overdramatization

what is it that makes tears well up as I lay here praying I could fall asleep. It is the countless hours I put in trying to help others survive? the mass array of hours we've all been putting in at the office lately for little reward? Perhaps it's a build up of these eventful past six hours. Although the rest of the work world may treat this day as Friday- my head pounds as if it were a typical sunday night. Lay on the couch trying to push yourself through Sunday nights game, but you feel tired, frustrated, and worst of all practically pregnant- sick to your stomach from the weekends menu, overtired, gassy & uneasy. On the way side, knowing you have to plug away at the mojo wire for another five days practically puts you at the foot of the toilet.
I feel livid deep inside, but for what reasons, I never really can seem to surface. This tired Tuesday afternoon had me looking forward to a night similar to those of the recent past- a few cocktails, dallas' best sushi, and nice time spent with a seemingly significant other - but I shouldve expected the previous to be set off balance once the indigenous business partner had been asked to join us over brief attorney speculation at the Stoneliegh p. Mind you, this is all after rushing home from work only to forget that Yankee company was arriving this evening, and no spare clothes lay in my trunk, nor my apartment clean.

I'd given up on the idea of nice time spent alone so decided to drag Michael along anyway- I do quite enjoy his entertaining company and musical preferences alike. The forty minutes spent waiting on gui's sushi were spent mostly conversing about accounts receivable and myself trying to slip in the hopeful upcoming of Roger Waters "the wall"- at this point in time that's the only place I really care to be, besides laying on great grandmothers cherry oak bed with my piper.

This intriguing dinner left me hopeful that perhaps since he knew I'd been patient all night, we'd proceed home to where animalistic promises could be fulfilled, but as soon as I remove this Tuesday's tightening skirt and lay my head on the pillow, this piece of shit phone vibrates with such great news from the child barren Yankee. " Are you here, or did you forget to leave the key?"

Yes, that's right. While so anxiously waiting to see what could have possibly enthralled me in this now quiet, quiet bedroom I now lay in, I had to get back up, put the uncomfortable- but still sexy- skirt back on, clasp the double-buckled heels back and drive back to Prescott ave, make small talk, and bring them my key. Some may think it's funny but I've found myself in these situations quite frequently.

An what happened after closing my door behind them you ask? I text the exuded man back by the hidden door if he is asleep, and no response, so yes- still no hanky panky, but at least this stand in mojo wire has kept hidden the tears that just might this man awake..

I never used to like potato chips

coleslaw. baked potatoes. mashed potatoes. peanut butter. Pregnant? I think not. But oddly enough, I found my hand buried in a giant bag of chips - yes chips - in between my state fair of Texas ventures.

The past two weekends have been consumed by bright lights, fried food, out of the woods Texans, & coors light. After this trecherous work week, I would hope this weekend could be one to relax, but alas, freinds from college are flying in Friday afternoon.

I recall the happenings of the fair from last year. We made our way through the Martin Luther King & Malcolm X Boulevard part of town, and after paying the overindulged native behind the counter $15, security turned us loose inside.

There's a giant in the middle of all the madness. They call him Big Tex and he speaks such silly mumbo jumbo, that only the finest of sports radio stations can make entertaining. Fletcher's famous corn dogs to the right, the midway a mile straight ahead, and pigs, cows & cars to the right. In between all this turmoil is an array of fried foods, intended only for those who can truly put it down, as it leaves the rest of us toiletside the next day. But don't be afraid to try some. Two weeks prior to the opening of this Texas marvel, newspapers hype up this yearly event, and more importantly, organize apanel of judges to award the current year's fried food winners - they'll base it on categories such as creativity & most tasty. This years finalists included deep fried frozen margaritas, fried beer, fried texas caviar & a fried s'mores pop tart. The winner made a conspicuous combination of Frito's, chili, cheese & spices, battered up, fried, and servedwith sour cream. Yes, this is the famous southern amalgamation known as Frito Pie. Us Yankees would be puzzled by such a dish, so after much convincing, I tried the gut-wrenching invention at last year's fair, which had quickly made me sick. But I must say, when you fry it, its a whole different story. Fried Beer for creativity, fair enough, but as we put this ravioli shell filled with warm beer in our mouths, all three of us spit it out. Repulsive.

