The Spankbank Caper

So, S & I are having lunch the other day at one of those brewery places that makes terrible beer but has terrific food and an even more terrific patio and cute boys to look at.

Usually S likes to cuss and discuss matters of a political nature, but that day was different apparently, so it was refreshing when we started talking about the current storyline on Denis Leary's "Rescue Me." We love Denis Leary, in a "oooh, I'd like a little of that bad boy" way. Combine that with carrying a fire hose and it's the stuff that dreams are made of.

Anyhoooo, we started talking about an episode or two ago when the guys of the firehouse were discussing who was in their spankbank and if you don't know what spankbank means, you really need to go on vacation or have a cocktail or two. I assume you can figure it out, my little pervs, um readers.

Natch, this led to me sharing that I'd bought myself a prezzie for my birthday. (Side note: I apparently wasn't "the only living female to not have one" before then, by the way!) Her eyes widened and she calmly asked me who was in my spankbank.

You must understand that S & I do not have these kind of convos. Nun-unh. I've tried before but she's a private person and apparently, I like to step on her toes figuratively at times, so I usually back it down a notch and save that stuff for Merv.

I was in mid-bite of my salad with light lemon caper vinaigrette dressing and started to laugh uncomfortably. I swear a caper moved up into my right sinus cavity from the pressure.* I can still smell vinegar now, two days later.

It was difficult to compose myself, but I managed to name off a few boys that came to mind. (hee, I said came) And S & I became closer friends that day as we found we've got at least one or two guys in common, spankbank-wise. Apparently, we both have John Mayer in the top 10. I think we also found out Mr. Leary is in there, too. Who says friends can't find things in common even after knowing each other all these years?

Anyway - so today, I was taking a little break from work and thinking about what to blog about and this spankbank topic came (heh, there I go again) up in my brain and it made me realize that spankbank is really a term for guys. So what would the female equivalent be? Dream Desk? Fantasy File? Vibra Vault?

Whatever it's called - anyone want to name names right 'cheer in this here blog? Who is in your spankbank/vibravault? Awwwww, come one, come all! (there I go again.....)

*Get the title of this post now? Hee. Caper. Get it? I crack me up sometimes.

The Soundtrack, Eight Months Later

There was this bizarre and quite dangerous explosion in Dallas today. A company that provides and stores gases for welding and such went up in flames this morning. Scary stuff, indeed. It shut down a bunch of major highways near the downtown area and it's still a mess. Luckily, only 3 people got hurt and no one died amazingly.

Annnyway, it upset me all day. Eventually, I had to turn off the coverage and decided to take my iPod and my sneakers for a nice sweaty walk after work to burn off some of the stress. While I was walking through the neighborhood, I had the iPod on shuffle mode and it reminded me about that Soundtrack To My Life meme that I did way back in November 2006. I wondered if anything had changed since then. And besides, I had nothing to blog about today, so I give you the Soundtrack To My Life, Almost 8 Months Later:

Opening Credits: "One More Day" by Todd Rundgren. Aiyee, this is a cool one. (previously "Money, That's What I Want" by Todd Rundgren)

Waking Up: "Call It What You Will" by Utopia. "But don't call it love..." Damn, what a way to wake up. Not looking good..... (previously "Curbside Prophet" by Jason Mraz)

Falling In Love: "Just What I Needed" by The Cars. Me likey this one. (previously "Lessons In Love" by Level 42)

Fight Song: "Sugar, We're Goin Down" by Fall Out Boy. I'm not sure a fight song should be about goin' down, but at least "we're goin' down swinging." (previously "Don't Stop Believin'" by Journey)

Breaking Up: "Mammon" by Todd Rundgren. Okay, this was weird. I read this song as being against organized religion. Do I need to reassess the church I go to - when I go? (oddly enough, same song previously)

Making Up: "It's A Love Thing" by Keith Urban. Firstly, okay, I admit I like a few country songs. Secondly, is this cool or what? I mean - come on, isn't love the reason to make up? (previously "My Place In The Line" by Jude Cole)

