Margarita Monday

Back in the days when I was a pretty young thing with a taut stomach and no responsibilites other than getting myself home from the bar/apartment/car/riverbank/parking garage floor/Metairie bus where I had spent the night, I used to wait tables at a Mexican joint called Molly's La Casita. I have a post waiting in the wings about Molly's and promise to deliver it soon. (And no, that's not where the nom de plume, "Molly," came from.)

Anyway, the big night at Molly's was Margarita Monday. We were filled to the brim with folks thristy for a discounted buzz. And I do mean filled. People didn't just sit at tables. They perched on rails, clogged the stairs and aisles, and even drank in the bathrooms.

To add to the carnival atmosphere was the diverse clientele we drew on Margarita Mondays. Just behind Molly's was a popular gay bar so we became the pre-party locale for all the boys headed to karoke night.

I spent my time sloshing margaritas hither and yon, delivering drinks bought for the stud at table 41, or slipping table 11's phone number to the drag queen at the bar. The most exciting night was the night a 6'3" man in a leopard print dress, pink heels, and a bad weave almost punched me. I was saved by our bartender and a baseball bat. Oh, those were the days.

These days, I don't get to many Margarita Mondays, which is too bad since it was a fun way to usher in the work week.

In honor of Margarita Monday, I have decided to throw a little love your way each Monday and post an idea or two to make your slide into the week a little more fun.

Since today is President's Day, I have some patriotic suggestions.

First, for dinner, you can make President Bush's Mexican Mound. (His name for it, not mine!) It's easy and kid-friendly.

For cocktail hour, you can mix up:

The Patriot

1/3 oz. vodka

1/3 oz. Blue Curacoa

1/3 oz grenadine

Pour grenadine slowly into a shot glass. Slowly pour the Blue Curacoa on top of it, making a layer (some people like to pour it over the back of a spoon to disperse it and insure it layers properly). Slowly add the vodka on top.

Warning: Remember that time in college when you did 6 lemondrops in a row at the ATO house, made out with a guy in the bushes while his girlfriend was inside and then passed out in the dorm social room at 10 pm?
You are not in college anymore. It is a known fact that your shooter tolerance decreases by 75% when you hit thirty and is down to nil if you have given birth. Be careful.

While enjoying your drink(s), you and your husband/wife/boyfriend/girlfriend/dog can take this Presidents Quiz to see how much you remember from the 5th grade. On second thought, you might want to take this before the shot.

Finally, if you really want to shake things up and start an arguement with your significant other and then reap the rewards of making up (bow chica bow bow), you can go to this quiz to see what political party you belong in.

Enjoy!

Blazing Saddles

Hell, if no one knows who I am, I can post stuff like this. I have no shame.



Dear Lady Hoping to Revive Her Sex Life,

I saw you standing in the feminine product aisle of Wal-Mart this morning.
You were carefully studying the, ahem, intimate products. You looked to be about 107 thirty-seven and had three screaming banshees kids in tow. I recognized the look of a desperate housewife immediately, because I am one myself.

I can fully sympathize with your desire to spice things up. I was in your position just the other day. I had been doing my usual grocery shopping and noticed a new gift pack of KY Lubricant and Massage Oils, prominently displayed for Valentine's Day. These might be fun, I thought to myself. After all, it's the one day I guess I'm expected to put out.

On the big night , I donned a "fun but flirty" new nightie from Tarjay and presented myself and the gift pack to my hubbie as he walked in the door. As he is usually greeted by a cacophony of wails coming from our daughter and "play with me, Daddy," from our son, this was a nice surprise and he jumped on me it.

When it's been a while, things get going fast, you know, and we didn't bother to examine the gift pack of goodies in much detail. The bottle titled "Fireside" was the first one we grabbed and away we went.

Well, I will try to put this as tastefully as possible. We were on fire, but not in a good way. It was a subtle burn for the first few seconds but it quickly turned to a barn blazer after a minute or so. We both hightailed it to the bathroom and poured water over our nether regions. If there was ever a time I wished for a douche, it was then. It took a good 30 minutes for things to cool down, and by that time, so had our va va voom.

