So Taboo

Being home is always fun for me. I love this city, and the great time my family has together. Wonder where I get the sass from? Its in the DNA.

Case in point:

Our family loves playing Taboo. We wish it was an Olympic sport. Do you know Taboo? Basically, a word guessing game. You have a word on top of the card, and five words below it that you can not say any part of in your attempt to get your team to guess. You have one minute to get your team through as many cards as possible.

In the pic above, yearbook is the word you want your team to guess. The other team gets the buzzer, off you go. And of course, we also have the electronic version. Game-playing-nerdios.

My older brother and I think we are unbeatable with our spectacular vernacular. But everyone in our family loves to play and it is no holds barred.

Example A: On a previous visit home, after dinner and vino, we are playing Taboo with about eight people. My older brother, TumbleWeed (named so for his constant and nonstop traveling for work) is giving clues to my Mom, my little brother (HiPie), and a friend of ours. He is yelling out clues and finally says, "This is what JennyMac is!!!! This is what JennyMac is!!!"

My mom then shouts out with glee like one of Rudolph's reindeer mates: FLAT.

Wait a minute. Did my Mom just say I am flat? I mean, I am but is that how this family is giving clues?

My brother cracks up. He is laughing SO hard he can not finish his round. OOOOPS Mr. LaughyTaffy, times up. The word he wanted her to guess? ATTORNEY.

The word not to be guessed: flat

Example B: My Mom and my Father have been divorced for a long time. His house in WA is a mile away from hers so we see him often when we are home. He is a fierce game player. I believe I was taught cribbage at age six. He stopped over one night and we invited him to play. He declined but said he would listen in.

I am giving clues to my Mom and various others. I am describing a word like this:

thin, small, most people have them, very handy, in your wallet.

My Father who is NOT playing says: CONDOMS!

The word I wanted my team to guess: Credit cards.

The word I did not want them to guess: Condoms.

Guess who I did not want to hear shouting condoms about what my Mom has in her wallet? My Father. Her ex-husband for decades so ditto for her.

See what I mean? It is genetic coding.

Take a Bite Of: Mexican Chocolate Cake

Congratulations to Tara at Tarable for winning the Starbucks giveaway. Thank you all for celebrating that landmark with me.

We are having a fab get together this afternoon with some close friends and family before JohnnyMac and I head off to the formal night of my 20 year reunion. JohnnyMac's interest in his own 20 year reunion was quite low to the ground while my enthusiasm for mine is skyrocket-like which includes high kicks and singing song lyrics like "It's tricky to rock and rhyme, rock and rhyme its right on time".

And since I am a speaker tonight, I green-lighted a few extra shots for him, AND assured him none of my comic stylings on the mic will be about him.

And if you don't like to bake, don't want to learn, but need the one sure thing you can bring to holiday parties, office get togethers, or baby showers, look no further my friend. This may be the most delicious cake I have ever made. And I make a particular cake that requires seven hours of my time. This one though, could not be easier. I even won a neighborhood bake-off with this recipe.

Not too long ago, it was pointed out to me (by JohnnyMac and supported by HiPie) that whenever I make something I like, instead of just asking someone to try it and tell me what they think, because I am brimming with enthusiasm (and confidence, apparently) I opt rather to say "try this. Its incredible, isnt it?" I will save you all of the accolades that accompany this recipe because some people don't need to be led to the water to drink, do they? Buon Appetito!

Mexican Chocolate Cake:

Ingredients:

1 stick butter (no one said light or fat-free did they?)
1/2 cup oil ( I use canola)
2 squares unsweetened chocolate
1 cup water
2 cups unsifted all purpose flour
1 tsp baking soda
2 cups sugar
1/2 cup buttermilk (*you can make your own, see below)
2 eggs
1 tsp cinnamon
1 tsp vanilla

Put butter and chocolate in saucepan over medium low heat until completely melted. Cool by adding oil and water. Put all other ingredients in mixing bowl and slowly incorporate the melted chocolate mixture until well blended. Pour into a greased 11 x 15 pan (you can use a lipped cookie sheet) and bake for 20-25 minutes at 350 degrees. While cake is still warm top with:

Mexican Chocolate Cake Icing:

1 stick butter (don't worry about it!)
2 squares unsweetened chocolate
6 Tbl milk
1 lb powdered sugar.
1 tsp vanilla

Put butter and chocolate in saucepan until completely melted. Remove from heat and add milk, vanilla, and powdered sugar. Use handmixer until completely smooth.

Note: the batter and icing are not stiff.
Note 2: when my Aunt makes this cake, she uses all buttermilk and no water
Note 3: I have added cinnamon to the icing as well. And I have added a dash of cayenne pepper to the batter before too. Mmmmm...spicy and fantastic.

* if you don't have buttermilk, add 1/2 T of lemon juice or vinegar to 1/2 c. of milk. Let stand for a few minutes and then proceed.

What happens in Seattle, stays in Seattle

What happens in Seattle stays in Seattle.

Unless your wife starts a blog, and then, well, best of luck shielding your antics from the world.
Greetings from the Emerald City. Ahhh. My stomping grounds. It is a tremendously good feeling to be in my hometown where we will enjoy the next 9 days.


This is a photo I took a few years ago from one of the many parks in the city. Picture perfect, I'd say.


This is my first bi-coastal blogging. While I am cramming in as many family/friends/fun things as possible, I am a Black Belt in Multi-tasking. Even my amazing Aunt who is 70+ years old asked, "You will still be posting to your blog while you are here, right?"


Oui.


And I would miss you all too much to not "see" you for a week. And I was on a wee bit of withdrawal yesterday because I had zero time with all the traveling to read any blogs. My comments will be lighter this next week, but I will be popping in and out when I can. And I am off to Starbucks soon to pick up the gift card I will bestow upon someone tomorrow!


Tonight, is the kick off of my three-day 20 year high school reunion. One of my friends asked if I was joking, before adding, even Truman Capote knew when to draw the line.


I have kept in great touch with friends from childhood and look so forward to seeing them.


I am also speaking at tomorrow night's formal fete. I promise I won't start off with ....this one time, at band camp. I will mostly make mockery of our hideous hair, sassy large fringe scarves we wore, and of course, our inability to properly break dance.


While I am at the "OMG..do you remember when..." fest tonight sans spouses, my Husband has the option of going out with my little brother.


Days ago, while I chatted with my little brother, HiPie, regarding plans for our visit, one of said plans includes JohnnyMac staying at their house to catch an early tee time one morning. JohnnyMac said that staying at their house will certainly assure he is not in bed early, and not in any shape to play golf early in the am. HiPie swore restraint and good behavior.