Life's OK: "Cherish" by Madonna. Yeah, this one's on my iPod. Isn't everyone allowed a guilty pleasure? Besides, it's fun to dance to this one. (previously "Instant Karma" by John Lennon)

Mental Breakdown: "I Just Wasn't Made For These Times" by The Beach Boys. Yup, I feel like that some times. (previously "All I Want Is Everything" by Jellyfish)

Driving: "Lying Through Your Teeth" by Head Automatica. Awesomely fun song, really loud. (previously "Save A Prayer" by Duran Duran)

Flashbacks: "Girl Can't Help It" by Journey. Um, I probably still can't help it. (previously "In Repair" by John Mayer)

Happy Dance: "Smells Like Teen Spirit" by Nirvana. Happy? Mmmmkkkay. I said the iPod was on shuffle, right? (previously "Stay With Me" by Def Leppard / Rod Stewart)

Regret: "She's Tight" by Cheap Trick. Interesting selection. Do I regret being tight financially, sexually, emotionally or what? No comment. (previously "I Just Want To Touch You" by Utopia)

Final Battle: "SexyBack" by Justin Timberlake. Rrrriiight. I'm in the trenches, but looking oh-so-sexy at the same time. Maybe I need to add some camos to my wardrobe. (previously "Heaven" by The Psychedelic Furs)

Death Scene: "Back to You" by John Mayer. For some reason, I just thought of those news reporters tossing it back to the anchorman. You know when that day comes, I'm going to rise up from my deathbed and say these final words. "Back to you, Ted." (previously "Daughters" by John Mayer)

Final Credits: "Constant Craving" by k. d. lang Sad, just pathetically sad. I need to make a couple of changes apparently. (previously "Drive" by The New Cars)

And there you have it - apparently my life has gone downhill since November. I think I need to take a vitamin or two. Or go to therapy.

Man, I Had Good Taste Back Then!

Last night I was looking for something to watch on television and having very little success. I decided to see what was lurking on the DVR for a change. I found a couple of episodes of "Classic Albums" hiding on there.



Have you ever watched it on VH-1 Classic? I am a sucker for that show. If you've never seen it before and you are a music lover, it is simply the coolest behind-the-scenes shit. Ever.



The basic premise is that they take a "classic" album (I'm not sure who picks, but they do pick some goodies most of the time) and they get the original talent and producer(s), usually in a studio somewhere. They pick apart down to the very last detail each song from that album and discuss why they did it this way or that way and basically give you a peek into the creative process.



Music ain't easy, people. There's a hell of alot of work and tedious detail that goes into that song you're listening to on the iPod, honey.



Last night's selection (seeing as how I was needing to quiet down and hopefully get sleepy) was Steely Dan's "Aja" album.


I was a Steely Dan fan back in the day but I haven't heard a note of their jazzy goodness in at least 15 years. I ate this stuff up like it was sweet chocolate mousse at "that" time of the month! Luscious and dreamy and sophisticated - all those things I aspire to be in my dreams.



Either way, I woke up this morning with a mission. Must. Find. Steely Dan. CDs. Today.



I listened allllllll day at the office, added some choice tunes to my iPod, and have been in one of those groovy moods ever since. On my way home, I was listening at full volume in the CruiserCar and glancing in the rear view mirror, I couldn't recognize what kind of car was behind me from the shaking of said mirror. (So I like my music a little loud. Evs.)



If you haven't given Steely Dan a listen in awhile, give 'em a whirl. Very good stuff. True artists. Nice. Click on the little radio bar to your right for a sample. (I think you need to click twice.)

Enjoy!

I'll Bet Fergie's Lady Lumps Aren't Where Mine Are

I am a red-headed, green-eyed, left-handed, adopted female. I'm not sure what percentage of the population that makes me - but I'd venture to say, it's probably pretty low. My mother told me I was special.

I'm a competitive person. And it is true, I can be an over-achiever when I want to be. But this is getting ridiculous.

Way back in 2004 when I developed a mysterious case of tendonitis in my left elbow (the only elbow that matters to me), I went to the doctor who said: "98% of my patients get full relief from physical therapy."

