminally married 

FB: Yee whaa! Serious ur sis with tats doesn't like me? Nor wouldnt even make out

ME: Serious. She has someone.  She'll flirt, but that about all she does.  That and make sure I make it home

More random texts about football and the long drive home.

And yes, I actually spell thing out and punctuate my test messages. I'm a little anal about it, get over it.

 

My Sisters' Rules

I come from a large Catholic family.  A large, loud, possibly overbearing family.  I only get to visit a few times a year, which is all most people can take.  They have been known to chase off boyfriends, girlfriends, and a few spouses.  But all in all, anyone of us would bail the others out of jail.  Unless we're occupying adjoining cells.

There is no topic off limits at the dinner table.  Even when we are in public.  So, if you and your precious snowflake are seated anywhere near us be prepared for the following to be discussed:

Sex of all types.  Regular, oral, anal, masturbation.  

Drinking.  We like a good beer often.  One sister is obsessed with tequila

More sex

Which ever sibling isn't present 

Lack of sex

What a turd our father was

Gambling

And profanity will fly.  Hanging with my family isn't for the faint of heart.  And don't try to impress us.  With six of us left and the accompanying nieces and nephews, one of us has probably been there, done that, and one of us witnessed it.

We all work and most of us have spawned a replacement.  There are even a few great grandchildren for my mother to spoil.  The amazing thing is how stable the men turned out and how absolutely rowdy my sisters and I are.  Even the women that married into the family fit in. (We gave a sister-in-law a sympathy card when she married our brother.)  The men, well, Erin, Heather and I figure they're interchangeable.

So when I drug my friend up to Fort Wayne for the big Vera Bradley purse sale, I figured fun was a foot.  She's kind of a stick in the mud at home and even though she says she doesn't regret anything (and no, she didn't do anything stupid, illegal, or immoral) she still doesn't want too many details released.  

Personally, I try not to do anything that I'll have to explain away.  If I have fun and flash someone, oh well.  If I drink and end up singing karaoke, oh well that will never happen again.  If I do something stupid, I own up to it.  Erin knows a good attorney and my brothers keep bail money handy, so illegal is pretty well covered.  And immoral, well,  that's a very personal issue and I've done well in that area.

My sisters have a few rules to cover some gray areas:

1.  If you don't remember, it didn't happen

2.  Drunk people make bad witnesses, sometimes stories are exaggerated so don't believe everything you hear

3.  Anything that happens in a different country, area code, or zip code gets a free pass

4.  You have to buy all three sisters a drink to talk to one of us

5.  The next person that gets between me and the game will earn a beat down 

6.  If you want someones number, pretend to lose your phone 

7.  Married men are someone else's problem and we are not the solution

8.  Sisters don't leave sisters behind

Thems the rules, I didn't make them (expect #5), I just try to live by them.

Wedding Shows

So I'm flipping back and forth between Say Yes to the Dress and My Big Fat Redneck Wedding tonight.  

The rednecks are having fun playing in the mud and making a general mockery of  the wedding industry.  Nothing wrong with that.  Most of these couples spend less on their entire wedding than the brides on Say Yes spend on their dresses.  So what if they tap a keg and serve drunken chicken, they're having fun and are in love.

Doesn't every happy couple want to go mudding in a limousine during the reception?  These unconventional couples will still be married in twenty years.    

While on TLC, this poor bride, Liz,  might want to take her dress money and run.  She obviously has self esteem and confidence issues.  She's tried on dress after dress and can't make up her mind.  And the future husband (why would anyone drag their fiance to pick out the wedding dress?) throws out  insulting comments, some of which border on down right mean. 

And it's not like he's a prize.  Sure he has a job, but he's not particularly attractive.  I might be able to look past the Lettermanesque tooth gap, but I really couldn't look past his ass.  Maybe she can't reach exit velocity to escape his gravitational pull.  But seriously Liz, honey, run.  Run fast and far.

 Guess this is an case of reality TV making drama where none exists.  Or, this guy is a total ass.  I still think she sould run.

