101% Rebel

First things first. Last night I had a fully realized Seth Cohen dream where I wore my mothers pearls, just like he asked me to, and I gave him a bath in vodka.

Ok, as previously mentioned My Dude and I were given the gift of a fabulous Arkansas getaway. No thanks to Mapquest and their bum directions, we arrived in time to enjoy a truly awesome Thanksgiving buffet at the truly awesome Crescent Hotel. There was much peel and eat shrimp as well as what can only be called Orgasm Potatoes. We both ate a lot, very, very quickly. Then we napped. Then we hit the bar. What’s that you say? It sounds like an evening spent at Chez Byrne? Well let me tell you, Arkansas does have one thing that Chez Byrne doesn’t have. No…it’s not a Confederate flag. I’ll get to that later. From the hotel veranda we could see Christ of the Ozarks presiding over the festivities. His tree trunk like arms spread wide, giving our drunkenness his blessing. Our God is truly an awesome God.

Then next day we made our way down to the precious hamlet that is Eureka Springs. Having never been there I learned a lot about Arkansas. First of all, they are really into the Confederacy. I mean really into the Confederacy. To the point where I saw vanity plates on cars that read Forget? Hell! Because Johnny Reb is alive and well in the Ozarks it is extremely easy to get your hands on any number of Mammy memorabilia. It’s also easy to get your hands on candles shaped like pieces of peach pie, but I’m not sure how that fits into the Confederate mythos.

Despite sticking to their belief that the South will indeed do it again, Arkansas in also rabidly supportive of the U.S.A. Never in my life have I been to a place that was so peaceful, beautiful, and welcoming, all the while thrumming with a barely concealed hostility that threatened to jump out of the mountains and rip out my spine. When we posed for pictures alongside the giant baby Jesus situated in the town square I felt it necessary to look at least a little pious for fear that I might incite some of the townsfolk. My Dude was not so cautious. He stuck to his tradition of offering cigarettes to all religious statuary. He did not, however, force simulated fellatio upon the Virgin Mother. Even bad taste has its limits.

There was very little shopping to be done. Ok, let me revise that. There is a fuckload of shopping to be done if you want Confederate memorabilia, Olde Tyme photos, quilts, taffy, knives, or Harly Davidson crap. If none of these things float your boat, then it’s an awesome place to eat and sleep in old, pretty hotels.


Tuff Enuff

I’ve never been in a fight: the punching, scratching, weave-pulling-out type of fight. I like to think that I’d be fists of fury if it came time for me to defend someone’s honor, but the truth is I’d probably freak the fuck out and start crying. Yet somehow I got this rep as being a tough girl. I’m assuming it came from the fact that I wore black all the time. That’s the only place it could come from since I spent all my time either stoned or reading. Ok, it was in high school but I’ve kinda clung to it, cultivated it you might say. Like, maybe if I acted tough then no one would fuck with me. Keep in mind that my idea of acting tough is looking over the top of my glasses. You’d be surprised as to how effective it is. Well, so far my genius method has kept the lions at bay. There’s been no recorded frontin’…well, ever. So I guess I’m doing something right then, eh?

Well, I never in a million years considered what could only be called internal frontin’. While years of schoolyard name-calling only served to strengthen my defenses, one Saturday night in a bloody bathtub stripped me to the bone.

Yesterday I found an ultrasound picture someone had left in his or her library book. My skin is very thin and apt to split at any moment.


The Business of Fancydancing

A friend, of mine who will be referred to as Derek, has been known in the past to strip down to his camouflage skivvies and perform at certain nightspots of the homosexualist persuasion. Until recently all of these performances have taken place far from Tulsa. Usually Mr. Halliwell acts as the muscle for these sojourns, but he usually ends up being chased from the bar after asking the owners woman for a blowjob. Needless to say, he’s not forthcoming with the details.

Well, after answering an ad in the paper Derek was ready to bring his taut abs to town. Let me first explain that every single one of Tulsa’s gay bars is in a nightmare part of town. Now, imagine if you will, the ghostly part of your city where you find all the guns and ammo type pawnshops or the Vietnamese Baptist Church that used to be a DX station, then you’ll have an idea of what 4th and Memorial is like. What’s at 4th and Memorial you ask? A skeevy little dive known as the End Up Club. I KNOW!! It might as well be called the Cum Dive Inn.

