In that same vein, I'm hearing some murmurs about the provocative title of my little blog. Two points to note: Remember, it's a riddle. Not my fault if you're not brainiac enough to work it out. Also, of course it's provocative. It's supposed to be. Do you think someone would read B--'s Blog? Come on.
Went out last night. All in all it was set up to be a tame night. I was driving Beastie for one, which limits me to about two Coors Lights (Disclaimer to follow: I'm not a lightweight at all except when it comes to driving; they've just tightened the laws in Colorado, and it's just WRONG, folks.) Also, one of the party couldn't get a sitter. There is no bigger buzz kill than getting left at home with the kids when you've thought all week you were going out. You have my deepest sympathies. Third, they were playing live country music at the pub. Cute band but country music just the same. Again. Country at an Irish pub is just wrong.
But we had fun anyway. We had the "cute" waiter and he brought me iced tea with my coors without my asking, and without the usual accompanying snicker. If you don't drink Bass or Stella or Guinness at the pub you get some subtle snubbing. Usually those drinking the other sort: coors, bud, or God forbid, that low-carb crap, are usually too drunk to notice. But a girl's got to watch her figure, and one Bass puts me past driving limit. They have real pints there.
Anyway, my friend and I (prior acquaintances; now friends, methinks) had fun chatting away. She's one of those people who have the most exciting life and tons of stories. Fortunately, she's a good story teller too. One thing I've learned from blogs is that it's less about what happens than how it's told. I won't relate any of the stories here; don't want to ruin the movie. But anyway we had great fun.
No pick-up attempts, which was a relief. Of course I wasn't wearing the gay poncho. This summer I've worn this pretty ordinary black poncho and been picked up on by the fairer sex a few times. After 3-, ahem, several years of never being picked up by a girl it's a little disconcerting, though I'm getting used to it. The better half was with me every time (which served to add to the hilarity - we've been together since we were 19, for crissake!). Two thoughts about the girl-pickups occurred this morning. Maybe it's not so much me as the two of us. Maybe we look like that sort of couple. Or maybe he's more adept at subtle scamming than I thought. I'm about as subtle as Beastie Boy poetry, but I always go home to the same man each night so he seems ok with it. Also, he knows that while I might enjoy checking out the real estate, I'm not interested in even talking to the agent.
In other news:
The carpet guys did exactly the opposite of every special instruction I gave them. Top marks for consistancy.
Punkinhead is playing playdough and take-the-paper-off-the-crayons. Called me a "busthead!" (that translates to "fuckhead" in two-year-old venacular, if you didn't know) Bit her brother. Sprayed a juice box all over the kitchen. Not a good morning.
Ok, enough ramblings for this Saturday am. I've got 50 pages on the rough of the last book of the series left. Thought it might be best if I have more than a vague idea of how things turn out before I take money for the thing. Due to write later tonight. You'll know how far I got if there's another posting today or lots of comments (with an undertone of frustration) on your blogs.
ps Thats my new call-sign by the way. Took me a while to come up with one.