I said, oh, that's a precious little lie.


Let me explain.


Two years ago, during a summer visit, we enjoyed a dinner out with HiPie, The RevDoc (my BIL) and some other friends. The boys order the drinks. And keep ordering drinks. Everyone appears oh so very thirsty. After a luxurious 2 hour dinner, we went to a joint that plays karoaoke. Warm it up Chris? I'm about to....


Of course, very soon, our friend CapitolHill and I are doing a perfect job singing Push It. I can't get enough of the yo yo yo yo baby pop.


Some girls get up and sing Bon Jovi. JohnnyMac is a fan of Bon Jovi. He follows them only to bop around behind them like a back up dancer. Not really a back up dancer...more like a highly springy toy bobbing up and down with his hands in the air. Not hands in the air Ludacris style either. His hands in the air was a bit more stick 'em up style.


And my Hub doesn't dance. This should have been a warning sign.


Later, as I am getting ready to sing my favorite Janis Joplin song, Me and Bobby McGee, JohnnyMac hears someone singing Poison. He then proceeds to begin a wobbly ascent up on top of a table to dance. Ummmm, time out on the field. I knew he had to be w-a-s-t-e-d to even attempt such an act.


I then spy him saunter over to the bar with our pals as shots are being purchased and consumed. Oh, this is going to end poorly, I think. I then recognize JohnnyMac's sloppy face. I see it rarely, but when I do, I pay attention. HiPie and I leave him at the bar to go fetch a cab and my parting words to our friends:


"Free neutering for the next one who buys him a shot."


We get in the cab, and aww, night night JohnnyMac. We arrive at my little brother's and JohnnyMac just can't quite wake up. Ever hoisted a full grown man dipped in wasted and rolled in sleepy out of a cab? Oh, its big fun.


The next morning, he wakes up hangover free, because he happens to have DNA that repels hangovers. I did happily show him the pics of him "sleeping" in the cab. Or, as I like to call it "passed out." And he passed out with one eye open which makes for awesome photographs. Arrgghhhh....Of course, as soon as I see HiPie, who was the conductor of that train, I ask him WTF happened with the sudden crazy booze blanket JohnnyMac got wrapped in. And I meant prior to shots being served. His response, "Oh, we had been ordering him doubles all night. Is that wrong?"


If it was wrong, apparently JohnnyMac wanted not to be right. And I did get a small preview of his dance move arsenal, which he has yet to live down.


Hence his statement that going out with my little brother will not improve either his odds of getting up on time for early golf OR his actual golf game.


And why I don't believe any of those innocent little promises my little brother wants to make.


But, then again, it could be me who is a spinning disco ball of wasted come shut eye time tonight so I better not throw stones. But at least I will have my fabulous dance moves. And even if I get a bit sideways tonight with my old friends, my secrets are safe because my husband doesn't write a blog.

Homeward bound

We leave tonight for one of my favorite cities: Seattle. And one of my favorite places on earth: home. Where I grew up and where my entire family and many friends still reside. I can't wait to see them, although, once you have a baby, and he is the first grandson on both sides of the family, you are so second tier.

Here is an example:

Me: Hi. We will be home on Thursday night at 7.

Everyone in Seattle I love either connected to me by DNA or friendship: OH! We can hardly wait to see you and JohnnyMac your little man. (Also known as the Little Prince of Georgia).

Me: And we can't wait to see you.

Everyone: Oh you'll be here? Awesome! I have a little something for you our favorite person in your family. I found a present/new toy/new pjs/new jeans/a baseball glove/an electric guitar/a car/a pony that he JUST had to have.

Me: And I hope you have cocktails for the adults at this party.

Thankfully I am bringing my laptop because while my family is so busy fighting over who gets to spend the most time with me playing with our son, I will be blogging from the West Coast.

But our little man is awesome. He is both charming and smart. Here is why everyone who has ever known me would now rather spend time with our two year old:

Last week, our Little Man was playing on his drumset before we left for school. (Merci, to my older brotehr for such a super quiet toy). I told Little Man we had to go.
He said, "I'm just playing the beat, Mommy. "

I applauded his efforts and told him we still needed to leave.
He said, "No Mommy, I just need to play the beat. I have a song in my soul."

A song in my soul? Our son is TWO. Technically, 2. 5. My eyes actually welled up a bit and I wanted to tell him he was a FCKING ROCK STAR but that is not appropriate AT ALL so I settled for giving him a big hug.

He moved me.

And it reminded me of one of my birthday gifts last month. This gift was all my son's idea.

This is when you feel overwhelmed with love for another person, especially when that person is part of you.

Precious boy.

And yes, Little Man, you do have a song in your soul. And I love that you are so loved.

Is it worth it, let me work it

I do like getting my fitness on. And we all know that you better just keep working out because while it may take time to get in shape, it takes no time at all to get out of shape. Call it the law of irony, I know.

Next thing you know, your jeans refuse to even let you "slip" them on and for some reason your scale has added weight but you know that can't be right. Blame the batteries all you like.

Getting fit requires work. Go walk. Ride a bike. Climb stairs. Something.
I will be the first to attest, your ass won't lose itself.

I feel an infinite sense of balance if I have daily workouts. I even worked out until I was 6 months pregnant. And for the record, when they say you should not do exercises on your back when you are pregnant, and you scoff, and then you try it and murmur in pain. Ummm, listen up next time, smarty. You arent the M.D.

So perhaps it came as a bit of a surprise what happened last night at the gym.

I decided to take a Cardio Hip Hop class. Now, dance + big mirrors + loud music is a version of heaven for me. Seriously, get that industrial sized fan going and I won't be leaving any time soon.

So I go to this class, clearly full of regulars jockeying for front row position, and I pony up to an up front spot. I used to be a competitive dancer so I have no fear hanging out at the front of that room. Mmm hmmmm. Easy there Cocky Balboa.

A woman walked in super chatty with multiple people. She was a very healthy girl. And by very healthy, I mean, she was a very good sized gal. She makes her way to the front of the room and puts on a headset. Have you been to a cardio class? Headsets are for the instructors. Period. I thought well, this will be interesting. In ten years at this gym, I have never seen a girl over 100 pounds, 70 of which are pure muscle, teaching a cardio class. Ever. And while I had never been to this particular class, my mind may have formed an opinion too soon.

Since we had five minutes before the class actually started, Ms. Hip Hop decided we would do an early warm up. Everyone on their backs for some abdominal fun. I had no fear.