If we had bothered to read the bottle, we would seen the disclaimer, "Not a personal lubricant". Silly old me just thought since the stuff was manufactured by KY that it would be safe for intimate activity. Turns out it's just a massage oil. A massage oil to be used externally.

So, sex-starved mommy in Wal-mart, if you are thinking of bringing home that box of not-so-delightful delights, read the fine print and be careful where you put them. Just a helpful hint.

Sincerely,

One Hot Mama

Act 2

Once upon a time, there lived a woman who needed something in her life. Something was missing. She searched high and low for an new activity and finally, tentatively, dipped a toe in world of blogging.

The virgin blogger was hooked like a fish on a line. She loved the daily writing and the instant feedback. Delusions of fame and fortune soon took over. Virgin blogger thought that maybe she could make a career out of this. Perhaps she could write a book!

With visions being a guest on the Oprah Show dancing in her head, the virgin blogger foolishly put her real name on her blog. Her husband tried to protest and suggested she think on it for a while, but the blogger, who had always been impulsive, brushed away his fears like a gnat on a summer day. Who was he to question her creative genius?

Everything was going along swimmingly, when, thanks to local media, her address and name was distributed to the world at large. Everyone had it, friends, enemies, family, in-laws. Virgin blogger began to think perhaps she had been foolhardy.

Then the virgin blogger made the fateful decision to go back to work in the fall. Virgin blogger was paralyzed by fear that her future employers and colleagues might find her blog. She didn't think she wanted them reading about her saggy boobs and flagging sex life. In her line of work, she is expected to be a role model. She began to feel very restricted in what she could blog about. It just wasn't fun anymore if she always had to be careful.

So, virgin blogger, now older and wiser, decided to start a brand new anonymous blog. She would adopt a nom de plume and once again feel the freedom to air all her dirty laundry. Watch out world, here she comes. Again.

Welcome to virgin blogger's Act 2. Just don't out her, OK?

I Am No Martha Stewart

My knees are knocking as I write this post. My palms are sweaty. My heart is pounding. I am about to write the most embarrassing post to date. You might think that all my posting about my postpartum issues might have been a wee bit embarrassing, or that my post about my down-to-my-waist boobs might have caused me to blush. Oh no. This is the big scarlet A. I am going to share pictures of my house. My very, very disheveled and undecorated house. Now I will freely admit I am not the world's best housekeeper, but try to look beyond the mess and focus on the lack of decorating.

For the past few years, I have gone into other people's homes and felt a twinge of jealousy. These homes are decorated in what I call "furniture showroom style." The scent of new leather perfumes the air. Lampshades and throw pillows are festooned with beads, jewels and feathers. Walls were decorated with scrolled mirrors, ironwork, or manufactured prints. Generic doodads are scattered artfully across coffee tables and bookcases. Mantles hold faux greenery, candles, and bronze sculptures of horses or elephants. Bed are dressed with matching bedding and have pyramids of pillows placed just so. Windows are draped in puddles of curtains. Dining room tables are set with a service for 12 and a massive fake floral arrangement spiked with feathers and other oddities anchors the table. The home literally looks like the owner went in to a furniture store, pointed to the little room arrangements they have displayed and said, "I'll take that. All of it."

I am not jealous of the actual decorating because furniture showroom style is not my taste. But I am jealous that these homes are decorated with something at least, as opposed to the very little decorating going on in my home.

We are lucky to have very generous family members who have given us furniture, which is fantastic because Lord knows how we would have bought it ourselves in these years of me not working. And the furniture is great stuff and I am very grateful for it. Unfortunately though, we haven't added much to these gifts and we have some nice furniture interspersed with Tarjay junk and stuff from our single-days apartments.

On top of that, I have no talent for choosing all the other little stuff that would make the house look more put together. I see stuff in stores and it just doesn't do much for me. I never know which candle holder to get or which knick-knack would look good where. I never feel inspired.

