Monday, September 18, 2006


As I climbed the last step into the loft of the barn, I wondered if I had bitten off more than I could chew. I had always wanted to buy a huge old barn or even (as sacreligious as this sounds) and old church and turn them into a house. The houses of today are too sterilized, too cut off, too winding. I wanted big open spaces. Ceilings so high your voice echoed as you spoke. Something with character. Something thatI could make my own, but something with history behind it. I stepped from the ladder to the wooden floor and fought to stay upright. I felt his strong hands grasp my upper arms to stop my slide.

"Angel, be careful. I don't know what you're doing in those shoes." The slick bottoms of my kitten heels weren't conducive to wooden planks lined with remnants of hay, but I didn't know that we were going to be here. We had decided at the last minute to take a Sunday drive. The heat of summer was fading into an autumn crispness that was just right. We rolled down the windows, opened the sunroof, turned on some music and enjoyed the ride. We'd gone miles before a word was spoken. None were needed. But he had spotted the For Sale sign before I did. "Angel, look." he had almost whispered it through the smile that had graced his face since we slid in the car. His finger pointed at the massive red barn surrounded by acres of empty, green field. I just nodded and he knew. We were taking a detour.

"You want it." His lips were so close to my ear that the words were almost a kiss. "Am I that transparent?""Angel, you should see your face. Did you know that there are tears in your eyes?" I lifted my fingers to my cheek and wiped the saline trail leading to my chin. "I didn't know until you told me. It's just .. . this is it. This is perfect. It's not too far from the city, so the commute wouldn't be bad. It's massive so there is plenty of space downstairs to divide with half-walls and brick partitions to make bedrooms and a living room and a huge study for you to write. Oh . . baby! And there's plumbing and electricity already, maybe someone had the same idea that we did. It wouldn't be that much more work. And we could turn the loft into our own private haven. It's so huge. We could have a sitting area/library over in this corner and divide this other one off for a huge walk in closet and put our bed right by the loft door and put a window in behind the door so we could have the sunlight and . . . It's just perfect. Please. Please, will you think about it." He wrapped his arms around my waist and squeezed. "It's very big, sweetie. Do we really need all this room? And we don't know how much they want for it. Who knows if it's structurally sound." He paused for a minute as she twisted her head to look at him again. "Baby, I can't tell you no when you're this excited. We'll talk to them and see what they're asking. But we still have to be practical. What are we going to do with all this space?"

I didn't say one word. I just moved my hands down to where his arms rested on my waist and took his hands, drawing them up to my stomach and pressing them there.

Thursday, September 07, 2006

The Two E-C's of My Not So Distant Youth

On any given workday, I pass by two of my old haunts at least four times.

The Geyer Springs El Chico and the Chico Road Electric Cowboy.

El Chico:

Before you start getting any bright ideas about my love of Tex-Mex cuisine, understand that Steve - my overqualified and underachieving friend with three college degrees and about a gazillion dollars in stocks and bonds - wasted his free time as a bartender there.

Mainly for the free booze and the bar sluts.

Yes, there are bar sluts at ANY bar, even El Chico.

Every Friday night, and most Saturdays and Sundays, we would journey to El Chico to partake of free appetizers, free dinners, free desserts and copious amounts of free alcohol, not to mention the enlightening conversation of Steve and his bar mates.

I say free. But, of course, it wasn’t.

Because when you have friends like that - who hook you up to no end - and you know that both them and their friends behind the counter live off the tips . . . okay, so not so much Steve as his friends . . . you tip well.

And by well, I mean that I standardly left $50.

On more than one occasion, thanks to drunkenness or the extreme cuteness of one particular bartender, I left a tip of $100 or more.

So, actually, it would have probably been cheaper just to pay for the food and drinks.

Or . . Maybe not.

This should not give you a grand notion of my personality.

I’m not the best person around, I assure you.

You should have no noble ideas of my character.

Yes, I tipped well, but I also did bad bad things at that bar.

In fact . . . .

One occasion in particular springs to mind.

I was dating one of the Jeffs.

I say one of the Jeffs because I dated SEVERAL guys named Jeff.

People, don’t name your kid Jeff. There are far too many Jeffs in the world already.

And I’ve dated half of them.

But this Jeff happens to be one of the few men I slept with.

And by slept, I mean didn’t get one wink of rest.