And Ms. Hip Hop was chat chat chatting away. And then she said we could do 100 crunches. Done. Oh, 100 more? Oh side to side working those obliques? Ummm, ok. On what felt like my 700th crunch, she is still chatting away words of encouragement and cranking those crunches out like she was made of steel. I felt an earthquake and then realized that was just my core and stomach muscles having spasms. Is abdominal party time over yet? Oh my.

What is that about judging books by covers? Shame. on. me.

So class begins as I am weakened from tummy torture. And this girl can dance. And she can kick-ball change. And she can shake her moneymaker. And she can do it all over and over again. Fifty more times. No you don't need a water break, ladies, she says. You need to work up a sweat.

I promise you that I would have no better training for a MC Hammer video than what was being delivered in this class. Did she hear my inner monologue. M_______F__.

Oh here comes a move where we squat and then jump up from one leg and do a high kick. Oh, I love some high kicks. Oh, do that ten times in a row? Ummmm. Ok.

Oh, slide down floor on one hip, legs to the side, and one arm holding us for balance? S-s-s-sure.

One hour later, I was a hot mess. I wanted to show some personal attention to that industrial fan. Is it wrong to attempt to make sweet, sweet love to it? I was delirious with exhaustion. I tried to embrace it like a holy angel except I was momentarily too weak to stand. Don't mind me while I lay here and mew for a minute more. The instructor? She probably went right out and ran 10 miles.

As if I didn't know already, here is affirmation, you can learn something new everyday.

Me love you long time

Cel-e-brate...good times..come on.

Wait. Those are two different songs.

But I am celebrating.
And you are the reason.
Ergo, me love you long time.

Yesterday afternoon, my tiny blog welcomed its 20,000th visitor. And since it is mathematically possible but not probable for all 20,000 of those visits to be my Mom, I think you had something to do with it.

And when I get love, I give love.

So I am doing a 20 for 20K celebratory blog- love giveaway.

In honor of this really special landmark for Let's have a cocktail, I am sending one of my great readers a $20 gift card to Starbucks.


Just leave a comment between now and Friday, and then I will pick a name from my magic hat.

And since I will be sitting in Seattle at that time enjoying big fun with my family and friends, I naturally chose a hometown hero: Starbucks. If you don't have a Starbucks nearby, or in the event you don't like coffee, fear not. I've got you covered.

Thank you to every one of you who makes the time to read my blog. Visitors welcome.

Have an amazing day.

Shot Drinker

Are you familiar with the expression "stating the obvious?"

I have never employed the phrase primarily because it is so cliche, and, well, you don't need to state the obvious.

However, yesterday while running at the river, an opportunity arose to employ this expression in the most suitable of ways.

Let me set the stage. A man whom I guess to be around 23 or 24 was running in front of me. Normally, I pay little attention to anything outside of my rockin' beats on the iPod. However, this young man had a shirt on emblazoned with Shot Drinker across the back. No verbiage on the front, just simply, a statement of clarification across the back for all the world to see.

To me, seeing a man in his young 20's wearing a shirt with the words shot drinker seemed as similar as me wearing a shirt indicating "I have brown hair". I wouldn't wear such a shirt, because I do not need to do I? Anyone who sees me would probably gloss over such a clear and evident detail. Let's not don attire that communicates glaringly obvious facts.

So Shot Drinker...I love your shirt. You drink shots, do you? I love that you wanted to share a fact that would have otherwise been a secret. Unless of course, I saw you at any one of the hundreds of bars in Atlanta, especially on a game day. Do you also have a shirt earmarked as "Tail Chaser?" I am sure you do. Folded up nicely in your drawer underneath your other shirts. You know the ones.

"Ball Scratcher"

"Direction Refuser"

and "I heart porn"

Good for you to help us understand just a speck more about you.

Oh, I am painting with the stereotype brush, I know. You are right.
Not every man scratches their balls
refuses directions
loves porn
likes shots.

But something tells me if you would wear such a pronouncement, its all hands on deck from the peanut gallery.

You give blog a good name

Before I invited you here, I paid a visit to DustJacket Attic to borrow a glamorous frock.

Ta Da.

Why? Because I have been awarded and when receiving awards, and hosting the Awards after-party, one must have a fabulous red gown. And some cocktails.

Aren't Sundays always the day for Awards parties? Indeed.

Now that we are properly attired, and shall soon be hydrated, I want to give some blog thanks and gratitude. Awards shows are always long...take your patience pill.

I really appreciate every reader and every comment. I feel like I know you even though we have never met. At times, I relay stories about you, your blogs, or your comments to JohnnyMac like I am talking about friends I have known forever. You do give blog a good name.

I read a blog last week indicating that blog awards and memes are silly. And stupid. If you agree, check out now. Because I think any time someone acknowledges you or your blog, it is a testament to you, and your writing. I value this blogging circle being built and appreciate you for injecting it with so much positivity. And I absolutely love writing. My writing is finding a home.

I have been the honored recipient of some great awards. Before I turn into a pumpkin, I want to acknowledge them. Get a drink, we have some ground to cover.

Aubrey at Made You Blush was kind enough to give me another Honest Scrap Award. With this comes another ten things I have never told anyone.

Viv at The V Spot gave me this treasure. Your Blog is F*cking Fabulous. And she even used the PG version. Thank you Viv. With this comes 5 obsessions.

Thank you Sarah at The Fox Den and Little Ms Blogger and La La La Leah for another Lovely Blog award. And Leah, even when you already have one, getting another is actually a very great feeling so thank you! I appreciate SouthernChampagneWishes for the beautiful Splash Award. So pretty. The Splash Award is given to alluring, amusing, bewitching, impressive, and inspiring blogs. Thank you SCW!

And PJ from Seens from the Back of My Eyelids created an award for me. Shazam! Its awesome.

Big thanks to LadyTruth and GreenEyedMomster for the Super Comments Award. You are both fabulous.

Melissa B, The Scholastic Scribe, donned me with her award. And wonderful AmyK from Life's Not a Cruise sent the same award to me this week. Awesome!

Jen from JensRantings and Nancy from F8hasit gave me the Premium MeMe. Thank you both.This includes listing 7 of your personality traits. The Caped Tirader gave me a nod as well for the same list so I appreciate it (and welcome back from Ireland. Go look at his pics.)

EmFabulousFunshine tagged me in the "I've come to realize" meme which includes 36 things I have come to realize. Her list was fantastic.

The lovely Nora Johnson and Eve tagged me in two book memes. I love to read so thank you both.

Cherie at This Side of Town gave me a darling Cupcake Award. SO cute.