So I went and tugged on stretchy bands, squeezed play-dough, and twisted my forearm into a pretzel for months. Apparently, I was in the other 2%.

The doctor told me "98% of my patients who fail to get relief from physical therapy find success with surgery."

So I went under the knife in December 2004, had a rotten Christmas, and was black and blue until Valentine's Day. And I still had to go to physical therapy 2 or 3 times a week for months. Wha? My PT told me that "98% of his clients find complete relief after surgery combined with a few months of therapy."

Yeah, right.

Eventually, I just got tired of going to see Mr. Therapist, though he was a pretty sight indeed. And if you've read even one of my previous posts, you know I like me some cute boys, so I must've been bored to flunk out of PT. Once again, I had found myself in that pesky 2% that did not find success after surgery combined with physical therapy.

I put up with the pain for another year until this past spring when I could stand it no longer and went to another doctor for his opinion.

"98% of my patients find success after this other kind of surgery."

Oh what the hell. I had to eventually be with all the normal kids, right? A person cannot be special all their lives, can they?

So under the knife I went.

I endured some serious swelling, scarring and general ickiness from April until well, now. You remember the photos, right? Eeeewwww. Yeah, it hasn't changed much and checking my calendar it's been almost 4 months.

BUT - I haven't mentioned it here, because I like to think I'm a good sport and also, if I didn't talk about it, then it wasn't bothering me.

Right?

Wrong-O.

When the swelling finally went down, I had this weird goose-egg floating around just under the skin. It didn't hurt but sometimes it would make my forearm go kinda tingly, so I went back to the doctor and he said "98% of my patients don't get this fluid during the healing process, but apparently you are in the 2% who do."

Duh. Welcome to my world.

So he drained some gook out of there, charged me $100, patted me on the behind and sent me on my merry way. Well, maybe he didn't pat me on the behind, but as you recall, I had told him loudly whilst still under anesthesia that he was hot - so I was fantasising that part. Heck, for my $100 I want a little fun, so sue me.

Two weeks went by and I was feeling like a normal kid - one of the 98% - until one day someone said "what's that?" and pointed with disgust at my elbow.

DAMMIT. Back to the 2% club.

Three more times.

Yes, three more times. That makes $400 and no pats on the behind.

Today I gazed longingly into his eyes as he syphoned off another 8 ccs of fluid from my hump / lump and hoped he would say that all would be fine now and I would be part of the 98% again.

Alas, maybe. That's right - maybe.

If I grow another lump / hump, he thinks I might be allergic to the dissolving stitches used under the skin and he might need to "go in there" again to fix this. And how often does that happen to his patients?

2% of the time.

Special isn't so fun anymore.

A Very Cruiser Birthday Report

This posting is coming way late because, well frankly, it was all I could muster yesterday to get myself clean and dressed for work. Matter of fact, once I got to work yesterday, it occurred to me that maybe, just maybe, I'd forgotten to wear pants. Luckily, one quick glance downward and I was assured that yes, I can accomplish basic hygiene and dressing while severely sleep-deprived and possibly still drunk at 8:00 in the morning.

Let me say first, to my readers - if I could reach right through your monitor, you'd be getting one of those sloppy, "I love ya, man" hugs from me for all your well-wishes for my burfday. That being said - I guess y'all might want my book report on CruiserMel's b-day bash. You do, right?

Where to start? The good part, you say? Mmmmokay.

I got home from work to find two packages on my front porch....gifts I'd given myself. One was a presh pair of shoes I had been jonesin' for and I love them. I want to walk around the house wearing only these shoes. Girls, only you can understand the power that just the right pair of shoes can do to the female psyche, right? The other package was something Lindy's written about on her blog and well, it's personal.....and for me and only me. Thanks for the recommendation, LindyGirl. That's enough about that. *wink*

SOOOOO, Boy Toy J's best friend from childhood was flying in to Dallas Tuesday night. Yeah, he didn't consult my birth certificate before he made his plans. That was okay with me, I'm all about having two dates for my birthday. And believe me, ladies, if you'd seen his friend, you would've totally dumped Brad Pitt for him! I am not kidding, hubbada hubbada. Tall, dark, commanding, and so very vague about what he does for a living that I started thinking he's the leader of some drug cartel in Florida. Not really, but he was larger than life and I secretly swooned when I saw him and almost thanked Boy Toy J for giving him to me, but I thought better of that.