Well, Jeff and I had been fighting a lot lately and while make-up sex was spectacular, I was getting sick of the lead-in.

So we decided to take a night away from each other.

I went with *Mary and some of the guys to meet Steve at El Chico with plans to journey to Electric Cowboy when the bar closed at 12:00 (this is what we had always done).

Well, lo and behold, Jeff and two of his clients had decided to eat at El Chico . . . in the bar.

Ummm, yes, I think he was checking up on me.

A - because he didn’t trust my guy friends.

B - because he told me later that he went there with the intentions of checking up on me.

Well, though I should have been peeved, I was kind of intoxicated with the thought of him being protective of lil’ ole me.

Yes, I know, I’m a freak.

So we both pretended to ignore each other throughout appetizers and the meal.

However, when dessert came around, apparently neither of us was willing to ignore one another anymore.

A hand grazed my spaghetti strapped shoulder and a voice said semi-loudly, "Hey, I need you to come out to the truck with me and help me find these estimates. You’re the one who ‘organized’ the truck and now I can’t find a damn thing out there."

Other than the me organizing his truck thing, that was all a big fat lie.

He knew where everything was.

I knew where this was going, but I wanted it, too.

Yes, I know I’m a freak, but not the same kind of freak that I was in the last paragraph.

Anyway . . .

So my friends hear this lame excuse and take it at face value.

Because they’re trashed on Vodka and Tequila.

And I have a reduced gag reflex because of Tequila . . hmmm . .

So to the parking lot we go.

And into the backseat of his well-tinted truck.

And my gag reflex is noticeably absent.

And . . . several minutes later . . we return to the bar.

I don’t even think my friends remembered I had left.

But his clients were aware of the time discrepency, and being that they were young and easily impressed, quickly signed a contract with him.

Men are so easy.

Electric Cowboy:

The least fond memory of the club can be found HERE.

But one of the best memories I have of the place also involves Jeff # . .. Umm . . was he 3 or 4?

Oh well.

Jeff and I had called it quits at least a month earlier.

The reasons are and were a bit unclear.

I think it just had a lot to do with differences in choices and lifestyles.

I expected him to be more mature at his age and he expected me to be less.

Less mature, less demanding and less . . well, less everything else I was at that age.

But just because a relationship is on the rocks doesn’t mean the sex isn’t still outstanding.

And I was at the club with my friends, dancing up a storm and pretending I didn’t see Jeff #something leaning against the bar with his running buddy and watching my every move.

Until I couldn’t pretend anymore, because he was directly behind me grinding into my back as Jason was grinding into my front.

Jason leaned in and said "I see a bride-to-be who needs one last fling before committing her life away, so you’ll excuse me if I don’t stick around for what could turn into a menage-a-trois."

Not begrudging Jason his man-whore ways, I searched for another out.

I grabbed *Mary and started dancing with her - very close.

A ploy we had perfected in South Padre during Spring Break.

Sometimes if the guy thinks one of you is a dyke, they walk away before one of you shows the man side of you and beats his behind.

However, Jeff knew full well what I was doing.

So he kept on.

Time for another tactic.

"Hey, Jeff, how bout you dance with *Mary while I run to the bathroom. Kay? Kay."

Only the bathroom turned out to be the bar on the other side of the room with my bouncer friend Larry keeping me company.

That worked for about 20 minutes.

Until Jeff’s running buddy saw me and immediately reported to him that I was canoodling with an unknown.

Unknown to Travis (running buddy), but Jeff was fully aware that Larry, while attractive and fun, was engaged to one of the waitresses - and a good friend of mine.

Jeff looped his arms around me from behind and said:

"Why are you fighting this, babe, you know you’re coming home with me."

Ugh . . .

I hated it when he was right.

Thank God I rode into town with *Mary that night, allowing me a clear mind about leaving my vehicle in a shady area.

I’ll leave the rest to your imaginations.

I am beyond proud to say that I haven’t set foot in either establishment in 3 years.

Well, that’s kind of a lie.

2 years ago, I graced Electric Cowboy with my presence for *Mary’s bachelorette party.

But forced presence at an engagement soiree does not count as elective assent to attend a club.

So . . there’s a peak at my less than graceful past that keeps haunting my present with daily reminders.