And big thanks to Rebecca Knight: Writer in Progress for the awesome Kreativ Blogger Award. This also includes 7 things about me you might not know.

And a curtsy and bow to Constructive Attitude at Symphonic Discord for not one, not two, not three, but FOUR awards: The Vespa Blog Friendship Award, the Love Ya Award, the Adorable Blog Award, and the Best Blogging Buddies Award. This is awesome!

Whew....please hold, I need a sip.

I am going to condense the information from all of these awards into ten very relevant things about me:

1. It is my dream to sing the National Anthem at a major sporting event.
2. I am intimidated by nothing. With the exception: I might take a bullet before handling snakes.

Want to hear some prissy screaming? Surprise with me a slitherer.
3. I am loyal to a point of fierceness. Think lion. Very close.
4. I met a famous man at a party. He was such a prick I acted like I had never heard of him. He could NOT believe I had not heard of him. Of course I had. However, NO ONE should say things like "You seriously have never heard of me?" At one point I asked if he was on Saved by the Bell. He was salty after that. Bye bye arsehole.
5. Feeling homesick at times isn't limited only to children.

6. I got in the middle of a dog fight once. Shudder. But one of the dogs was mine. I was terrified for her. Talk about adrenaline.
7. I once danced in a cage at a bar in Chicago.
8. I was invited to join Mensa.
9. Social injustice is intolerable to me. I want to save people from heartbreaking circumstances. And Life has dealt some people a hard hand. I have cried innumerable times due to what I have read in the news or in magazines of hurt and anguish caused by human cruelty.
10. I once smoked a cigar at a black tie function. I also took a nap shortly thereafter in the car because of it. Apparently I was quite unschooled in the toxicity and buzz load a cigar packs. WOW.

Moving on:

Big bravo to Supah D...she made a comment on my 6th month-half-Blog Bday giveaway the one entitled, I give good blog, that I should make it an award. Well. I did.

This awards bash is also the inaugural I give good blog party. Wear your tiaras with pride, dames and gent, you deserve it. Envelopes please.... the first recipients of the Let's have a cocktail I give good blog awards are:

Aubrey, Viv, Sarah, Little Ms., Leah, SouthernChampagne, LadyTruth, GreenEyed, Jen, Nancy, Caped Tirader, PJ, Melissa, Amy, EmFabulous, Rebecca, Constructive, and Supah D.

The rules: No one really likes rules, do they? I shall make mine simple. Make a cocktail, pick out some of your favorite bloggers. Send this award to 4 of them. Tell them why you think they give good blog. There are SO many fascinating, witty, and fantastic bloggers; let's invite them all to the party.

Or you can just put it on your mantle and watch it sparkle.

And if you think it sassy that I created my own Award, just consider it a grown up and virtual version of a friendship bracelet.

And, in the spirit of giving, I read through the past several days stockpile of comments. And laughed out loud many times. Again. And I elect to give the I give good blog award to a few other friends. Come join the dance party.

Rita/Fighting Off Frumpy
HalfAsstic
Tammy Howard
Blue Violet at Nut in a Nutshell
Emily at Powell Power
Mommy Mac at KMac Creations
B.o.b
JJ in LA
Intense Guy
Simply Mel
Pooba
Sheila at Ma Vie Folle
Alicia at It Ain't Easy Being Cheesy
Jules at Mean Girl Garage
Lisa and Laura Write
Simone at The Bottom of the Ironing Basket

Lady Di and Amy at Daily Doses of Mama Drama
Something Happening Somewhere Turning
Kristina P at Pulsipher Predilections

Wow...that is a roll call. And since I took this list from recent comments, this by no means excludes a long list of other bloggers I find SuperFly TNT.

You all make me laugh. So often. From the comments, to your own blog fodder, you have style. You have verve. And your varying personalities remind me of some of the great people I have known throughout my life. Bravo to you.

And the beauty of creating an award? I can disperse on my own free will. After all, I hope I always give good blog too.

More awards to come. Cheers.

Take A Sip Of: Watermelon Bloody Mary

Happy Birthday to my little brother, HiPie. He is fresh back from St. Thomas and St. Croix. He will definitively need a cocktail starter to replenish the scads of electrolytes he left behind.

And we are having a dinner party with some friends tonight. One of them, born and bred in the Bayou. She is a fabulous cook thus inspiring this twist on a classic cocktail.

We love a good bloody mary. My favorite bloody mary is actually from a mix called Zing Zang. Amazing. But this fruitful pleasure is a highly tasty version. Another way to stay refreshed while we still are wrapped in summer.

Let's have a cocktail? Of course. This recipe compliments of Martha Stewart.

Watermelon Bloody Mary

Ingredients:

* 12 cups watermelon chunks (from a 4 lb watermelon, rind removed) plus pieces, for serving
* 1 teaspoon sugar, or to taste
* Ice, for serving
* 1 1/2 cups tomato juice
* 13 dashes hot sauce, such as Tabasco, or to taste
* 1 1/2 teaspoons Worcestershire sauce
* 1 1/4 teaspoons coarse salt
* 1/2 teaspoon celery seeds, ground with a mortar and pestle, or celery salt
* Freshly ground pepper
* 1 to 1 1/4 cups vodka
* Celery stalks, for serving

Directions

1. Working in batches, puree watermelon (with seeds) and sugar in blender. Strain into a bowl through a fine sieve, pressing with a rubber spatula; discard solids. (You will have 5 1/2 cups juice.)

2. For children's drinks: Divide 2 1/2 cups juice among 4 ice-filled glasses.

3. For adults' drinks: Stir remaining 3 cups watermelon juice with tomato juice, hot sauce, Worcestershire sauce, salt, and celery seeds in a bowl set in a larger bowl of ice. Season with pepper. Stir in vodka and divide among 4 ice-filled glasses.

4. Garnish adult drinks with a piece of watermelon and a celery stalk.

You're so busted, you don't even know.

Driving with a little person in the car requires certain adjustments from our perspective. He is only two but any of you who have been in proximity of a two year old are aware that you better read yourself your Miranda rights every time you are around them. Anything you say, can and will be repeated. And possibly used against you.

Example 1: Just before Little Man turned 2, he and I were driving home from school. I honked my horn to let another car back out of a blind driveway. As Pavlovian as can be, as soon as my son heard the horn, he said "MOVE ID-I-OT. "

Hmmmm. Idiot is not typically on my vocab list but it didn't take Indiana Jones to solve this mystery. I know which adult in our home may have honked a horn and said "Move idiot" a time or two on his commutes with our child.

I told our son that actually, when we honk the horn, we say HI FRIENDS. And this is what we practiced. The entire way home.