The first visit was me and my two girlfriends... a much needed recipe for disaster. They're hungover, and I'm ready to aboard a heading-spinning aparatus. Michelle's never been on a roller coaster, but Natalie & I love. We make her. Hours of giggling, drinking, yelling, dancing amount to an awesome Sunday.

The second visit entailed the out-of-towners... the other attorney in the family & her relaxed husband. A UT graduate, the Red River Rivalry was a must see - and might I say I've become a longhorn fan myself... The game wasn't as exciting as last years - Texas is #21, OU # 8, and McCoy & Shipley no more; so Texas lost. I couldn't bear the heat on the 50 yard line much longer, so I left the Cotton Bowl to escape the family for a bit, and put down a few Coors Lights.

The Rueda family was beat, but mr. persistent convinced them to go on a few rides. So that we did, parted our ways, stayed a little bit longer and taxied it home..

mayhem

Now as these pre-winter days may blend together, my mind refuses to keep up with with the madness at headquarters. Erin, the reporter of the north has vanished to Mexico to wed a cook. And Kristin, dearing reporter in the west has fled to follow her, bask in liquor and soak up the sun. The clan that has traipsed south has left my closest columnist and I in the dust of the barren Dallas newscape. Flooding with too much to do, we feel the office is drowning and the only way to keep up is to boil wine with fruit at night and slurp it during the day. Some wine and chocolate may momentarily calm our nerves, but these wretched women leaving us behind have our cages rattles and ready to seige our editor.

Some will call to provide us with hesistant information pertaining to the story line - but its due soon, and now the editors are up our asses. They call back - information has changed and sources have fallen through, but despite these frustrating, unreliable manics, I manage to get numerous story lines through the mojo wire.

Headquarters is up our ass, and without the tyrannized red head manning the fort, defending our expense reports,and proving our work worthy, we're screaming up and down the halls, paperwork is flying, and the mojo wire just went of the hook.

They've called in reinforcements - from the west. Amy is at the other end of the mojo wire, processing the ongoing stream of useless, erratic information. The intern is scared as I bark at her to get this marvelous machine working."What have you done?" demanding at her to fix it- and quickly - our notes may only be good for a few hours, before the wine starts to take hold, who knows what information will be true.

My columnist and I sit at the typewriter, hours of work, predetermined. The young intern finally puts the wire back together, presses the button, and sooner or later, the editor is on the other end of the wire, transmitting our notoriously vital stories.

Still drowning in these futile sources & phone calls, there seems to be more reinforcements on the other end, but my beloved columnist and I must find more to expense this ravaging week. But the wine hasn't been enough for Brittney. She just quit.

for old times sake...

Nearly three weeks later I sit down to write something. My editor will not be pleased. But for his sake, knowing that many of you in my defense will berate him, he will remain anonymous. The month of September has been quite uneven. I am unsure even of where to progress as I write. I may resort to the company calendar which has utterly swallowed my existence for the past three weeks. Although I can only contribute my own personal travels to my current financial demise.

Barbados has quickly crept up on the financials, for it was not my trip to the state of New York which I thought might be a bit catastrophic, but regardless, now I just sit here next to the man in armor - literally- exhausted at the fact the internet won't come about. Although now that I am thoroughly examining the subject, I am not sure who's at fault here - as I will lay the blame on anyone but myself - perhaps thee editor.

The weekends of September have blended together, as the weather remains stagnant here in Dallas, aside from a few spotted tornadoes. The weekend of which we render to those who labored is by far one of the more favored weekends of 2010. It's funny how some think of New Yorkers here in the south - some call me a yankee (never really cared which way for the term); some of course always presume New York means Manhattan (not much different than those Long Island-bred); and some great ones just don't give a shit (usually those not born 'n' raised in Texas - if only I could write with an accent).

But now what these Texans don't know is that my New York is made up of content, rolling greenery. Rich lustrous lakes. Blue jays out my bedroom window in the apple tree, baby fawns crossing your path in the crook. Things the Texans could never dream of seeing in this barren concrete jungle.

The six days spent there were among those closest to my heart. Although the hotel my house seemed to be, I spent every night next to my sister in our great grandmother, Sarah Rebecca's, antique cherry oak bed -I can only imagine how much more beautiful it would be if the Pipe & I hadn't spend years jumping around and doing other dirty things on.