Wednesday, September 06, 2006

A Glimpse

In case you ever wondered at the oddity of mine and Robin's friendship, here is something that may either confuse you more or give you a glimpse inside. Obviously, this email string started long before the few bits I'm posting, and obviously, there were other email strings going on (we really WORK when we're at work, don't we?), but they were either insignificant or too sensitive in nature to be posted. Enjoy what you've got here. Oh, and I'm too lazy to insert Robin's link . . you guys know her blog and if you don't - find it on the blogroll.

Me: Okay So I'm sitting in here laughing like a loon about that twi lilly email I just sent you.
Just so you know where I was and what I was doing when they took me to the state mental hospital.
Why was that SO funny to me?

Robin: Exactly where did you come up with TWI LILLY??

Me: It's at the end of the song.
Ying and Yang (ha ha) keep going: Twi lilly, twi LILLY. Twi lilly, twi LILLY.

Robin: I appear to have missed that part, even after repeated listenings

Me: Which now means you will go home and listen to the song to verify the truth of my lyrical decipherations.

Robin: Quite naturally

Me: Ever start to think we have a weird friendship?

Robin: No. why, do you?

Me: I think it's . . . . Atypical.

Robin: How is that?

Me: This is so Golden Girls . . . But nobody else gets me like you do.
And you're the only one I can be THIS weird with.

Robin: Aw sugar- my eyes just got all fluttery. And just so we're clear, you're the only one I can honestly talk about this weirdness with. And I haven't told anyone else about the other thing- which will make sense when you read the other email string. I can't have ordinary folk knowing that. Also, I love the golden girls. WE SHOULD ALL strive to be the golden girls. Okay, so I think you should be Blanche. Blanche had more layers than people give her credit for.

Me: I'm so down with being Blanche.
Cheesecake next Monday???
I can't address the fluttery eyes thing cause I teared up writing that email.
How was I lucky enough to find you Freshman year?

Robin: We are being very sentimental today, have you noticed. Besides, it wasn't luck, it was fate. I don't believe in this one soulmate nonsense. I believe in people, sometime just a few sometimes a whole stadium, whose souls mesh ours. And yes, cheesecake next Monday. I will have to stop by starbucks so I can have some yummy coffee with it because NOTHING beats cheesecake and coffee.

Me: Yeah, I noticed. Think we're okay?
Ummm cheesecake.
Nice soulmate summary.

Robin: Yes, we're fine. I'm sad about XXXXXXXXX. You're sad about XXXXXXX. And various others. Mid twenties life crisis day!

Me: Maybe we should buy something.

Robin: Because sliding further into debt makes ME feel better (she says with sarcasm) :)

Me: Hi
I'm Brittany
Have we met?
Obviously not if you think I'm not the synchronized swimming champion of the debt pool.

Robin: Oooooh that was a lovely analogy. I mean, seriously.

Me: I think we're both on our A game today with our snide comment, snippy writing, witty things to be said jottings.

Robin: I'm all over that A game. I'm so all over that A game I got a big fat scarlet A tattooed on my wrist, just for fun.

Me: You just got demoted to the B team. Congrats.

Robin: See, I knew it was possible.

Me: That's my little over-under, basket weaving, keep em guessing achiever. (pats her on head)
Robin: On our way to our respective cars the other day, my boss asked me if I was the kind of kid that lied to other kids about the grades I made, because I didn't want to seem too smart. I had to laugh because is it REALLY that obvious I'm a total freak?
He said: Yes, actually, it is.

Me: Oh wow. Think that goes for both of us, or do I hide it better?

Robin: No, it must be completely obvious for all the world to see. My thoughts, anyway.

Me: We've been living in denial. Hmmm . . .and nothings changed with this realization. Go figure.
Robin: I'm perfectly happy in Denialville. They have good margaritas here.

Me: Yes, but the dating pool sucks.
Men in denial are all fat, bald or have short, not stubby, third legs.

Robin: And the women in denial are all wicked hot, naturally.

Tuesday, September 05, 2006

Football and Poker and Weeds, Oh My

All I can say is Thank the Dear Lord that football season is now fully in swing.
I didn't even have to question what I was doing on a Monday night.
In fact, I was overloaded with things to do.