The three of us went to a Salvadoran restaurant, because not only am I all about having two dashing escorts, but I dig me some ethnic cuisine and we had food I could not pronounce and drinks that I could. Far too many drinks. The guys spoke fluent Spanish with the waiters (did I ever tell you BTJ grew up in Miami?). I just sipped my mojitos and ate plantains and other weird stuff and grinned because I had the two best looking dates in the room. Somewhere along the way, I missed that they were conspiring with the waiters to embarrass me. So after dinner, BTJ's friend was telling boyhood tales of growing up with BTJ and we were laughing hysterically when suddenly I sensed a gathering of waiters behind me and the warmth of the candle on the chocolate flan starting to singe the hair on the back of my head. Um yeah - it was song-time! They sang a birthday song in Spanish, not "she's had too much to drink and wants to take off her panties," but I'm not 100% certain. The waiter kissed me full on the lips and said something about "hayyyyyy, mamasita." I think that was a compliment?

Then BTJ gave me my present - a very sweet, but not too sweet cuz I hate those things, card and tickets to see Patty Smyth & Scandal in August. We all know I loves me some 80's music! Apparently, he's willing to spend an evening in POP hell with me since I've been to METAL hell with him a coupla times. Cool. (When I was younger, I wanted to be Patty Smyth. She was so cute and that girl could sing! Still can.) The boy did good and um, yeah, there was a public display of affection involved. (No, Lindy, not a blow-job. Just sayin.)

We got the boot at 11:00 and somehow wobbled our way across Greenville Avenue to the 7-11. (For those of you not familiar with Dallas, Greenville Avenue is a party street that is usually populated by drunks behind the wheel - so crossing on foot isn't the brightest idea.....) The guys bought some beer, we went to my house since it was closest and we had a blasty-blast with more stories of BTJ's childhood. (Ladies, this is a very good way to glean information about your man. Just sayin.)

Unfortunately, we had to get BTJ's friend to his hotel. I think it was around 2:00, but I'm not sure. We said "hasta la vista" to his friend and went back to mi casa. There was more alcohol and even some sex involved. I think there was an Oriental rug involved, too. Hey, it's my house and I can do it wherever I want! Thwpppppt.

I'm not sure how, but I got up at 7:00, showered, dressed, took CruiserDog outside, woke BTJ up from the dead and sent him on his merry way just in time to find myself running for the bathroom to throw up quickly before leaving for the office. Any normal person would've thought hmm, maybe something's wrong with me at that point....but not me. Nope - I just grabbed my keys, set the burglar alarm, and drove to work. Have you ever been on auto-pilot and done that? Yeah, I'm not normal.

I got to work, found out I had pants on and when my boss asked how I was doing I didn't hide my secret. I told him I felt like poop and was quite possibly still drunk. He was leaving at noon for a vacation and said he was hoping HE would feel the same the next day. (Oh hell no, Boss, you know not what you speak of! Don't do it!)

But bottom line - Tuesday was a very great day. BTJ did well. BTJ's friend is a hottie who was a pleasure to meet. [Aside: do I have any eligible female readers in Miami - because I'd hook ya up in a heartbeat.] Mojitos are yummy, but maybe one is the magic number for future reference. Sex on the floor. AND I get to see Scandal. Good times.

The beautiful part about birthdays, besides calories that don't count and funny cards, is that once it's over, you don't have to do that again for a year. Thank God.

Hippo Birdie To Me.......

Happy Birthday to me! I'm taking tonight off to go drink heavily and eat ridiculous amounts of calories. (I mean, it's true that they don't count on birthdays, right?)

CruiserMel will return shortly (or not) with something.....if she can think of something. Or not.

Meanwhile, go have a Little Debbie snackcake or a cocktail in my honor.