Numerous adventures in a plethora of different motorized machines - old American muscle, tractors, Packards, dirt bikes & Jeeps. Sunday cruises in the Mustang with my father - everytime I get behind the wheel he'll remind me of the light gas petal and thigh-tightening brakes. Beers, barbeque & salt potatoes poolside with my stepmother. Gasoline filled beer cans thrown in to the bonfires with old friends. Bars downtown Syracuse with my gorgeous sister, her closest treasure, and an old best friend - reminiscing of high school jackasses & jersey shore style tans.

Unlike the treacherous conditions that the winters of upstate New York will bring you, it was the breeze of leaves, cool summer nights and flawless pre-autumn days that made me miss home so much. The joys of this trip were brought to me upon the vows of my closest uncle. An honest man close to me in age, who will forever stand second in line to my sister and I as father.

But too much deliberation will put me in the place of the devil. An ongoing battle I can't seem to harbor..

Fear & Loathing in Barbados

The sun hadn't heated us up as much as our behavior. The second day was hot. The sun was no joke. But there was no time for fooling around. We had no bathing suits nor toothbrushes and we needed it all, quick. We rented a car, no cadillac. Suzuki Swift; steering column on the right side, preparing you to drive on the other side of the road. He's no longer without a license, but yes, it was in the suitcase. This means me behind the wheel. Though many others may disagree, the enduring amount of alcohol in my system put me on the opposite side at ease. Soon enough, I pulled over, and we had to switch.

Slowly acclamating to the other side of the road, and these shapely roundabouts, we soon persistently and impatiently arrived at the airport, both uneasily hoping that our luggage awaits us. For once, the American Airlines employee was understanding. Perhaps it is their unsincere sense of urgency and unerotic chaos that puts the majority of their panties in a twist.

Astonished, we are no longer without. We'll head back to the hotel after customs turns us loose, but not before stopping for a cooler & booze. Not one, not two, but three Barbadian markets before we can find an industrial styrofoam cooler at $40 Barbados. Fortunately, we have two handles in the suitcase. All we need is coke. No charlie. We packed the cooler, smoked a bit more, and before we'd come conscious of our surroundings, we were driving around the island like lost sheep. Pull yourselves together! Find a beach! And that we did. A nice traquil spot. We make out some shade, white sand, calm water, and a dune to park on. "Be careful," I say. "We don't want to get stuck here."

Hours of romping in the water, drinking rum & cokes, walking east and soaking up sun. He and I are content - even with one another. Our mystique became transparent as the rum bottle emptied. Around 3, the sun moved west,andwe decided to pack up, and involuntarily compose another adventure. The car doesn't reverse 10 feet before I feel it slide down the shallow dune. Now what? "Whatever you do, don't spin those tires any more!"

Before you know it, we'd dug ourselves an even deeper hole, and much to our audience's amusement. A family of 10 or so hovered over us from a porch, entertained as they watch us in dissaray. But soon enough, the light-hearted Christine was offering us her family's help, and delighted they were to do so. First we thought, the car is light, let's try and lift it. Skinned shins later, unsuccessful. Two 2-by-4 hoists later, unsuccessful. In time, a rugged flatbed chugging along by two islanders backs up to us with a rope -- no AAA here, but rather, more astonishing and prevailing with the soul, good samaritans.

Sheltered only by a bikini, I jump over the concrete wall on to the central highway that connects Oistins & Worthing. Traffic stopped, the man hooks a rope from one bumper to another, and jerked us out of that damned sand pit. We thank them all endlessly, and get ourselves out of there quick. It was time for a few more beers.

We head towards Bridgetown-the country's lucid capital. We park the car in some unknown territory in the city-centre and head for the streets of this heavily black populated city. I soon realize I no longer am wearing sandals, which must have been left behind in our great sand debacle. No pictures could be taken of this great mess, for the man behind the wheel would have been furious. We buy a pair of sandals, soon after, some cigarettes, and then persuaded to try this Barbadian Ackee fruit. Don't be hindered by it's hard shell, for the pulpy inside liberates a tart, tasty fruit.

Darkness is upon us and we realize we made no note of where we'd parked. Not smart, for the city, it's people, and surroundings blend together at dusk like the mysterious bat caves in elementary zoo field trips. Which is exactly where we'd begun to feel we were. More panic. We pace around what seems like a large city for almost an hour. Still no car. We give up and battle with one of the taxis to drive us around & find the car for $25 American. 15 minutes later, there it was. Relief came over the taxi, but not for long. The attorney reaches for his wallet, but it's not there. It has slipped away, the driver is mad, gas light is on, and fury comes hovering in a cloud over us. No credit card, no license, no bar card. We assure the man to come by our hotel and we'll pay him.

