Gorillabuns

i'd leave my husband for him

I'll give you ZERO guesses where I went last night.

Alright, since everyone has BlogHer on the brain, I'll give you one hint:

The MAN, the myth, the legend was better than I had expected - even while sober. Me that is.

After this picture was snapped, Dave turned, waved and said, "You. Me. Backstage. Later."  The rest is sweet, sweet history.

At one point, during a long-ass drum solo (sorry, I don't care how great you are, I despise drum, bass and organ solos. They put me to sleep.), I started to daydream about my future unborn child's name. Since I've convinced myself I'm having a boy, maybe I should name the little dude, Dave or maybe Grohl or even Grohlton. Better yet, Everlong. Yea.... Everlong...... Okay, maybe not.

Excuse me while I cut this post short. I'm stalking his tour bus and well, I only have minutes left to scheme my stow-away plan.  I'll write soon about my status as Dave's love-slave on the road. I'm sure his wife won't mind a big, pregnant groupie keeping her husband company while he's touring. Anyway, I'm sure I could take her down.

you know you are in trouble when

your husband is "propositioned" in lieu of payment for a real estate re-finance appraisal.

I wonder if this tactic will work for my bills? I would totally offer sexual favors if it would erase a bill or two from our debt portfolio.

5 dresses

Rich rented "27 dresses" last night for my lazy and bloated viewing  pleasure. Actually, I requested him to find the movie and to not return until he had it firmly embedded in his hot little hand. For some ungodly reason, I was in the mood for a chick-flick. Be assured, this is an uncommon occurrence and I blame the hormones for such a weakness in my character.

Honestly, I have to admit - I liked the flick. I liked it because I HAVE BEEN the person who pleased the bride-to-be before, during and after their wedding. Helping them plan their events, pick out a wedding dress, hold their dress out of the commode while they peed, toasting to their "good fortune," drinking all their free alcohol and running from the sling-shot bouquet toss when the humiliating "single ladies" round-up occurred (this situation was where I would draw the line in aiding and supporting.)

I helped every prospective bride because I was secretly in love with weddings just like the main character in the movie and sadly - in love with being in love (Let us not discuss my lack of stable relationships during most of the weddings I gracedattended.)

After the credits started rolling across the screen, I thought back to the good, the bad and the down-right ugly in bridesmaid's dresses I had worn in the past. While I think I've been in more than 5 weddings, I could only muster up 5 pictures of proof. You know you want to see them. I won't even make you beg.

Let's start with the first wedding that pretty much ruined me for all wedding in the future (including my own.)

Here I am, a spry twenty-two, virgin eyebrow plucking college Senior. The black velvet bridesmaid's dress was from Victoria's Secret and bordered on new and crazy for a bridesmaid in 1991. The black velvet part that is. This event would happen to be the only time in my life in which I wore a size 4 (I blame the drastic diet of wisdom teeth extraction for such an awesome feat.) This was the only wedding in which I did not have to pay a cent for the privilege of being a bridesmaid.

I quickly learned, this windfall of good fortune is not always the case during subsequent weddings.

The next wedding occurred in July 1993. 

God love you Tiffany (and I really do) but burgundy velvet and shiny taffeta are not a winning combination during the hottest day of July in Oklahoma. I do believe I lost around 10lbs during the 30 minute ceremony and strangely enough, my fresh and thick matte makeup failed to drip and run during such climate issues and equally held up during hysterical tears. The tears were not for the bride and her moment but for my boyfriend who was not in attendance to walk me down the aisle. The ass-wipe of a boyfriend would happen to be Rich who just so happened to be enjoying his sweet self on a second tour of duty in Alaska. Fishing. I chose to stay in Oklahoma, graduate and attend this wedding. Alone.

Note to self: Less is more in the eyebrow powder department.

Third? Who is to say when this wedding occurred but I think it was in December of 2004 (and why yes, this IS a picture of a picture. This would explain the tilted vision of loveliness.)

I happened to be encased in a lovely Emerald green velvet dress in which the shear weight of this beauty hindered and obstructed my drunk free-falling ass down a large hill. This was the night of many firsts. Two-steppin' it to country music, promises of free trips to Paris the next month by willing suitors, the almost puking into a Poinsettia wrapper instead of the Poinsettia owner's nice Mercedes followed by my locking the bathroom door, puking and then passing out at a wedding after party - which happened to be the Poinsettia owner's beautiful three story home. The most horrifying event of all? I was forced to sleep in a Garth Brooks t-shirt after the bathroom door had been successfully picked open by the hostess. A subsequently lengthy and long discussion arose over my modesty and my inability to willingly don on the offensive t-shirt. Sadly, the hostess won the argument. Strange enough, I was invited to parties at this residence for years to come however, I did have to promise to not lock any doors during my visits.

The next wedding? I was single. Rich and I weren't dating and I was semi-newly heartbroken over another idiot with whom I had been engaged to earlier that year.

(I know you're wondering why I had to take another picture of a picture instead of scanning this beaut. The answer is? I'm totally lazy..... and an inept photographer.)

This dress was purchased for me without my measurements taken into account. Free? I'll take it! and not look in the mirror and hide behind bouquets. Don't worry about me......Really..... As you can see, I pretty much drank my way through the reception to ease the pain and suffering of having a dress fit too tightly around the hip/saddle baggage action.

Note to self: celery green looks like shit on me. Never wear it again.