What a Wanker

Feeling punie yesterday, I didn't return to work after lunch. It's this nagging, probably allergy-related crud that's grabbed hold of me at least three times since April and knocks the ever-lovin' crap out of me. The past two bouts have led to strep throat, but this time I may have bitch-slapped it into submission by actually hitting the "airborne" tablets and taking to my bed at the first sign of the post-nasal drip. (What? TMI? Sowwy.) I slept all afternoon, evening, and night. I woke up this morning a little groggy and slow, but I felt much better for having taken care of myself this time.

Because I was moving a bit slowly, I called the office and begged for an additional hour or so to clear my head (and nasal passages).

I need to do this more often. I had no idea what happens at my house after I leave for work until today. Within the first 1/2 hour I was at home, my telephone rang. I've got relatives of advanced ages so when the phone rings at odd times of the day or night, my skin tends to cringe and my heart falls a little.

I ran to the phone with dread in my bones and saw 586 as the area code on the caller ID. 586? Where is that? Who is that?

Me: Hello?

586: Hi. You doing good this morning?

Me: I guess.

586: Well, I'm ready.

Me: Who is this?

586: Does it matter?

Me: *looking at the caller ID* Who is this?

586: Aren't you ready to get it on?

("get it on"????? Who says that? Barry White?)

Me: *reading from the caller ID* Gary? Is this you? *pause* This is Gary M____y, isn't it?

586: CLICK.

I snickered to myself a little and thought how sad it was that Gary had reached me instead of some desperate housewife who would've surely appreciated his effort. I went back to my hair drying when I heard the phone ring again.

Me: Hello?

586: You know me?

Me: Of course I do.

586: What a coincidence. Huh.

Me: It is. What do you want?

586: I guess I've called you before. You know what I want.

Me: *putting on my best morning sexy voice, well, as sexy as I can muster with sinus problems* Well, I know what I want, Gary.

586: What's that? If I help you, you'll help me. I'm ready, Baby.

Me: I want your address. I've got your phone number, so I'm planning on calling the police. If I could have your address, it would save them some trouble.

586: Bitch! CLICK.

Now I ask you - who in this day and age makes phone calls like this anymore? Even little children have figured out the concept of caller ID and don't call to see if your refrigerator is running. Even if you want to make a crank call (or perv call) there is a way to make one's self anonymous by dialing a * and then some code before you dial the number. (Obviously, I don't make crank calls or I would know the code.)

Oh well, I can't say I've had that kind of fun in a long time. I think I should be late for work more often. Besides, Gary might just call tomorrow.

Talk About Versatile!

After all the rain we've seen right 'cheer in Texas, the savvy woman would be smart to don these chic beauties for a day in court, that oh-so-important business luncheon, a night out with the girls, or for a special evening out on the town with her gentleman caller.

Metallic Birthday for BTJ

Hiya! Yes, I'm totally detoxed from Thursday's girls' night. Unfortunately, I'm afraid I may have re-tox'd myself on Saturday night, but that wasn't the question, was it?



Saturday night was celebration night for Boy Toy J's birthday. For the next eight days, our ages aren't so far apart. (Though CruiserMel's birth certificate says she'll turn another year older on the 17th, she will continue to lie her ass off to any stranger that asks her real age, as long as possible, but that wasn't the question, was it?)



I asked Boy Toy J what he wanted to do for his bday several weeks ago. I expected to hear something about a home-cooked dinner, perhaps a big juicy steak dinner "out," or "only you, my dear....."



But what I didn't know was that BTJ was completely jazzed-up for a night of hard rock tribute bands at a place called O'Riley's, here in Dallas. Hey, I figured it might actually cost less than dinner at some fancy restaurant (which I hope to collect for my birthday), and as long as there's enough alcohol to occupy me, I could deal with one night in rock and roll hell.



He got to my house all excited and exuberant; I mean, he'd waited for this for what probably felt like forever to him.



He smiled and said "you like my hair?"



I swear, it looked the same it always does......1/4" long pretty much everywhere. "Yeah...."



"It looks different doesn't it?"



I cocked my head, squinted and searched for the right words. "You got it cut?"