Our mission to make it back to the gap in time for dinner was just as treacherous. Half of it consisted of my body half out the window yelling, "which way to Worthing?"; the other half was Mat's undisclosed expression of panic to the ever-glowing gas light.

It became obvious we needed to eat something. Sweet Potatoes, authentic Bajan cuisine it was. But only to my disaray, half way through the meal, the man didn't feel well, and off to the bathroom he went. One kind man approaches my table 10 minutes later, suprising me with the fact that Mat's been sick on the bathrooom floor. Hastenly I head in their direction, pick the man up, watch the unlit eyes roll back until the pupils are no longer, splash some water and slap him out of it. Unlucky for him, I had finished all the macaroni pie.

The madness had finally caught up with him. And now, I was tired as well. I pack him in to the passenger's seat, make my second attempt at driving in this silly way, and unload ourselves back to that beautiful bedcover.

The first 12 hours

Tipping a few pounds on the scale, and the stomach a bit weaker, I return from Barbados.

Though the majority of our adventurous travels heed nothing that exudes relaxation, the escapades are quite intriguing, which makes the act of organizing my journalistic notes even more exhausting.

The muddled works of American Airlines left us scrambling around the 3 baggage claims at Grantley-Adams only to find no luggage. That means frolicking around the small British-African island in a short dress and 4-inch heels. And what to do when you have no luggage? Drinking of course! The taxi driver tells us to head to St Lawrence Gap - the vacationer's hot spot - so we do. The islanders inform us of these little beeping buses that blaze by. Jump on, hand the man sliding the door $1.50 Barbados, and he'll take you anywhere on the island.

Pisces, Sweet Potatoes, Paul's Churrascaria, Cafe Sol, and more. Before we stroll in to any of them, we're stopped by a short, island man. He says his name is Jollize, or something of the sort. "Hey man, you guys need some charlie?" Perplexed, we look at each other. "Charlie?"

"Yea man, yeahhh. The good white stuff, ya?"

"Ah, nah man, we're good."

"You guys want some weed?"

We look at each other, why the hell not? "Ok, ok man... come with me."

Soon enough, my better half is a good five feet in front of me, as I'm snapping my fingers to get his attention. As he turns, I give him the look. At this point, we've begun to walk to the rugged streets of what looks like an old rundown African alley...leading up to a table of three men with dreadlocks sitting at a card table in the middle of this overgrown dark street.

"Sidown man." He is inviting and kind, but I am uncomfortable. The other men don't say a word, aside from asking Jollize if we're cool. It didn't take but for me to say the man is from Argentina in order to get their mouths moving. Maradona this....Messi that. Soon enough we'd finished the splif, and we were on our way back to the gap.

The Argentenian reassures Jollize he was ready to pull out some kung fu moves if needed. But now that we return to civilization and street lights, the alcohol starts flowing like the Costa Rican rainy season. We meet Maddie at Cafe Sol. We order one margarita, she gives us two. A good woman. We leave the contending Mexican restaurant behind and walk down the street to Reggae Bar, but oh, of course we can't proceed 50ft without bumping in to Jollize. We reconvene in front of a brokedown shack, sit down, and smoke the rest of the splif. We offer the man to have a drink with us, but alas, he's been sober for years... we buy him a pineapple juice at the bar next door, visit for a minute, and carry on to the sounds of Marley & Collie Buddz, where the over-tired attorney starts to let loose. Dance we did, for hours.

Though many Barbadians apparently did not support the local McDonalds, the island flourishes with Kentucky Fried Chicken. The very thought of this sounded implausable after a long night of rum & dancing. We walk from our hotel. The heels were bound to persecute me eventually, and after walking through the drive-thru, my heel rolls, and as the considerate one yells, "Save the chicken," I fall.

Uproarious in laughter was the walk back to the hotel, where we didn't last but two minutes before the floral emaciated bedcover put us to sleep. The next morning will bring yet another day full of debauchery.

a very merry un-wednesday, to me..

Yesterday, I moved my desk. Today I wish I didn't. For the past year, I have spent my post-college days buried in the back-right corner of this old herb shoppe. The beautiful woman sitting next to me was Brittney. Today I call her mother hen.