I spent the night flipping amongst the Miami vs. Florida State game (Go 'Noles!!! Though you dearly suck this year because everyone, including lovely Bobby, is overestimating your infantile quarterback Weatherford . . . Weatherford, if by some miracle of internet fate you run across this blog, know that you suck - kisses, B), a poker game (Go Negreanu!! Honey, it's totally not your fault that the table quaded twice within a 20 minute span, that's a 1 to 2000 chance, I know because Gabe Kaplan told us, but that's no excuse to keep playing in pots you shouldn't be in, honestly, did you think your Queen Ten was going to hold up with a Straight draw on the board, even if you did pair your Queen? No, no, sweetie. You're normally such a better player. Most days I would put you well above Hatchem, Helmuth and even Ivey . . . but, babe, put this bad day behind you and move on, you can do it. We're behind you.) and one of the best shows on TV, bar none, Weeds (Nancy, are ya gonna tell the kids that you got married in Vegas to a DEA agent to keep him from turning you in for being a dimebag selling ex-housewife?).

Though I'm loathe to admit that my night revolved around a TV screen . .. umm, why am I loathe? Like you kids did anything better? Okay, it's possible that you were all out at friends and family cook outs celebrating the labor free-edness of Labor Day, but not me kids. Because, true to form, B gets sick on holidays.

Yes, it's true. It has always been like this, even when I was an itty bitty thing. I wait til holidays and vacations to come down with illnesses. Just ask my momma. So, of course, Friday, when I had to work, I was feeling fine. A little tired from the Nickelback, Hinder, Chevelle and Hoobastank concert from the night before (which, in case you wondered, was fan-freakin-tabulous and I recommend you all get tickets, unless of course you live here or closeby because you guys missed it), but otherwise fine. Friday night, I wasn't feeling as chipper as usual, but hey, when do I ever feel completely well?

Saturday, I was well enough to journey to the land of the Hogs to watch our NOT (amazing!) humiliating defeat, though if you only looked at the scoreboard, you might think differently. Though, note here to Houston Nutt, you friggin waste of oxygen, ummm . . . hey . . . think it's a coincidence that we score ONCE the entire game with your miserable excuse for a quarterback that you let start and finish 5 games last season - - 5 games, 4 of which we lost because he's so incompetent - - and then you bring in, miracle of miracles, the NUMBER ONE draft quarterback in the NATION and within 60 seconds we score again?? Ummm, was that PRUDENT planning to keep him out until the LAST THREE MINUTES OF THE GAME?? I mean, seriously, if you're going to take off his red shirt, make it for something GOOD. The last three minutes SO does not count. WHY didn't you take your sorry behind to Nebraska?? They were RECRUITING you?? Ummm, I wouldn't fight traffic for you. Just so ya know.

Anyway, that was Saturday. And Saturday night I felt like butt. I thought it was just because I became a little emotionally overwrought at the game. Tends to happen with me. Football obsessed, but we'll let that slide. I actually cried at the end of the game. Yep, I cried. Deal with it. But, again, I thought it was just me being upset about the game. It sometimes presents itself physically. It always gives me a migraine from Hades. And by "it" - I mean my constantly cheering and yelling and possibly my snide comments to my friend about Nutt and RoJo the moron quarterback. But when I woke up every hour to hour and a half and felt my body aching and my eyeballs burning, I knew . .

The Flu.

So, yes, I canceled all other plans and spent Sunday, Sunday night, Monday and Monday night safely tucked away in my sick-blankie (no judgements, everyone has their comforts) on either my bed or my couch ignoring most all phone calls and any emails. Sorry kids, I pamper myself when I'm sick. Even to the point of allowing myself to watch bad TV.

I could have watched at least 3 hours of Lifetime Movie Network and might have watched something called "Mother, May I Sleep With Danger", ummm maybe, but I will neither confirm nor deny the truth of that statement. Just acknowledge I was burning up with fever and therefore delirious. However, I was NOT delirious enough to believe in the second movie that JACK WAGNER, who is hot in his own right and was playing a super rich plastic surgeon, would EVER dump his hottie girlfriend to go after a married Judith Light AKA Horseface with a bad bleach job from Who's the Boss. Ummm . . . not going to happen. Though, it was interesting to draw 80's TV parallels since Judith Light's daughter in the movie was Tracey Gold from Growing Pains fame. Now . . . had they had Alan Thicke be a plastic surgeon I could ALMOST believe he was going for Judith . . . almost. But personally, I believe Judith Light NOW is the picture of Jessica Simpson in 20 years. Same bad bleach job that is doomed to continue and same horsey features which appear moderately attractive in youth but just get worse with age.

And that concludes the randomness of the day.