Hooray, google has heard my cries

Google has heard the pleas of the scorned, angry, stupid, drunk, and horny.  They are adding a feature to give time to reconsider an email. http://gmailblog.blogspot.com/2008/10/new-in-labs-stop-sending-mail-you-later.html?foo In honor of google's recent announcement, I bring an oldie but a goodie Oopsie!! Accidental Email  Current mood:  ditzy Have you ever gotten an email that completely enraged you?  So much so, you put on your sarcastic biatch hat and draft a reply.  The reply is witty, poignant, and sure to enraged the receiving party.  It's intended to hurt, belittle, or out right offend.  This is the retort we all wish we could come up with on the spot.  It's the perfect reply.  It's so good you have to share it with friends, but not necessarily with the person that sent you the evil email. "Must not draft reply.  Must not draft reply." Of course, we normally save those as drafts and edit them into civility after a cooling down period.  Normally.  Occasionally, for some Freudian reason, we accidentally hit SEND.  Followed quickly and loudly by a string of four letter words reserved for rush hour traffic. "Must not draft reply.  Must not draft reply." That's probably happened to everyone a time or two.  We all want to send the scathing email that points to the short comings and inadequacies of the recipient, but we don't send them.  We revise them, you know, tone them down for public consumption. "Must not draft reply.  Must not draft reply." So, I think that google and all the other email providers should offer an "Are you sure prompt?" I know most people find that to be one of the most annoying aspects of Vista, but I think those of us prone to accidental email would like to have that option. At least I need that option. Or, I guess I could stick to old fashion paper and pen.  I have a journal, but rarely use it.  Or, perhaps, I could keep notepad open for such occasions.   "Must not draft reply.  Must not draft reply." The accidental email might even be worse than drunk dialing.  There is no enduring evidence with a drunk dial.  With email, google will store your words forever. Oppps!

Temptation thy name is go-go taquito

Why must I be such a weak woman? 

I tried being a vegetarian, but I got fat.  And since I much prefer to be a size 4 over having to buy jeans in double digits, I think I'm going to go back  to my old diet.

I'll still indulge in salads and grilled cheese sandwiches, but look out take out, here I come.

A couple of years ago, breakfast was a calorie laden overly preserved blueberry muffin washed down with half a gallon of diet coke.  With a mid morning snack of a sugar free energy drink, the monster 16 ounce size, please.  Lunch/dinner was what ever sounded good from the gas station.

All  gas stations have road food.  Some of it is simple beef jerky and potato chips.  Other establishments carry packages sandwiches with a over processed meat and plastic cheese.  But there is almost aways something to eat at a gas station, even if it isn't always tasty or even edible.

You can always count on Seven-eleven to have a fine selection of hot dogs and other eat and drive foods.  Nothing calms road rage like a platter of almost stale chips covered in a gelatinous cheese like substance (make sure you presquirt the cheese or you'll get the cheese booger) topped with what is referred to as chili.  

And Quick Trip, talk about gourmet to go.  Diligently watching the times on the grab and go delicacies keep the egg rolls crisp and the doughnuts soft.  Wash it all down with 44 ounces of Sugar Free Rooster Booster, and life is good.

But my ultimate weakness is the bbq chicken sandwich at Rhodes 101 on West Columbia.  There isn't any secret recipe.  They take left over chicken strips, soak them in bottled bar-b-que sauce, and load them up on a honey roll.  Adding cheddar cheese might take it up a notch, but why mess with perfection.

So, while I have issues with all the hormones and antibiotics loaded into animals in the corporate farms, I simply can't turn away from an Arby-Q sandwich.  And the smart part of me knows that breading and deep frying food is bad, but it sure makes it tasty.  I guess I'm a quitter, but never has quitting ever tasted so good.

Oh, and who told the people at Rhodes that it was fine to raise the price of Guinness by two bucks a six pack.  I really don't want to give it up, but I may have to at these prices.

Are you ready for some (fantasy) football

Since the strongest muscles in my body are the ones used to right click the mouse and pull the cork screw out of the wine bottle, yall know I'm not in prime physical condition.  That's why I participate in fantasy football.

If you are more familiar with Jimmie Choo than Jimmy the Greek, fantasy football lets you make your own dream team of players and compete against other "coaches" based on the individual stats accumulated by the players.  

So, each week, I scour the injury reports analyze stats and make my moves. Sometime I drop a player or five.  Usually wide receivers,  unless you have TO or Ocho Cinco, they're pretty interchangeable. 