Upon my arrival, she was mother to a year old baby boy. Soon thereafter, aside from my dissarray upon announcement of working her maternity leave, she was pregnant again. The world couldn't ask for a better mother than she. And now, upon much astonishment and melancholy, that is exactly what she's set out to do.

I can't quite express my own contentment, because quite honestly, none is surfacing, but I can say that for her, I am filled with bliss.

Her patience with me lays bare how expectional and admirable she will be at home for little Eli & Jillian. She's here to shh me when I'm cursing, catches my tongue before I slip, and even blurts the occassional "asshole".

Don't be fooled by her traditional baptist background, as one of her best qualities, she is never judging of my precarious and promiscuous lifestyle nor anyone elses, but rather takes joy in listening to my stories and offering me advice.

I have been blessed to spend such quality time with this magnificent woman. She has done all in her power to keep our spirits high, treat us all fairly, and always has our backs. Not as innocent as one would presume, she flourishes with us in sexual banter and throws the occasional individual under the bus... but not to worry for those whom she may not be fond of, as she will always keep open her gentle heart.

Brittney Davis, the woman who always glows radiant in pictures, we will miss you.

Vacation Mat

Sure as it was rainy season in Barbados, my package of passion did arrive. He's playful, good-humored; I can't get him to kiss voluntarily, but I can get him to cooperate when I attack him.

He puts me on his shoulders in the water,when no one else is doing the same, lays in bed with me for a few extra minutes in the morning, and will even ask me to sit on his lap. The act of buying groceries in the ocean has never been so much fun.

Let's not go too overboard though. Soon enough he'll be talking of larger breasts and how oral sex isn't the key to an OG for my sake, but his, of course. In any event, I can still soak up the idea of an unstressed, sunned-up Argentenian, taking walks with me on the beach, drinking pina coladas with me for breakfast, and waking me up with a smile in the morning.

Let's hope vacation Mat is here to stay..

Sarah does Texas

Longhorns, chicken fried steak, dr pepper & republicans. Mexicans, the largest state fair, cowgirls & blue bonnets.

With the help of some true & untrue Texans, I've done my share fair of exploring around this big ol' state. Still havent made my way too far west yet. Mostly South, primarily east.

Dallas, home of the Cowboys, Texas Rangers & Mavericks. Have done all those, more than once. Jerry Jones new monstrosity, and the old. Texas Longhorns in Austin, the Cotton Bowl, and the Big 12 Championship. Everytime I end up in the opposing teams' section, and spit on. The first time I was wearing bright yellow, most definitely not to be confused with burnt orange, and stuck out like a sore thumb in the end zone.


By far, the best fajitas I've ever had. Margaritas galore. Dallas definitely houses some beautiful women as well. Although, very superficial. " Texas Women." Hank Williams. I've come to like Texas country music pretty well, but mostly while cruising, top down on 35 headed towards Austin. Many drunken nights on 6th street, which then lead to BestWurst Brats at 3am. We can blame moments like these for the dramatic weight gain upon moving here. Best of all, Austin's hill country. Reminds me somewhat of NY. Atleast part of Texas has some scenery. Weekends on Lake Travis, reminds me of boating with Wes. Floating the Comal & Gaudelupe. 8 hours of endless drinking, while floating down the river, then more drinking and campfires to follow.

I couldn't possibly just touch on the state fair now. You'll have to wait until the end of August.

San Antonio. Mexicanville. Considering any body of water in Texas is man-made, an artificial riverwalk runs throught the middle of downtown. One would think a river that runs through the middle of a metroplis wouldn't be that extensive, but tell that to the ones who walked around it for over an hour before we could find Texas' worst Tex-Mex. The few days spent there were in a bar filled with peanut shells on the riverwalk, where we preceded to convince a couple to come back to our hotel with us, after endless rounds of shots.

Everyone shocked I knew absolutely nothing about Alamo history, New York state's curriculum failed to think this was relevant, we ventured downtown to check out the ancient piece of Texas' history. Surrounded by other tourists like ourselves, we couldn't hang around there long. We ventured away from the sightseers, to the best flour torillas I'll ever have. Mi Tierra.