I also am a wee bit of an art snob. I admit it. I just really don't like mass manufactured art. I would rather display original or limited prints of real artwork and I would rather my geegaws be things picked up on a vacation or at an arts and crafts fair or someplace with a meaning connected to it (kind of like my Christmas tree philosophy) or at least be so gorgeous I can't stand not to have it. Unfortunately, these things are usually more expensive than the generic vase at Tarjay and my art budget is well, nonexistent.

Let's play a game. Compare the pictures below and guess which ones are my house and which ones are from Southern Living. Don't worry. It won't be difficult.


Kitchens









Dining rooms







Living rooms








Bedrooms








Bathrooms









Offices





How did you do? Yeah, pretty sad isn't it? We are obviously in need of a home makeover. Any suggestions would be appreciated. Just don't tell me to clean up. That's like battling a force of nature. A 16 month old and 3 year old can put any tornado to shame.


Just in an effort to redeem myself, I will share the three pieces of real art that we have:

Willie by a Nashville artist and friend of my sister and TC.


Robert Johnson's Last Gig by a Nashville artist


My parents gave us this as a wedding present. It's by an artist in New Mexico.

Did I Read That Correctly?

Yesterday as I pulled out into traffic after picking up my son from preschool, I got behind a pick-up truck with this logo blazed across its rear end, minus the steel erectors-crane service box.


Gives a new meaning to the term "handyman," don't you think?

What To Buy When You Have More Money Than Brains Day!

Have you been buying that regular old Perrier or plain Aquafina bottled water in those horrid plastic bottles? Or worse, do you just drink the city tap water? Why lower your standards by drinking the same water as the plebian masses when money can buy you the finest exact same thing in luxury sparkling water: Antipodes.

Antipodes.

This water is bottled from the tap a ground source in New Zealand and its delicious taste has won water awards. (How do you get into that field? I can taste some water with the best of them.)

And with this superior beverage, you don't have to worry about a tacky plastic bottle ghettoing up your look: the minimalist bottle has been especially designed to compliment your table.

A generous 24 bottles of Antipodes can be yours for only $70 plus a very reasonable shipping charge of $40.75, bringing the grand total to a low $110.75. Just $110.75 for 24 bottles of water.

Better get on this right away. They may sell out, it's such a great deal.

A Boy and His Purse

Remember the Cookie magazine I posted about the other day? Well, the latest issue has this article about a mother's struggle with whether or not to allow her son to wear a dress to preschool.

Well, folks, we are having our own little gender-identity bobble here too.

Today, as I was wrangling the two kiddos into coats and hats to make a trek to Tarjay, SweetPea stopped in his tracks, yelled "Wait Mommy, I got to get my purse!"

"You have to get your what?"

"My purse, Mommy. Wait"

Ummm, ok.

So he runs to the living room toybox (yes, I know it defies all rules of decorating, but hey what are you going to do?) and he gets out a little giveaway Clinique bag that I had given Ladybug to play with.

He then goes to my desk and selects a post-it note. His "list" he says.

He puts his list in the bag.

"Ok, I ready Mommy. I got my purse and my list."

I decide to just go with it and we head to Tarjay. In the store, Sweet Pea trails along beside me, carrying his purse and checking his list to make sure "we got ebryting, Mommy." He also wants to put all our purchases in the cart and to load the bags into the car.

He was quite the little helper.

It really was very cute. He did garner some odd looks, but of course they were all from insecure, homophobe men and teenage boys. All the little old ladies and other mommies smiled at us and told me he was cute.

I told Big B about Sweet Pea's new accessory when he got home and he was a little lukewarm on the idea. I reminded him that Sweet Pea is only three, for God's sake and he just wanted to be like Mommy, heaven help him.

Here he is with his purse. Maybe I should get him some little play heels and a dress to go along with it, just to really freak his Dad out. (Oh, his head is not in the shot because Daddy is wary of posting pictures of them.)