And defenses.  I bottom feed, I pick the worst most turn over pron team and select a defense to challenge them.  Sometimes, especially if  it is a weak defense, I get burned.  But a good defense will slaughter a bad offense.

But for me, the ultimate football fantasy is Ed. 

Ed is the uber NFL Official.  Not only is Ed a fine physical specimen, his background in the courtroom prompts him to possibly over explain infractions.  If I happen to find (stalk down) a game Ed is officiating, I root for penalties.  Not just a little hold (10 yards, repeat the down), but clipping which allows Ed to show off more than his guns. Or any infraction that requires more than a canned response.  Bonus points for  any coach that challenges a call.  

Back to our regularly scheduled programming

So last week was the grape stomp at Twin Oaks.   It was a charity event supporting the Sheltered Workshop that employs developmentally challenged adults.

This is my Team,  The Wiley Coyotes

Fat Girl on the Right, Me, and Laura preparing to stomp. And rocking the 

retro Italian peasant garb.

Since I was on my game in July, we were one of the 

first teams to sign up.  Since Twin Oaks used the frist

come first stomp ordering system, we were stomping 

in the first heat.

Each heat consisted of five teams stomping the juice out of a 

barrel of grapes. I went first since well we started drinking and I 

shoved my way to the front of the line.

Me, in a little number I whipped up at the last minute, because I'm crafty 

and shit. And Fat Girl on the Right as Fat Ass in the Air

The process is fairly simple, each team member stomps the grapes for

two minutes each. After the six minutes, the juice is weighed to 

determine the winner of the heat. The winner of each heat advances 

to a grand stomp off.

So, the whistle sounds and the stomping begins. I jump in with 

both feet. I go for style points by doing a circle stomp. And then 

a high step stomp. There was a side to side stomp and a heavy

on the heels stomp. What another minute? OK, now I'm pretty 

much running in place and damning my lack of physical stamina. 

Finally, the whistle blows and we switch.

This time, it's my ass in the air.

And now Fat Girl on the Right jumps in. She's looking all 

spiffy in a little peasant skirt tied up between her legs and 

re-purposed muumuu. Laura and I are picking degraped 

sticks out of the barrel and checking the flow.  Apparently 

the holes drilled in the bottom of the barrel get a little clogged

with the naked bunches and grape skins. And, since the 

purpose is to separate as much juice from the grapes and get 

that juice into the bucket, keeping the holes clear is vital.

See, it's a muumuu. Serious, a nonfatty wearing a 

fucking muumuu in public. And she thinks I dress poorly.

And switch. By the time Laura gets her feet in the barrel, there's 

more skin and twigs than juicy grapes. Now, the key is to move the

slop in the barrel around so that any juice in the barrel or the few 

grapes left get into the bucket. She slips, slides, and sloshes about. 

And done. 

Laura, spoting the modified John Deere farm wife look that 

is gaining popularity with the cool kids.

So, the officiants pull the "juice" from under the barrels.  

There was liquid in the buckets, but I wouldn't call it juice.  

Imagine a black lumpy soup served up to Andrew Zimmer.  

Yeah, it was that nasty.

We didn't make it to the stomp off, but we did have fun. And

we learned a few valuable lessons for next year.

1. Let the heaviest person go first, that's when the holes are clear 

and the grapes are the juiciest.

2. If enough people from work show up to form a second or third 

team, shame them into playing next year.

3. Stomping grapes for two minutes is hard work. Must work out 

before I have a heart attack. Or drink more red wine.

4. Becareful about letting drunk people take action shots

5. If you want to win the Lucy Look A Like contest, dress in drag.

6. Next year, we're going with the Lucy get a designer dress look,

because burlap sacks have to look better than this

Me, later that night rocking out with Heart and Chrsity and Lisa and Kathy. We don't take too many pictures, we

don't want too much evidence.

And Butthurt Over

So Homer is over his butthurt in a record two days.  Yup, he is no longer determined to prove what a great and dedicated employee he is and content to go back to his slacker ways.  By the time Thursday rolled in, he was brewing coffee, discussing the latest reality television show, and generally fucking off.  Nice to know how resilient people can be.