He gasped and said "No, I spiked it!"



"Oh, now I see." Between you and me, spiking curly hair that's 1/4" long pretty much turns it into hair that's 3/8" long. But I reached into the depths of my heart and told him it looked great. Evs.



I gave him his official present, a Paul Rodgers tshirt and a dvd of Stevie Nicks. He actually likes her and I can tolerate it, too. He was thrilled. Damn, he's easy.



After prezzies, I secretly grabbed my earplugs that I use when I go to auto races and we were off.



After dinner we went to the club where not three, but now four tribute bands would be playing, and one of those did double duty, which would mean five sets. Ugh. "Weller and Diet, please. Keep 'em coming."



Soon it began - but it was actually tolerable. Barely.



Band #1 pulled the double: one set of Johnny Cash and one of Pat Benatar. Okay, I can handle this. I have a very limited knowledge of Johnny's music, but that guy should take his show to Vegas, baby. He had him pegged. Really good. Pat Benatar was just meh, but at least I knew enough to sing along and remember having an outfit almost identical to this gal's outfit. It was pure 80's and it was fun.



Band #2 - Dokken. Who? "Weller and Diet - make it snappy." Being from a theatrical background, I can look beyond my own personal tastes and spot true talent and the 17-year old bass player had it. Style, looks, presence. Can you say charisma? I thought you could. When they left the stage, I was almost bummed I wasn't going to be able to see him play some more.



Band #3 - Motley Crew. I admit I was a little curious about this one. I mean, I've done my share of head-banging in my sordid past. I had also cheated and listened to a greatest hits cd last week, but don't tattle on me, kay? The band came out in full metal regalia, and much to my surprise - the 17-year old bassist, Taylor, was in this band, too. Bonus. I couldn't help it when I rose to my feet and positioned myself in front of his spot. Here I was, way old enough to be his momma, and starstruck (on a local level - don't worry, Kasim) by this BOY. I found him afterwards and stumbled my way over and told him to "get the f outta this band and go be a star where you should be." He probably took it as an insult, but it wasn't meant that way. I'd love to know what he told his buddies about the middle-aged lady who breathed whiskey all over him. Boy Toy J didn't seem amused. Oh well, I wanted a steak dinner!



Band #4 - Judas Priest. It almost pains me to type that name. All I know of JP is that they wore/wear (?) alot of leather and bondage stuff. And sing about breakin' the law and stuff. NOT my scene. (Hell, I owned a Hanson cd!) "Weller and Diet - make it a double, will ya?" Somewhere along the way, I ended up separated from Boy Toy J, who was in his element. It's okay, I'd told him that would happen. He knows my threshold for metal music.



All in all - BTJ had a "best birthday ever!" and I didn't suffer too much hearing loss. The look on his face after that night was priceless. I'd done good.



But I still want a steak dinner "out" when it's my turn. Just hinting.

The Girls' Night With Merv

Indeed, it was a girls' night of epic proportions, just Merv & me. Usually when Merv comes to visit we can get a few more girls to join in, but being that it was a Thursday, well, it was just us.

There was plenty of TexMex snackies and the adult beverages were plentiful.

There was giggling and talk of boys and sex.

There was music and more talk of boys and sex.

There was the occasional quiet moment of reflection on life's woes.

Then there was more giggling, music and talk of boys and sex.

Then the telephone rang while we were in mid-hysterical laughter, still dipping tostadas in the queso and munching on a veggie tray. It was Boy Toy J.

Me: "Why are you calling so late?"

BTJ: "Late? What are you talking about? It's early."

Me: "It is? God, it feel like it's the middle of the night."

BTJ: "No, it's 8:00 in the morning!"

Yeah, baby! We're still rollin' like 20-somethings and living to tell about it, too.

My garbage disposal is another story. Someone needs to clear up how an earring, a sponge and a business card ended up in there.

Nubbins, Mark Wahlberg And The Boy Toy

Sorry, folks, for slackin' off on my blog duties. I guess there just hasn't been much going on in CruiserWorld.

No, I take that back. It's not like I just laze around, eating bon-bons, watching Lifetime movies and reading fan mail. I actually do some things.