Fort Worth. Cowtown. No longer than a half hour drive from Dallas, we head that way often. My first time was a tour through the historic stockyards. One of the more popular places to bring visiting relatives. Drink beer on the old brick streets, where the cattle drive will come through every Saturday around 3:00. Longhorns & black cowboys. The occasional mullet and plenty of children walking out of souvenir shops with giant lollipops. Atleast you can take your beer with you..

Houston. The bayou city, as he must comment everytime the city arises in conversation. Have only been a few times, and most entail some type of disaster. The first revolves around golf, so will say no more. The second, left my job to cruise with the attorney for some type of hearing down there, and ended up being a three night affair after a flat tire. At least we made good friends with the famous mixologist at the Marriott, and then set off for some skinny-dipping.

When all's said and done... now I'll be fixin' to head west. Abilene? Amarillo? El Paso? Not sure yet... but I'm sure wherever it is, we'll find some way to tear up the town...

Joanne's "Famous" Cooking

Yes, I love my stepmother. I love to drink beers by the pool with her, converse with her about things I wouldn't dare with my father, and fall on the floor laughing as my sister & I call her jello-butt.

But there's one thing about this woman that tops all stepmothers motherly care. Her famous cooking. Where shall I begin? Probably with Kraft's Italian dressing, as this is her most indigenous ingredient. Her favorite recipe, the family's most coveted pasta salad - colored spiral noodles, cubed colby-jack, diced pepperoni, black olives, and ah, yes... italian dressing. Who would've thought? It gets better... how about the famous cucumber-tomato salad. I'll leave that one to the imagination...

Growing up it was the magnificent rotation of homestyle cookin'. Beef lasagana, ham steaks & macaroni 'n' cheese, hamburgers & hot dogs, bland chicken enchiladas, and meatloaf. The sides are usually the most intriguing. Country crock mashed potatoes, sliced italian bread, or if we're lucky... Stove-Top.

Perhaps best of all, maybe in her eyes not even just famous in our house, but in all of Onondaga County - her famous salt potatoes. Watch out people! Those little small russett-type golden potatoes, boiled in salt water on the grill, then throw 'em in the plastic picnic bowls, and load on the margarine. Encroyable! Cookbook material really..

The Taco-Bell kits were always a good way to mix it up. Usually occasions though... But quite exciting. She would chop up iceberg lettuce, put that on one plate. Chopped tomatoes on another. Refried beans in the microwave. And ground beef stewing over the stove, lacking her famous ingredient, but rather Taco-Bell's spicy seasoning.

Dessert?! Never! Joanne doesn't like sugar. But luckily for me, Pipey & the fath... she does know how to buy a good gallon of ice cream.

Under the Weather

Is it because of this weekends festivities? My body is aching, I'm exhausted, my throats soar, stomach aching, and my bank account is empty.

Friday night it was the Rangers & Angels game with another attorney in the family, the less persistent one. Half the time was spent trying to make it closer to the field, and watching him get yelled at once he got caught by the ushers. Fair enough. We did pull off some pretty good seats until the bottom of the 6th. The first and third levels have a different liquor license than the second, so between all his monkey business of finding some better seats, he would decide to buy another round of beers just before we'd get kicked out of a section and have to go to a different level. Chug.

It must've been 10:30 by the time we'd walked the total opposite direction of the car and got on to I-30. We'll meet Cealliegh at the p for a drink. We end up there till 2am. I'm at this point, and as usual he is overly talkative.

Saturday morning he is driving around aimlessly, but we do manage to get a few things done. This is after driving the wrong way down a one way street in Knox-Henderson with the Jeep alarm blaring, seeming as two fugitives.

We decide to go to Gloria's on Greenville for a few drinks. A few mojitos later, his goofy business partner meets us. They are intrigued by the free car wash across the street. Girls with barely bikinis. Before we do anything else, must get the car washed. At least the scenery can keep me distracted enough from being too mad at him, making the girls wash the same spots more than once.

Then drunk suit shopping. Success! A very sharp 40$ suit for the handsome man. A few dresses and some shoes for me. The white-haired partner's wife meets us. Many mojitos later we end up at Sherlock's, where I was told I'm not allowed to drink anymore, and can't recall anything after that. I missed out on some cab-side arguing and threatening texts from the partner's wife.

Sunday morning all I wanted to do was eat. Lucky's BLT. Perfect. Back to NorthPark for Inception - my counterpart more intrigued than I - and now that The Wire is no longer... we'll have to start a new series. A lung-cancered chemist cooking crystal meth. Breaking Bad it is...