He's still convinced that he is an essential cog in the machine that moves the mail.  Oh how wrong that man is. 

And people wonder why I just don't care at work.  I show up, do my  job, and go home.  I do it all day long with a shit eating grin on my face. Why? Because, in the long run I know that he'll always be a miserable tool.  

The mail doesn't sort itself

It's never a good sign when the first words out of your mouth in the morning are "mother fucker."  Quickly followed by"god dammit, where the fuck are my keys."  

Even at 2:00 AM, its all down hill.  All day, all down hill.  

So, after poking my self in the eyes to get my contacts in (one of which was inside out, but I didn't really have the time fix it) I flew through the house trying to find my keys, grab a granola bar, and remember what day it was.  

By the time I actually started my car, I knew I was going to be late.  My goal as I hit the highway was to limit the lateness.  That and avoiding the string of small town cops looking to generate revenue.  

Luck in transport, unlucky in love. I managed to make it only a couple of minutes later than normal.  So, things were looking up.  Until I realized that the other person that was suppose to be at work wasn't there.  Great.

And then, as I approached the gate, there's a fucking tree, ok half a fucking tree, blocking part of the gate.  I got through without much trouble, but I was thinking that the semi wouldn't quite squeeze through.  

I tried to move the limb. But being that I wasn't in the mood to hurt myself and the phrase, "this doesn't seem like a good idea," went through my head.  I left it. (The voice in my head that says that something isn't a good idea is NEVER wrong)  I ended up calling the boss just after three to ask if there was a  chain saw handy.  Cause  me and a chainsaw at three am is such a fantabulous idea.    All I got was "grumble, grumble, blah, blah, leave it.  I'll be there."

As I start to work and I noticed that Homer (or the lazy idiot i have to work with but not his real name) hadn't finished a few things before he flew out of the office Saturday.  Great, because there isn't enough mail to fucking sort on a Monday morning.  The first thought through my almost awake brain is "What the fuck Homer, work interfere with your snaking time you fat fuck."  

I just started doing all the other crap I had to do.  And wait for the truck to rip off the gate.

 Then the boss shows up and moves the limb/tree and walks in.  He looks around and notices all the mail to be worked.  Of course all the union rules and accepted practices state that the boss isn't suppose to actually do work, but since the clerks won't do it, what the hell, the mail doesn't sort itself.  He's about halfway through the Saturday leftovers when he starts asking questions and it dawns on him that the parcels A) showed up Saturday, B) Homer was the one that worked that afternoon, and C) Homer didn't get squat done. 

I just keep doing what I need to do.  All the while the boss is stewing.  And then in walks Homer.  Knowing the boss' temper and everyone's propensity to ask "What you been doing Homer?"  I knew it would be a good one.  And so it goes, what did you do?  

Of course he rattles off a list of things we all do anytime we close, but we usually get everything done.  Homer is the king of making excuses.  Nothing is ever his fault and he thinks he's working hard.  Somehow, no matter how hard he works, Homer never actually accomplishes much.  Maybe it's the semi hourly comfort breaks and the nonstop snacking, but I'm guessing that he's his own roadblock to success.  

So, Homer gets all indignant and actually works hard for the rest of the day.  And then he goes and talks (another weakness, because he can't talk and work.  Seriously, he actually stops working to have a conversation) to other employees about how mean the Boss is to him.  Not much sympathy was to be had.  Pretty much everyone is tired of working harder so he doesn't have to.

I finally break down and tell him that he needs to work harder.  He says he works.  I remind him just because he's moving and looks busy doesn't mean he accomplishes much.  I also went on (because by the time I decide to say something I often don't stop until I've said too much) say it's a damn shame a grown man has to be babysat at work.  He was a little hurt that I felt that way.

Today, he was less chatty and more productive.  He'll eventually get over his butthurt and return to his old habits.  That's the cycle of  things at work.  He gets yelled at and his feelings get hurt.  Homer works hard for a few weeks, and things are back to normal.  Until then, the mail won't have to sort itself.

The Day That Would Not End, Again

I work some real ugly hours at work.  Most of the time, I have to be at work at 4:00 AM.  On occasion, I get to start at 3:00 AM, those are my favorite days.  And if you believe that I've got a nice condo on the beach in Flagstaff that I can cut you a deal on.