When I talked to JohnnyMac about it later, he confirmed the statement as being one that is none too nice from the mouth of a 20 month old but also asserted it could have been much, much worse. Oh goody, a social experiment in cross-canceling. Excellent work, DADDY.

When I told my BFF, MarciaGarcia, her response was identical to JohnnyMac's. It could have been worse. Philosophy from another person not afraid to say the F word.

And even now, honk that horn, our little man will be the first to say HI FRIENDS. My theory has worked beautifully. Until I forget. Employ a more salty word. And get reminded by my toddler of the proper word choice. Its coming. I know it is.

Example 2: A week ago, a police car and a fire truck passed us, sirens fully engaged. Our son told me he doesn't like that sound. I have explained before the purpose (in a general sense) of fire trucks and aid cars so he will not be afraid of them. When a second police car passed, the following occurred:

Him: I saw that policeman yesterday.
Me: You saw the police man or the police car?
Him: No, I saw that police man in that car. I talked to him.
Me: You saw him or you actually talked to him.
Him: I said hi to him but he talked to Daddy.
Me: Oh, I am ALL ears Little Man.
Him: He said hi to me and I told him I watch Jimmy Buffett. (on DVD, in Daddy's SUV)
Me: Oh, did you?
Him: Yes, while he talked to Daddy some more.

Later, I ask JohnnyMac if he got pulled over the day before. He looks at me with the slightest mixture of awe and WTF. He says, "Hmmm, yes."

Oh babe, your son narc'ed on you.

Excellent.

Let that serve as a lesson to both of us.

Name Dropper

A month ago my friend SandMan asked me to help him plan his 40th birthday bash. But of course. I loooooove to throw parties. He is a great guy and well loved so I anticipate big fun.

Then he indicated his ex, G, wanted to "help". He put the emphasis on the word help, not me. I said sure. His brother told me (out of earshot) to be prepared. G is difficult. Difficult in what way I asked. You'll see was his response.

Ummm, let's have more facts please? Difficult like parallel parking on a hill in San Fran difficult, or difficult like sliding down a razor blade difficult? He only smiled.

Now I know.

G is a NameDropper.



I'm sorry, not A NameDropper. Perhaps the most skilled NameDropper. Of all time. Iditarod winning NameDropper. Olympic Medal qualifying NameDropper. I can't say I have crossed paths with anyone quite like her and I live in the city of Atlanta where "Facial Rejuvenation" (a/k/a plastic surgery) is as daily as multi-vitamins and Bikram Yoga.

Do you know name droppers? Are they all talk no walk? I have recently been told by G that she is BFF with Elton John (I will spare you how many people in Altanta say this) but also a vast network of other dazzling people from her "dear friend" Candice Bergen to her "dear friend" Anna Wintour. Perfect. I am sure they are both lovely. If so though, can you please stop asking me who to call to acquire certain items for Sandman's bash?

And if you do know everyone, please order me up a little McDreamy for under my tree in December. Oh, and my BFF loves Andy Garcia. And my Hub wants SuperBowl tickets. 50 yard line.

In between the Six Degrees of G's Separation, she also lets me know of her constant business. I know. You are busy. Telling me how busy you are. All of the time. Just SO busy. Wow.

The irony is that G. has all the makings to be fabulous. Great taste, fun, well read, wine savvy. But alas, you can't mention a restaurant, a building, a book, or a beach that she doesn't know the owner, CEO, writer, wine maker, builder, heir, or King. The only name I have not heard her mention is the Baby Jesus.

If nothing else, it is entertaining.

In general, Name Droppers are interesting, yes? What is the point of all of the name dropping? Is it to enlighten? Educate? I don't know. I think if you do indeed know Elton, Candace, Anna...great. And if there is a purpose to your telling, tell away. For example, Who can we call to perform at a concert. Answer: Hey, I know Elton John. See? That is a solid transaction.

But G just talks about everyone she knows. Repeatedly. She lists off her roster faster than Joe Girardi. More Facebook friends than Dane Cook.

But the irony is, she produces zero results from her wide net. Nothing. Nor do I see her photo in the many glossy mags delivered to my office showcasing face after face after face of Atlanta nobility at the many wonderful fetes we attend. Hmmmm. That's alot of yak, and not much to back it up.

So NameDroppers...please dial back. Unless you can really call in those favors like some Celebrity Apprentice, all the yammering, well, its a eensy bit tiresome. I am sure you do know everyone, no need to make it the primary topic of conversation.

And I wouldn't say she is difficult. I would say she is a bit misinformed since the litany of people she knows, well, apparently they don't reciprocate.

The party will still be fabulous, no doubt. And G, well, G's permanent residence is NYC so she won't be with us long. And then I can remove the ice pack from my ear canal.

And, as we say here in the South, bless her heart.

A Beaver Tale

Last week, I posted a bit of a treasure from my family's comic arsenal about my Mom and her little brown beaver. This memory was prompted by another situation that occurred last weekend. For the fun of talking about it again, here we go.

Last Sunday, on another swampy GA day, I put little man in the Bugaboo and went off to the park for a run. First, its hhhhhhot. Second, its hhhhhhhot. And third, he is only two but it is not like I am pushing a Teddy Graham on a paper clip. It's a work out.

So, we get to this bridge he likes and a mandatory stop is par for the course so he can look at the river. I am pouring sweat and pleased for even a mere two minute hiatus from the run. He asks, in his two year old jubilee, if I too can see it. I say, yes I can see the river. I look up to see another runner very close to us so I shimmy over to the side of the sidewalk lest I be an obstacle in her path. She said hello and asks "Did you say you saw my beaver?"


Me, engulfed in a cloud of bafflement. Because I only tilted my head to the side and probably narrowed my gaze at her, she asked again, "Did you say you saw my beaver?"

No. Because of the many things I would never say, right up there with "I should have married Vanilla Ice" would be me, turning to a full-scale stranger and saying, "Ma'am, I think I saw your beaver."

Oh, I get it, she heard yes I see the river and misunderstood. Care not. If you pause for a tiny moment of reflection, you wouldn't ask me if I said I saw your beaver even if you thought you heard it. And yes, I know not everyone hears this word and gets the slang correlation. My Mom is case in point. Even then, it is still an odd question.

She proceeds to point out a house across the field below, which is her abode. And apparently beavers do reside in or around the river. She has taken a liking to one. Hence the pet phrase.

I have literally crossed that bridge no less than 500 times and I have never once seen a beaver.
So all I can say in response to her question, is ummmmmmmmmmmm no.

And then she tells me, "I hope you see one. Beavers are wonderful."