Hooters, Halibut & No Hanky Panky

As the majority of my day is spent around married women with babies, everyday I grow more and more appreciative of my single lifestyle. No husband to go home to, college educations to save up for (thank god, because that would be non-existent), or breast milk to pump.

Just sushi with girlfriends, cocktails with aquaintances, and the occasional casual encounter....

Also, the ability to share my provocative stories with these conservative women, besides bobby of course.... and talk them in to eating at places like Hooters, as they already know I like the eye candy there, and Britt has never been. So, all six of us go for lunch yesterday. I ate before, so I wouldn't eat wings. Really just there for viewing pleasure, since we all know the hanky panky is primarily imaginary, or frequented on the computer screen.

Paris Hilton's ex-BFF & unchosen Room Raider, Desirae, was our waitress. Incredibly incompetent; perhaps hinting at what good judgement MTV has. The other waitress, however, was quite intrigued as to why I no longer wanted diet coke. As she stood there and smiled, chatting laughingly with me, I thought, could this work? I was hoping it would. I'll have to venture back to her with Bobby, as the others did not take a liking to the all-around bland cuisine.

Hours later, all the talk of Brittney's Kitchen-Aid & sub-par food, got me in the mood to cook. 3 ingedient meals it is! Plus a whole bunch of unused ingredients from Sam's... I can come up with something else. Parchement cooked Halibut with orange & thyme. Encroyable! Best simple fish I've ever made. Sauteed spinach and fresh basil. He screams, "Babe is that oil???" Calm down crazy-eyez killa! 1 tablespoon of olive oil will not undo the magic p90x had bestowed upon you.


Now what? He's got three DVDs of The Wire left, so that definitely leaves me out of the picture. Roast some poblano peppers and make a corn relish. Pretty simple. Prettay, pretttaaay, pretty good.

All in all, a few relaxing hours in the kitchen with my headphones... then head to bed, where we'll discuss the details of getting to and from the airport, the electric bill, and the progression of selling one of the cars. Goodnight mr & mrs....

Procrastination or Impulse Decision?

That is the question! Well, not really the question, but a statement of how I get things done.

For months now, we've been planning to go on vacation. Probably six months. Our intentions were to leave August 11th, and the trip had still not yet been booked on July 11th. As the counterpart is just as bad as I at planning ahead, I finally sat him down, at a bar of all places, and said...ok, let's go...

Costa Rica was the original plan. The overtired business man, too sick of criminals, plans to head there to stay in three years, but, after many hours of Costa Rican detail and package pricing buzzing in our faces, we learned that August is heavy rain season there.

A few beers later, distraught at where to now, Turks starts to pop in to our heads again. Oh lord, how great that would be; we converse and reminisce over the pure white sand and crystal clear water from a year ago. But oh, another hour later we are reminded of how ungodly expensive it is there.

Focus. We're buzzed. BARBADOS. Incredible. Almost as nice as Turks. 11 days in Caribbean paradise. $2500 a person?! What? Our beers were swaying us back to Turks & Caicos. Surfing around a little bit, boom! $1100 a person; flight & hotel. Perfect. Get the credit card!

Making plans can never be simple with us. Something always goes awry. As much as he uses the card, and as lazy as he his to call and replace it, it was split in half. Two numbers missing in the third set. Now what? It's 9:04. Chase customer service is closed. Shall we try my card? "It's not going to work," he laughs.

Sure enough, the man is right; but oh! His new card must be sitting in his mailbox that goes for weeks without being checked. This is after, of course, I had to physically dial the number for him to order a new card.

Let's hope this 3 hour window on this deal hasn't passed.... computer battery is quickly diminishing. I dart to my house; alas, he arrives with the card! After my frustration in not finding the same deal, he pushes me out of the way. He finds it! Thank God.

3 weeks. What perfect timing. 10 days of dolphins & debauchery. My paradise. The furthermost eastern caribbean island. Pina Coladas and topless women. Is there any other place in this world I could fit in as well as this? Surely not...

QUICK TRIP

After much serious gas station consulting, it is easily recognizable that QuickTrips are by far the most luxurious gas stations. Blu ray blockbuster, the greatest selection of fountain sodas, including Dallas' most chewable crushed ice, make your own smoothie machines, incredible chicken breast sandwiches (although preferrably I'd rather spend $4 on 2 slices of NY pizza), an endless selection of Baked Lays, cheap gas & cigarettes.