Anyhow, Saturday started like all the other days, up at three to be in by four after tossing and turning for five hours.  It didn't help that I didn't start working on my skirt for the grape stomp until about six the night before.  (I do my best work on a tight schedule)  And so I was up until about ten or so.  More on the skirt and the grape stomp with picture goodness later.

Taking a step back a few days to Monday, Chrsity, one of my buddies, and I were sketching out a plan to go to the Pirate Fest.  Last year we had out pick of days, this year not so much.  The event is Saturdays and Sundays for the last three weeks of September, so there had to be a day that it would work out.  Well Saturday was out, I had grapes to stomp.  Sunday was looking like an option, but I would have to miss a Catholic picnic. (No, I'm not a Catholic, hell, I'm not even a Christian, but who can resist quilt bingo and beer.)  Now that she's married, there is this other person that I have to clear things with before plans can be finalized.  So after eliminating every other day, we decided that today would be the best option to go the Pirate Fest.

And then Lisa told us she had tickets to a concert Saturday night up in St Louis.  Cheap Trick, Heart, and journey (without Steve Perry, they're not Journey) would hit the stage at Riverport/UMB Bank Pavilion/Verizon Wireless Amphitheater Saturday night.  So the wheels in our minds started turning and we came up with a genius plan.  I'd go to work, go stomp some grapes, then high tail it up to St Louis for the concert, after the concert we'd get a room and go play pirate on Sunday.  And it was a good plan.

Until that bastard Ike blew into town.  Of course we have the standard panic pricing on gas and the warnings that they could go over $5.00 before the end of the weekend.  Yeah ,Exxon.  So then the weather started to play a role.  If we had the predicted torrential rains, the grape stomp would go on, under a large tent, but it would go on.  The concert, no so much and the pirate party might have to be no gos. 

As the weekend approached, the weather loomed large, but we had a plan dammit.  Until Kathy decided she need to go to Nashville.  She had a good reason and needed someone to go with her to drive a second vehicle back to Missouri.  

So we needed a new plan.  Then it all fell shit and we decided to play it by ear.

The skirt got made, work went almost like it should, grapes got stomped, and we all managed to meet up for dinner before the concert which was going to hold off for a bit.

We decided (wrong) that the rains would come and the pirate fest would be a no, so we actually only took one vehicle (which was a mistake as well) the concert.  The concert rocked, what we say of it.  Cheap Trick was adequate.  Heart absolutely fuckin' rocked (probably more on that later) and the journey took the stage.  The new singer was good,  but for some reason Lisa decided to leave.  I thought she was tried and wanted to get the Nashville road trip part of her weekend started.  

I was wrong, she wanted to go to the boat.  Being that I was broke and don't really enjoy throwing away good drinking money into a machine, I wasn't exactly sure that it was a good idea.  But, since we only took one car I was stuck.  We finally dragged her off the Double Dolphin machine a touch after twelve thirty.  This was a slight problem since Christy told her husband we would meet up with him at one thirty in Farmington.  

I am so tired right now, I finally got home about three this morning.  I really really had to pee, but didn't want to stop, because I really, really, really wanted to go to bed.  I take out the contacts, bush the fangs and crawl into bed.  And couldn't sleep.  My sinus are a little stopped up and my throat was scratchy from yelling and cigarette smoke in the casino.   So I decided to take a shower to wash the smoke smell out of my hair and try to clear out the snot.  Once my hair was mostly dry, I crawled back into bed about five thirty.  At seven, the alarm clock goes off to wake the kid for work.  

So I put my contacts back in and grab a Diet Pepsi and started working on my fantasy football teams (more on that later to) and the day goes on and on and on and on

Stomp them grapes

Inspired by one of the funniest episodes of I love Lucy, Twin Oaks Winery and Vineyard is hosting their second annual grape stomp.  While the Vitavetavegamin episode still makes me almost pee my pants, the grape stomp episode is lots of fun.  Watching Ethel racing back and forth with the juice sloshing all over.  funnah.

So I've manned up with Carrie and Laura to challenge all of St Fraoncois Country for top mashers.  We'll all get a two minute turn in the grapes, while a team mate lugs the juice to a holding tank.  The top teams gain entrance into the stomp off and eventually rule the world.  OK, get a trophy, but ruling the world sounded better.