Are they? Wonderful? Oh, you're right. That's what every boy in junior high (and beyond) told me.

Tiny albeit signficant suggestion:

While it may be big laughs in my family to tell and re-tell a joke about a beaver, its not a word I use frequently. And outside of my mom and her misbegotten humor, when I hear it from other people, I don't laugh and snort like a 5th grader all over again.

If you are a grown woman, you should know that it is an odd phrase to say to a stranger, at almost any time unless we are the Aquarium or the Zoo. Even if I was standing in the river, I doubt I would make the correlation. From a complete stranger. Jogging by with her iPod. Chatting away about her beaver. And how wonderful it is.

And finally, and I promise this is the best advice, while its super duper you have made a little friend down at the tributary, stop calling it your beaver. Stat.

And what did I do when I got home? Immediately telephoned my Mom and told her. How hard did we laugh? Very.

Oh, beaver humor strikes again.

If these tiles could talk

A friend and I were out last weekend and popped by her brother RockCity's place for a quick visit. Later I received a mysterious text containing a plea for assistance in penning this missive. I wholeheartedly agreed. Below is what we came up with...

Dear RockCity:

It is time to talk. I know this will be hard for you to understand. I feel like we have come to a fork in the road, but to be fair, it's not me, its you.

I realize you are completely comfortable in our relationship. I see you feel truly at home. But I wanted to share something with you.

I feel dirty.

With the constant leftover toothpaste in the sink, I see you going deeper and deeper into an abyss. Germs do not make you blink in the least. And I assure you, I harbor more germs than the CDC.



And when you leave your urine in the toilet. Well, that's unsightly. Indoor plumbing is a convenience you should enjoy multiple times per day. And while we are on that topic, maybe you should drink some more water. You don't appear to be too hydrated.

And when the brunette came over last week, she wouldn't sit on that toilet seat. I think she had a minor gag reflex kick in and then, she used profanity. A mere whisper and I hate to repeat things, but she looked around and said are you f*ing kidding me?

RockCity, friend, you must realize that when you want a woman visitor, and she needs the lav to "powder her nose" if she finds what the last one found, well, you won't be getting lucky, I promise you. And just forget about any reenacted scenes from 9 1/2 weeks. Why? Because those usually involve a shower during or after. That will not happen here.

You may as well have a dish on the counter with a note saying "Free Staphylococcus."

I think you just need a quick cleanse on the sink, counter, and shower. The shower doors are not opaque by design. They make special products to help us both. And the tub? It looks like you attempted to rinse a dead body down it.

Oh, and the floor. Please don't forget the floor. There is currently enough of your hair on the floor to knit a gorilla.

If people had to choose between a port o john at the bus terminal and this bathroom, I know they won't be coming here. Save yourself future embarrassment. Give me a scrub.

And if you can't find the time, which clearly seems to be an issue, can you pay someone to come? Your sister will do it for $30.00. Well worth the investment.

Help me shine.

Regards,
Your Master Bathroom.

Safety first

I am certain there is vital information to be gleaned from taking lessons of every sort. Or they wouldn't be so readily offered or filled to capacity, would they? Riding lessons, tennis lessons, fly-fishing lessons....if there is someone wanting to learn, there is a class you can sign up for to teach you basics of whatever new hobby you are trying to pursue. I have taken lessons o' plenty. From skiing to spanish class, so I already how beneficial some general tutoring and guidance can be.

So it might not surprise you that I wanted to undertake windsurfing in the Bahamas. What might seem askew is that I would disregard common sense and instead, I would pioneer my own sense of vanguard learning. Let me explain.

We went to the Bahamas and stayed at an all-inclusive resort. What they lacked in "good food" they made up for in cocktails and an endless supply of boats, kayaks, surfboards and differing other water paraphernalia.

In chatting with some other guests, one of them was a wind-surfing champion from California. I expressed my interest and he and his wife said they would show me how easy it was. With about 20 minutes on the sand, it truly seemed easy enough. I am an athletic girl so as long as I could pull that sail up, I was ready to go. Sleek black life jacket over my fabulous red bikini and I was ready to pilot my craft into the Atlantic.

I only had to tell a partial and tiny lie to the man at the equipment dock. He asked if I had lessons. I said yes. While I could infer that he meant "are you trained and ready" I simply took his words at face value. Had I had lessons? Yes. One twenty minute lesson OR if you broke it down, two ten-minute lessons which qualify as plural. He didn't ask where I had them, from whom, or how long but I guess he assumed if I would employ some lawyer-ly trickery to undermine my own safety, then I was beyond his reach.

And we know, safety first.

There is a reason people like him, who work on the beach, ask these questions.

I took the board out with the help of my two "instructors". The wind was perfect and I pulled that sail up in about 2 seconds and felt the speed pick up as I traversed the waves. Boats and jet skis bounded by me, and with a friendly wave I celebrated my coup. I was actually zigzagging across the watery terrain, and I felt like Annick Graveline. Or at the minimum, Baywatch material (sans permanently implanted "life preservers"). All was going well and clearly, they got some great pics from the shore.

I was impressed by how quickly you can move across the water. What did not impress me was the moment the wind ceased. For it was only at that moment did I realize how far from shore I had come. And then I realized that I had failed to inquire what you do when the wind halts. Uh oh. I had to drop the sail because gravity was working against me. So there I sat in the Atlantic....all surfboarded up and no where to go.

After about ten minutes, I seemed to be drifting in the wrong direction. I had no windpower. Oh, and I was on a bit of a schedule. I had a flight to catch.

Finally, I see another windsurfer heading my way. I flag him down (he, adept enough at the sport to cruise right over to me). Only to discover he spoke zero English. He kept pointing at the sun, smiling, and saying "Mucho calor!" Yes, I know its hot. I have become quite aware of the burning sun as I float aimlessly around the Ocean.

I decide to try to pull the sail out, discard it, and paddle back on the surfboard. How to remove the sail? Oh, that was apparently going to be covered in another future lesson.

Finally I say F. it, and I am going to simply have to swim back sans board. I see off in the distance that there is a touch of a crowd gathered on the shore where I left which may be comprised of my friends who certainly know I have had no windsurfing lessons.

As I am pulling the sail towards the board, I cut my hand. And not a paper cut because of course, I am not handling paper here. I jump in the water but there is actually quite a bit of blood. You know who likes blood? Sharks.

Now, the Atlantic Ocean is home to over 16 types of sharks with Great White shark, Reef Shark, and Tiger Shark amongst some of the most popular around The Bahamas.