Like laundry. And the occasional trip to the grocery store. It's a glamorous life, I know.

Let's touch upon just a few of the incredibly exciting events that have taken place since we last e-spoke, shall we?

It appears I've grown a nubbin. A nubbin, you ask? Remember that episode of "Friends" where it came out that Chandler has a third nipple? Yup. I've got one of those. It appeared this morning after I'd given CruiserDog a little walk in what has become the BAYOU that was once my backyard. Dallas has had more days of rain than I can count on two hands and that makes for some wicked mosquito breeding. Those little fuckers are apparently fucking and not practicing safe sex. So, yeah - one of those little babies made it's way down my shirt in my ample *cough* cleavage and made a feast of my porcelain skin. Needless to say, I've scratched it repeatedly during the day and now it is swollen and pink and kinda resembles the two little pillows on either side. Seriously, the thing is almost an inch across! And of course, I can't keep my hands away from it now. Nothing like reaching into one's shirt in public. I felt a little like one of those old men who can't keep their hands off their package when I was making my way down the aisles of the grocery store.

What else? Oh yeah, some of you have asked for a Boy Toy J story. Let me say that his schedule has changed recently so our time together is seeming more and more like we're having an affair instead of a relationship. It seems our time together doesn't even start until after 9:30 at night. I hate his job. Why oh why can't he have a regular 9-5 job with weekends off? But noooooooo. Grrrrr.

His last day off was Monday. Natch, I had to work and then go to one of my neighborhood association board meetings until about 8:30. He was at mi casa when I got home. Have I mentioned his ADHD lately? Yyyyeahhhhh, about that...... I got home and heard evidence of him before I saw it. He was sitting in his car, smoking a cigar, windows down, blaring something that he calls music. I call it metallic, grating, noise. Did I mention that I've got neighbors? Uh huh. My hackles were starting to stand at attention, but it was good to see him, since it had been several days since we'd seen eachother. He pointed out the stance I take when he's done something to irritate me and it made me giggle, which just pisses me off to no end. He stayed outside to finish his cigar. (at least the boy doesn't smoke those nasty things in my house)

Walk with me as I walk into my house, okay? I entered the kitchen area with no less than 3 cabinets open along with two drawers. This would be the kitchen equivalent of leaving the seat up in my book. Honestly, what's with that? He blames the ADHD. Is that really a symptom? Double grrrrr. I'm no Suzy Homemaker, but I do know to close a cabinet when I'm done with it. It's not so hard to do. Maybe he missed that day in school.

Then I hear music coming from the den. (Luckily, it was something from my collection). As I walk into the den, the television is also on - at the same time as the music. And Boy Toy J is outside? wtf?

It took some fast talking for J to get me to chill out, but we ended up having a fantastic evening and I got a great massage out of it. Bonus. He's so easy that way. Heh.

But I swear, I did not sign up to be his mommy, so this stuff is wearing thin. Do you have any advice for dealing with the un-medicated ADHD person? I hate for this to be a deal-breaker, and I'm not saying it is or isn't yet, but I've never known an adult like that. Seriously, I need advice on how to deal with this.

I saw a fantastic movie yesterday as it was raining (again) and any plans for the 4th of July were gone. It's running on the dish and it's probably 10 years old, but I'd never seen it. "Fear" with Reese Witherspoon and Mark Wahlberg. Oh wow. Is he hot or what?!?!? I don't know how this movie slipped past me the first time around. Dayum.

*excuse me, I have to scratch* *okay, I'm back*

Remember the girl I went to NYC with to see Kasim in December? Merv? Have y'all met? Anyway, she's in town this week and we're having a girls' night tonight. (My weekend begins officially when I finish this post.) There will be giggling and adult beverages. And absolutely no sleeping. Because that's how we gals roll, bro.

Hopefully, there will be something more interesting to write about than this post. Aw hell, there will be.....if I can only remember after killing the remaining braincells I've got left.

Soooo, I'm off to make some queso dip and apply a little benadryl to my nubbin.

Y'all have a great weekend, ya hear?