They use white grapes, so I won't have grape stained toes to show off to the world.  Getting to dress up like Italian peasant and stomp grapes is sure to be a hoot, expecially since I can imagine that every grape is my boss' head.

One thing undone at a time

I forgot to mention that I tend to procrastinate, so posting will be intermittent at best. It's not just ordinary just putting things off for a few minutes or hours or days. I just start start things and get side tracked and things don't get finished.

So I go the bright idea when I started to redo my bathroom that I wasn't going to start any new projects until I finished my bathroom. That was in April or May. So the floor got finished. And the walls are painted. I installed a new medicine cabinet and vanity. Installed a new light fixtures. Other than the floors, all this was accomplished on my own.

Now, five months later, all that is left is to install a couple of decorative shelves. And hand the new shower curtain. And some trim work around the closet door. And baseboards. Oh, and I haven't gotten to rehanging the bathroom door. Just a few minor details.

So I figured that whole not starting anything new until I finish the bathroom was out the window. In the last month or so I started a few other little projects.

New floors in the living room and kitchen. Thank Ceiling Cat, there were hard woods imprisoned under carpet, padding, and particle board. Of course they need to be refinished. And then there is the gypsy costume that is begging for a little attention. I think there is a pile of dirty laundry that might was to be thrown into the washer. Then it will get into a pile of clean clothes that need folding or hanging.

I'll get to it. As soon as I finish a the dishes. And there's a movie on TNT (fuck Roadhouse , why must I watch you) that I can't miss.

Wedding Show Addict

I am seriously addicted to wedding shows. Not just the celebrity style specials.

It all started years ago when I got wrapped up in the Princess Diana wedding and the Sarah Ferguson spectical a few years later. The highly anticipated, top secret dresses. The horse drawn carriage. The princes were simply accesories to the celebration. And, as we all found out later, not prince CHarming, but prince you'll do for now.

Then LIfetime, Style, and E would do periodic wedding specials on the latest celebrity dresses and wedding cakes. Then, when that attention whore (I don't really watch so I can't remember her name) Bachelor and Bachelorette got hitched to the "winner" of her show programming geniuses realized weddings are a gold mine.

The shows are unscripted drama, which means minimal usage of writers and other paid artists. And, all brides are attention whores, so they want us all to join in their happiest of days.

Here in no prticular odrer, are some of my favorite wedding shows.

Say Yes to The Dress, TLC. Usually new episodes premire on Friday nights after What Not to Wear.

This allows us to follow the trials and tribulations at an upscale bridal salon in Manhattan. Lots sof dresses and lots of brides. Small doses of crazy.

My Big, Fat Redneck Wedding, on CMT

Not sure if Tom Arnold is laughing at the bride and groom or celebrating the lack of pretense. These wedding often involve camouflage, hog roasts, 4 wheel drives, and lots of beer.

WeTV is the biggest pusher of wedding shows.We Go Bridal,

WeTV has Platinum Weddings, Wedding Central, Bridzillas, and Rich Bride, Poor Bride showcase the wedding most of us will never have and rib our noses in it. Some of weddings feature floral bugets that most peopel wouldn't spend on a car. There are event planners, site managers, and a staff of organizers, coordintors and managers that any fortune 500 would be proud tp employ.

I may never marry again, but even if I do I won't be able to afford a platinum wedding. I know weddings are all about celbrating love and life, but some of these people go a little overboard.

Back from the void

So, I finally get off my ass to replace the nasty twenty year old carpet in the house. After comparison shopping and waiting for the couple to kick in, I was off to Lowe's. The cheapest stuff(hey, I'm getting ready to sell the damn place) they had in stock.

So, after tearing up carpet and padding and pulling or pounding staples, I was ready for underlayment. Following the instructions on the interwebs, I decided to start with the longest wall. With the help of Carrie, we started to lay the first row. That didn't turn out so well. The floor has lumps (my lumps, my lumps, my lovely floor lumps). So we, ok Carrie, call it a night and consider working the other wall.

After she leaves, I finish ripping up carpet and padding. And notice the areas in the subflooring that received the most damage from spillage. Particle board is like a wood based sponge, so there was significant swelling in a few areas. It was profound enough to require replacement. Resigned to that, I decide to call it a night and try to sleep.