Now for a lesson in zoology. Do you know what the Tiger Sharks nickname is? Garbage Can of the Ocean because it will eat anything. Due to its aggressive nature of eating, the Tiger Shark doesn't slow down to study its food. License plates, suits of armor, baseballs, and even a petroleum can have been found inside the digestive track of a Tiger Shark so I know my gams would be but a mere appetizer.

Oh, and Tiger Sharks eat all of you. Not just a bite or two. And because of their incredibly keen sense of smell and their ability to detect low frequency pressure waves, the can detect the faintest trace of blood and follow it precisely to its source.

In this case, me. Me, the crafty clever one who swore I had windsurfing lessons before I cut my hand open in the middle of the Ocean.

Now, I was starting to realize I had no plan to fix my situation. A tiny bit of angst washed over me. Finally, after about 20 more minutes, I see a boat coming. I stand on my board and wave and wave and wave until they had no other choice but to change direction. As the boat pulled over, with dozens of people aboard, I plead my plight. The Captain laughed and other people merely gave me a pitiful look.

The captain radioed back to the beach. Sure enough, in about five minutes two cabanas boys on the 60 horsepower Kawasaki wave runners came to fetch me. With them is my instructor who had the decency to wait until we were out of earshot to give me a tiny reprimand. Once on the beach I can see that I did inflict quite a bit of worry. The lifeguards told me I was over one mile off shore and had been gone for over an hour. Lesson learned friends, lesson learned. Don't bite off more than your local neighborhood Tiger Shark can chew.

I had 15 minutes to change and get in the waiting cab to the airport. As I was departing, one of the lifeguards said, "So I guess you won't do that again?"

Well, certainly not here.

Take A Bite Of: Key Lime Creme Brulee

Ahhhhh....both refreshing and decadent. Can it be? Indeed.

My older brother, Tumbleweed, is here for the weekend to spend time with his favorite sister spoil his nephew rotten. When selecting the recipe for today, I thought of my brother's food profile. Lime desserts are his favorite. He happens to also be a big fan of my Creme Brulee. What a perfect pairing of two of his favorites in this wickedly good treat I will be tee'ing up this weekend in his honor.

This recipe is from Four Seasons Hotel in Palm Beach.

Do not let Creme Brulee intimidate you. It is a more complicated recipe than some desserts but not difficult to master. I have experimented with dozens of recipes. If you want a perfect and could not be easier basic creme brulee recipe, email me. I am happy to pass it along. If you don't have a culinary torch, get one. But you can also use your broiler to make the perfect sugar crust.

Buon Appetito! And have a great weekend.

Key Lime Creme Brulee

• Filling:

3 egg yolks, plus 3 egg yolks
1 1/2 ounces sugar
10 ounces heavy cream
1 vanilla bean, split
2 ounces sweetened condensed milk
3 ounces key lime juice

• Crust:

Puff pastry, store bought
Fruit puree, as a garnish, optional

• Directions:
  

Preheat oven to 350 degrees F.

Over a double boiler, whisk 3 egg yolks and sugar to a thick, ribbon-like texture.In a separate pot, combine the heavy cream and split vanilla bean, and bring to a boil. Temper the egg yolk mixture into the cream, by whisking a little of the hot cream into the eggs, while constantly whisking, and then whisk the yolk mixture back into the hot cream. Return to the heat and, while whisking continually, finish cooking to a custard stage, approximately 1 or 2 minutes.

For the second part of the creme brulee, whisk the remaining 3 egg yolks for 1 minute. Add the condensed milk and whisk for another minute. Add the key lime juice gradually and whisk for 1 minute. Combine the creme brulee filling with the key lime filling and chill in the refrigerator until needed.

To make the crust, roll out a sheet of puff pastry very thin, 20 by 10-inches. Cut 6 (4-inch diameter) circles out of the puff pastry to line 6 (3-inch) tart pans. Let the dough rest for 30 minutes in the refrigerator. Line the pastry rings with the pastry dough and trim the excess dough flush to the edge of the ring. Place a piece of parchment paper on each tart shell and fill with beans and bake until golden, about 10 minutes. The shells should be very thin and even.

To assemble, fill the shells with the key lime filling and level the tops with a spatula. Dust the tops of the desserts with sugar and using a torch caramelize the tops. Place the desserts on a plate and serve with fruit puree, if desired.

Potty Mouth

I have already given strong indication that bathroom humor is not my gig.

I am a behind-closed-doors type of gal. Johnny Mac is too. Some people want an open door ticker tape parade in their lav. Not me. Don't enter and certainly, don't stand outside the door and want to chitty chat.

You know when you start talking openly and frequently about all kinds of biological processes? When you become a parent. I could deduct that it would be a topic of conversation but how naive I was. The biological processes of your offspring will be a primary source of focus from day of birth until, oh, I will let you know.

We have had the opportunity to discuss diaper content on a daily basis for two plus years. Did he poop? When did he poop? What did it look like? Was it rabbit poop? Poop pancake? He hasn't pooped. What do we do to get him to poop?

At a family event last Christmas, little man was wearing a Santa outfit (and yes, that was ALL my idea.) Questioning whether a diaper change was needed, I did what every parent does. I picked him up and smelled his tush zone. The coast was clear but when I put him down, I noticed JohnnyMac's 16 year old sister AND her 18 year old boyfriend staring at me with a mixture of fright, horror and disgust.

I said to them, "Let that serve as birth control for both of you."

Poop talk is not quite as fun as it could be, but it is a parental requisite. And since we are just about done with the potty training process, now three of us get to talk about going potty, whats it like, what do we do with tissue, and where do the poops go?

Oh, and the first time our 2 year old went poop in the potty. OHBOY! Never before have you seen such a demonstration of joyful delight and jubilee. Who knew I would pull out some of my high school cheerleader moves over such an occurrence. But I did. More than once.

And that is all fine. But you know what hasn't changed? I still don't want to talk about poop. I will talk about poop when it comes to the little man, but Mommy still likes the door closed. If its not completely relevant to someone wearing diapers, its not a topic of conversation.

So to our neighbor, The Trapper, who told me about your diarrhea. Are you insane? Excuse me, I was just talking a stroll around the neighborhood and somehow ended up in the men's locker room. STOP THAT.

And special note: According to my BFF, MarciaGarcia, for someone who doesn't like to talk about poop, I am doing it. She did mention a warning would be nice. Hopefully you are not eating while you read this.

Oh Princess

I set up a friend of mine with a woman I know. Not a woman I know well but know enough to think it would be a wise idea. Oh. poor. fool. am. I.