2002 - a.k.a. too old to be a bridesmaid or matron of honor- p.s.s. done with the whole attendant gig: Pregnant with Celia and I do believe fresh from the bathroom from either crying or puking my bloated guts up. Notice the awesome BIG boning in the strapless unshapely bodice? Notice the 20 yards of red taffeta bunched unsuccessfully under the bodice? Notice how hugely HUGE I am while pregnant? Note this was the only wedding I have attended sober. I guess one out of fifty isn't so bad.

This would conclude my walk down bridesmaid lane. I thought I would throw in a picture of my bridesmaid's dresses from my own wedding in May of 2000.

These two piece dresses were hand-sewn with love by my sweet little arthritic Grandmother - laced with promises of the ability to wear the skirt again -topped with a nice cardigan and pearls whispered in skeptical ears. Yep, I was a total cliche. I seemingly uttered the same corny line I had been diligently fed throughout my wedding attendant years while knowing full well - bridesmaids never want to wear this shit again.

i say huka, you say hookah

In my last post, in which I razzled and dazzled you with my hair coloring prowess, I ended the post with a teaser. A teaser in which no one picked up as "she really might be serious with this statement."

Let me refresh your memory:

"Until next time:  How I procured an art exhibit while lounging in a Huka bar without showing any credentials."

Maybe this by-passed your attention due to the fact, I don't know how to spell Hookah. If I did, wouldn't you be truly worried about this mother of two? Let me state for the record, I did not partake in the hookah. I only discussed with several patrons on why the hell one would put their lips on something that 20 bajillion others had - even if the mouth piece is sanitized after every use. These mouthpieces were NOT disposable. Have these people heard of a major epidemic called, THE FLU? (and yes, I'm SO a mom.)

ANYWAY....during this sweeping adventure with one of my best of friends,

we happened to meet up with a strange guy in the said Hooka bar. We conversed with him after he repeatedly tried to enthrall us with corny phrases and in the end we sequestered him into a game of 20 questions. Strangely enough, he amused us with playing the name game, quickly left for ten minutes , returned to then produce a piece of paper. A check. We figured out (after a most steadfast inquisition) he owed my friend's husband (a ten + year old debt) $500.00. After this check was displayed (verified and number's were transcripted for future banking validity), we bought him a drink. Hell, it's not every night one meets someone who is trying to work out their Karmic soul.

More inane conversations were had,

my picture was taken in "free-form" art (let's not discuss my ass-chin or large and in charge nostrils),

another conversation was started about the local (or the lack of) art scene. While I espoused my VERY distant past of art accomplishments, "the dude" offered me an exhibit at his business in September. After I shot my disbelief across the table, which may or may not have included the Mojito I had been consuming, I began to decide this guy must be high on the purest of rock crack known on the street, named Bullshit. First paying an old debt off then offering an exhibit with no strings attached? Certifiably fried.

We left the bar with a promise I would email him the next week with my intention or as he said, "commitment" to the project.

I've yet to do it.  Why? I haven't produced anything in 10+ years that doesn't reek of commissioned suffering of which I wouldn't count one stroke as art.

The creative juice has been sucked dry from this sponge.  At the end of the day, I want to sanitize and plump up this sponge in hopes it can still function and last. To do the job again tomorrow. The used sponge isn't shiny or new - the design has long since faded from it's once pristine and jazzy exterior. It continues to swipe along doing the job no one else wants to while it stares jealously at the new and improved models displayed all around it.  It wonders how long it can last before it disintegrates; rendering itself useless.

On the flip side? I could always submit my children's art work in my place.

was that before or after gastric-bypass?

rich and i attended the girl's ex-baby sitter's wedding this weekend. usually, after such events, i worry the next day if i made it home with my purse, shoes and wedding rings or did i make a complete ass out of myself while propped on the bar demanding "just one more drink."  thankfully, none of the these events occurred but instead, my pride felt slightly damaged and dirty after the affair.

feeling somewhat funky from the week of pneumonia, i went ahead and smeared on some lipstick and wore my best black for the occasion.  a 15 minute ceremony ensued and we were off to find the nearest bartender. after a few glasses of wine, i felt good about being out with my man while enjoying a little time away from the kiddos and soaking in the compliments about my hair when i was sucker punched by another attendee of the gala. not physically, but in an underhanded kind of way that made me feel less than stellar about myself and waaayyy less than stellar about my fucking hair.

one of the few reasons i have held on to long hair for so long was to hopefully camouflage the portly body that carefully and artfully holds it up. not that i can wrap that shit around my ass and thighs, but at times, it had a good strobe light effect to deflect the rest of the obvious package. now, all you see is my ass before my smaller head enters the room.

now, i'm stating the obvious not to have a pity party session. i have no delusions of my body image being better than it is but, upon meeting another woman with whom you just met on the dance floor, looks at you and says, "gee, i think you look like carnie wilson," you tend to want to run and slam your face into the leftover mash potatoes congealing in the far corner of the room. 

my response?

"well, for god's sake, i'm fat but not 300lbs! that 'compliment' was just plain insulting!" i then smiled and walked away. to the bar.

my response was in no way meant to demean carnie even if she is thin now but, DAMN!! who wants to be called fat? to their face? she should've just said i reminded her of big mamma from what's eating gilbert grape' and be done with making someone she doesn't know, feel just plain shitty.

i'd like to think she was crappy due to the fact that her husband was talking to me before the incident and she was simply jealous that she had fried bleached farrah hair, a BORING 70's disco dress squeazed on and tar stained teeth that a dentist had no chance of saving from future dentures.

though, still, she made me feel less than pretty and i HATE it when i can let someone have that kind of power over me.

women are just plain bitchy.

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