I get the local lumber yard to cut the subflooring to the size I need and deliver it to the house. (There are a few advantages to living in a small town.) After breaking out the prybars, hammer, and chisles, the demolition began. And, as the particle board was peeled back, there they were, hardwood floors, praise ceiling cat.

They need to be refinished, but hardwood floors in ok condition are better than carpet or laminate. So now, I have to pull up carpet in the rest of the house. And I have come to hate pulling nails. But one day, I might be finshed with at least one of my projects

Project Runway delayed

So, every Wendsday my freinds and I meet at Dos Primos for Margaritas and Project Runway . And by every, I mean whenever Carrie's kids and husband don't thow a turd into the works. Other people have been know to show up, but I can always count on Carrie, just not the rest of her tribe.

So we show up and a third friend shows. It's just a touch past seven, so we have time and such. We order margaritas. I get a jumbo on the rocks. Kathleen goes with her usual jumbo frozen and my light weight freind Carrie settles for a regular pina colada, heavy on the pina. And food, we always order food, because drink without food always ends badly.

I have a lot of light weight freinds. All my freinds that are funnier after two drinks and down right shitfaced after three are on the list.

About half past we ask the nice waiter to turn on Bravo for Project Runway and a parade of fashion. So far this season has relied upon the clothes, as opposed to last year when it was all about the designers. On the up side, the clothes are fabulous and this is turning into one of the best seasons ever. On the down side, the personalites are normal and less over the top than previous seasons.

Back to my point. I asked waiter to find Bravo on the TV. After a bit of guide searching and button pushing, no Bravo. I don't know if they didn't pay the bill or Dish network changed the channel lineup, but it still resulted in no Bravo and no Project Runway for the margarita girls.

So, we sat there and drank. Half way through our beverages, I get the, "why would a man do insert something stupid and insensative here? Hell, I don't know. I'm the divorced one in the bunch. They have both been married, happily and otherwise for twelve to twenty years. Why would any sane married person ask their diveorced friend for marriage advice? Obvioulsy, I have no fucking clue on making a marriage work.

As the details fly, I feel guilty. My ex wasn't a bad husband. The things my freinds rant about drive me crazy. I attribute it to love. I never felt that deep toe curling, world shattering love for my ex people talk about. That is the only reason my freinds tolerate their husbands. And since love is different for everyone, I can't and won't tell them what to do or how to feel. I tell them that if leaving is the right choice now, it will be right in six months, so don't rush into anything.

Back to the show. I have been looking forward to this episode all week. This the episode that the designers are challenged to make an outfit for drag queens. This should be the most over the top fantabulous episode ever. Sure the prom dress episode from lat season was ok, but we're talking drag queen.

So, thanks to my DVR, I didn't have to worry about missing anything. Of course, during the next margarita, I get more details about how crappy being married is. (Of course I keep thinking how uncrappy my ex was.) And they start talking revenge. Little things like not washing undies lefton the bedroom floor, just fold them up and put the unwashed undies back in the undie drawer. Or, forgetting to make a place at the dinner table. There was mention of letting air out of tires and the infamous laxative brownies. I asked why revenge? I was told that revenge makes you feel better. Does it really? I suggested that things be sone that will be 1) noticed and 2) insitagate change.

Back to Runway I got home and grabbed the remote and decided to catch up on things. The drag queens werr outragous and fabulous. Just like drag queens should. So the challenge was to take the persona of the queem and design a gown for them.

Ok the ensuing 35 minutes involded the designers making fun of each other. And some sewing and other bull shit and commercials.

Any how, the runway show was one of the best ever hosted by the show. There were feathers and sequins and some of the best outfits ever. My opinon, the judges got it right with the pink, Anne Margaret on the Loveboat with the win. And the loser, Daniel, deserved to lose. When you think of drag queens, I don't think Carmen Miranda in a yellow flaminco dress. No, drag queens are all about three foot beehive and sequins. To make a dress for a drag queen qithout seqins or any bling is flat out stupid. The dress was nice, but it wasn't in the right context.

This would have been posted earlier, but The Squidbillies are on. More on Early and freinds later.