He is a rugged All-American dream, and she, straight out of a fashion magazine. Both are successful, intelligent and engaging. Why not? Some of my other pairings have ended in matrimony (which was intriguing to her I will add.)

Over a group outing, he asked her if she would be interested in meeting him at the park on Saturday. A typical outing for him and his frisbee-loving Lab. She, holding her martini, flashed her laquered red nails at him and said in a voice like Cruella,

"You can't be serious. Do these nails look like they like to go to the park and play frisbee?"

I believe I may have heard the proverbial cricket chirp in the deafening silence that followed.

He excused himself, being a proper gentleman. Later after he paid his tab, said to me in a quiet voice, "I think I'll pass."

Win some, lose some as the addage goes. So she doesn't like the park, I thought. So what? At least she isn't pretending the park is the most incredible way to spend a Saturday until a year into their relationship and she comes clean, right?

Could she have modified that tone though, and sounded a touch less bitchtastic? But of course. Perhaps she was employing an odd sense of humor. I doubted it but thought no harm, no foul.

Until I got an email from her stating she can't believe my friend didn't call her, and he must be just another arsehole.

Areyouserious?

And I thought, hmm.....someone is definitively an ass, yes, but I am fairly confident it is not him.

Lesson learned: Screen a bit better next time. And maybe just maybe check the talons before playing matchmaker.

The tiny brown beaver

A funny scenario at the park last Sunday prompted the memory of a comical family story from my childhood. I will post the park story soon but first let me share the memory it dished up.

When we were kids, our nightly family dinner was a great gathering fest. My older brother, Tumbleweed, and I frequently had our two BFFs over. The four of us would typically join my Mom and Stepdad (SD) for dinner.

One night Tumbleweed determined nothing could possibly pair better with the family dinner than an inappropriate joke. He was a freshman in high school so inappropriate jokes were likely all he knew. For nostalgia purposes, and for good story-telling, let me share the joke now.

What is the bellybutton for?
A place to put your gum on the way down.

My mom, sweet as a daisy I presumed, didn't quite get the joke. She asked for clarification. Down where? While the quartet of youngsters howled like monkeys, after some delay my SD provided a euphemism. His choice was "beaver". My mom, tilted her head and said, "I used to have a beaver once."



Now, I was only a kid at the time but I promise you I knew a historical moment when it presented itself. So I buckled in, and was certain it would be a story I would be telling for decades to come.

Our mom, went on to explain that her beautiful beaver was a pet. And how it was tiny and brown. And her brother unfortunately set it loose in the woods. Can you image telling a group of silly juveniles about your tiny brown beaver that got set loose in the woods? Immaturity knows no boundaries.

As we choked on laughter and meatloaf, my mom was surprised and dismayed by our reaction to her missing pet. Oh boy.

As we continued to carry on, she finally demanded to know what was so funny. So SD told her that he didn't really mean beaver as in the primarily nocturnal, semi-aquatic member of the rodent family. He explained the joke, and why we were cackling like jackals.

And once she realized, out of the kitchen she went as fast as her legs could carry her.

Ahhhh...Momcatt. Thanks for such a great memory.

And my mom is not Mrs. Ingalls. In fact, she is cool as hell so the fact she didn't get the joke, or know a very 80's slang term for the nether region, well, it was surprising.

So watch your words today, and if you find a loose beaver, you can airmail it back to my parents house. I am sure my Mom misses it.

Honky Tonk Badonkadonk

It is safe to say I like to get my groove on. And I am open to a variety of musical beats. A little blues, a little classic rock, a little dance. And I am not afraid to get my country on now and then.

Back in the day, I may have spent some nights here and there at the biggest country bar in the SE so I could

shake my honkytonkbadonkadonk

wear skin tight jeans, halter top, and cowboy hat

dance on top of speakers

behave like a lady.

I had a friend that was a bouncer there...and well, that just makes it all the better.

And since I love to dance, some of those two-steppers can literally, sweep you off your feet.
Oh, those dancers, bring it here to JennyMac.

And on occasion what goes hand in hand with country bars is a whole lotta' drinking going on. Typically, I don't do anything to impede my moves, but here is what happens sometimes when you do shots at a country bar.

After kicking up my heels with glee, someone says we should ride the bull. Of course there is a mechanical bull in this harem of harlots.

Hmmmm. Doesn't that sound like a great idea? Of course it does, and bring us one more round.

Not savvy with the electronic rodeo stylings, I carefully observe those who dare go before me. The Bullmaster who is driving the speed of this thing is a mean old S.O.B. And the parade of clowns being dropped on their honky tonk badonkadonks left, right, and center made me both giggle and fearful.

Bullmaster was a bit nicer to the girls but I saw some gals do a faceplant, and its not pretty. And, oh, wouldn't you know it, a gratuitous breast popping out during certain face plants as well. I think the Bullmaster sought his targets carefully. Don't let the surprise show on your face.

So when my turn comes along, my most serious vow is not to get thrown off. So I grip in, and the Bullmaster is now saying gentlemanly things onto his microphone like "HOW FAST AND HARD DO YOU WANT IT". Altar boys need not apply for the Bullmaster job. As he speeds up, I shout SLOWER. He complies. SLOWER. He complies. And then he asks me to spank the Bull.

So, I comply if only to win his good graces and placate him enough that he refrains from kicking it up a notch thereby flinging my body to the filthy mats below. And after a short bit, my turn was over. And I managed to stay on that bucking bronco. I thought, WOW. I ROCKED THAT BULL. Step aside, whilst I fetch my BAD ASS belt buckle to wear the remainder of the night.

And then I saw a girl ride that bull with her feet up on the horns. I said, "Oh, I want to do that." Yes, alcohol + alcohol = great aspirations.

Now boarding first class! Oh, JennyMac, please feel free to stay seated in the terminal.

And then the strippers came. And quite a number of them. They also got on the bull. I think they did quite a bit more than spanking. They were wearing bikinis. And they were climbing on that thing like it was Dirk Diggler. WHEW, glad I was in the front of that line.

Later, I see Bullmaster at the bar. He asks if I am going to get back on the bull. Ummm, if you dip it in hydrochloric acid first.

He laughed. And said, "You'll be back."

And I thought I might. Until I saw the pictures my friends took. Here I thought I was quite a sultry little bullriding novice. I thought the pics would have captured my sassy flair and gleaming eye.

This is actually quite comparable to the actual look on my face in the photos.


There was no sultry flair. No gleaming eye. Just a date with the doctor since the photos captured a girl seriously about to lose her shat.

That's what I get for being sassy.

I went into semi-retirement of bull riding after that night.