Although they have the greatest selection of sandwiches, do not be fooled by the low calorie count on the package, because this is quite appealing, but rather, it is only for one half of the sandwich. 7-11's tuna sandwiches outdo any other gas stations'. Many lunch rendezvous' have led to a tuna sandwich and bag of baked lays at 7-11.



Race Trac cant hold its own against either. The only mouthwatering attraction they provide are the warm white chocolate macademia cookies. The sandwiches look horrid. Hard, plain-jane looking sub bread. No whole wheat & unattractive, high sodium content turkey. Plus, 5 slices of apples, and 6 cubes of cheese costs you $2.99!! Unreal.



So QuickTrip is frequented at least bi-weekly. And I would much rathe prefer to drive the extra mile from my house, rather than walk across the street to RaceTrac or 7-11. That is, unless I'm in the mood for a tuna sandwich..

Grand marnier chocolate buttercream

Although this should much rather be the title regarding the wedding I attended this weekend, for the sake of my job, and mostly for Miss Brittney, I will comment on the other highlights of my weekend.

Friday: now that p90x is no longer running my life, I take to any restaurant/ bar with great excitement. As usual we're at the Stoneliegh P, but that didn't sound good enough to fulfill my cravings. Idle rich! Cheese plate; some English cheddars, French chevre, Italian salami & rustic crackers. The two men with me hardly got a bite in time. That kept me full enough to rant around uptown until 4 am doing god knows what and talking to who the hell knows who.

Saturday: Friday night made for a not so easy Saturday morning, but when you've got a list of groceries as long as floridas panhandle, a wedding to go to, and mens suits to alter, that means get up early. Fair enough; I did, but it wasn't pleasant. Since I was moving slow, and my company even slower, I knew the cake wouldn't be assembled until after the wedding.

Five hours of soul music and fried chicken later, I started my fabulous cake. This was at 945. Five hours after that, a delicious masterpiece.

Sunday: In case no one knew, the cake was made to impress those who live chocolate, and might I say I did a very fine job. But, it's extravagance was too tall for the standard cake cover. He's locking the door behind me, cake platter in my hand, the buttercream bumps in to the cute new ivory top I'd bought specifically for this occassion. Not shocking to me at all, this is just the way things commonly work with me, I had another top inside.

The family stuffed me with food, like the groomsmen couldnt keep me in the kitchen the night before. Needless to say, I lay here on the couch, my stomach feeling uneasy after this weekends festivities, but nonetheless, I am incredibly satisfied.

what you need to know about my life, the yard sale

I grew up in the hill country, not to be confused with northwest Austin. Upstate New York; Syracuse, actually. Incredible father, kick ass sister, and goofy stepmother. A dirt road of 8 houses, 6 filled with paternal family members. Room to play, dirtbikes, a plethora of lawnmowers and snowmobiles to ride, and a pool to swim in.

18 years later, I was ready for a change of scenery. Let's go even more upstate. Paul Smith's College, Saranac Lake NY. That soon turned in to Lake Placid, once I'd ravaged all the men and drank all the beer dry at this 900 student college.

Lake Placid, home of the 1932 and 1980 Winter Olympic games. Freezing cold, campfires on ice, and 3 bars. Didn't take me long to get to know everyone there. That meant time for someplace new.
What next? I didn't know. Was dating some 'wanna be' professional golfing idiot at the time, so decided to move to Dallas, of all places. Yup, the Big D. Sarah does Dallas. Well I haven't done all of it, but a good chunk. So here, I sell fried chicken. We'll see where I'm off to next...

Patron & Pineapple

its sweet. its smooth. its still lingering; as I took some ibuprofen from my supervisor this morning. michelles parents are in town. makeshift crawfish boil. spicy corn, potatoes, snausage & patron and pineapple juice. Maybe I'll go to Awshucks this weekend.

raw oysters, hush puppies, crawfish, peel & eat shrimp... and what a true 'shrimp cocktail' really is. none of this northerner, line a cocktail glass with shrimp and fill it with ketchup bullshit. Nope. get that ketchup real spiced up with horseradish; throw some big chunks of avocado in there; cayenne pepper; baby shrimps; fresh cilantro. Incredible. Mash it all together in a beer mug, grab a big spoon, and frickin enjoy...