The End Up Club is scenically located in between a Jehovah’s Witness church and a shady all night chiropractor. Since this is Oklahoma, home of the archaic liquor laws, this place had no liquor license due to a prolonged struggle with ABLE. No liquor license means 3.2 beer. OUCH. It’s amazing how one can be so full of beer, yet so painfully sober. Due to this unfortunate lack of drunkenness I was woefully unprepared for the aforementioned fancydancing.

The first guy that came out was of some indeterminate Asian/African origin. He grooved Ok, but I was distracted by the giant rottweiller tattoo on his chest. Also, his song was about bringing it to the ladies, of whom there were two and I was one of them. I stuffed a dollar but was really put off by the freakish silkiness of his skin. As well as the fact that he rested a single ass-cheek on the table. I’m sure his flagrant girl flirting wasn’t going to win him any points with the man lovin’ men in the audience.

When Derek took the stage the place came alive. There was bumping, grinding, cheering, dollar stuffing; all of the things that come when your friends take off their clothes for money. I’m thinking of instituting a Strip Night at chez Byrne. We take all cummers.


The envelope please…

Let me begin by thanking each and every one of you who submitted entries to the Name My Kitten contest. Together we can make a difference. Last night after The O.C., which just keeps getting better, My Dude and I presented the names to the kitten and let him decide. I’m sad to say that the name he chose wasn’t on the list. He chose the name Trucky.

Now I don’t want to disappoint anyone so I’ve decided that Chino is going to be his baptismal name when he is inducted into the Church of What’s Happenin’ Now, as well as his screen name; CutieChino666@aol.com. I have to send mad props to Cati who apparently pays more attention to the things I like than I do.

Thank you again for your participation. Your services will be required should an actual child come along some day. As a side note wouldn’t life be funny if we were bound to the choices we made in childhood? If that were the case I’d be a crane operator who married her dad and had a child named Felicia.


Red Letter Day

Holy crap, if yesterday wasn’t a kick ass day, then I don’t know what is. First of all, as I mentioned previously, My Dude and I decided to take Thanksgiving off and kick it at Furr’s; home of the all you can eat starch buffet and meeting place for Tulsa area widowers. Sad I know, but where else is there to go for red Jell-O with Cool Whip on top? You can’t just order that anywhere. As it turns out my big, beautiful daddy is keeping an eye out for his little girl. Rather than allow us to spend the day at Furr’s, which is amazing since he and I have clocked more than a few hours in the buffet line, Dad decided that it was his fatherly duty to get Brian and I a room at this kick ass place in Eureka Springs. Apparently it’s haunted. Hopefully not haunted by dead Nazis or anything. This Thanksgiving it’s gonna be rockin’ with the spirit of the Byrnes.

Secondly, as I was floating on the bubble of the haunted hotel, I get home to find that My Dude HAS BROUGHT HOME A TINY GRAY STRIPY KITTEN!!!! Needless to say I am freaking out. I spent last night squeezing this l’il bastard and trying to think of a name. I also did a little referee action. Seems the other cats maybe aren’t so stoked. Whatever. After a couple of glasses of lambrusco, me and the kitty were getting comfy on the couch when my bosom chum Kelly called to tell me that Flowers in the Attic was on WE, the Women’s Entertainment channel. Even with all the incest edited out it is still the worst movie ever. My Dude summed it up best when he said, “This movie eats dick”. Truer words were never spoken.

Now, here’s where you come in. As you might know coming up with pet names can be daunting, unless you’re my mother in which case all pets are named Killer, Fang, or Simba. So I’m having a Name My Kitten contest. The prize is that my kitten is given the winning name. That’s cool, right? A little piece of yourself to like on, sleeping on my pillow and stuff. Please post your answers despite the fact that my comments box sucks almost as hard as the collected works of one Miss Cleo Virginia Andrews.

I reserve the right not to pick a winner if I come up with something better on my own.


He’s the one you don’t call Dr. Feelgood

When I heard the dulcet tones of Tears in Heaven, I knew it would not be a good trip to the baby doctor. Indeed it was not. I had to wait forever, but that’s to be expected. Once I got into the tiny room I saw that it was just like the big room in that they have nothing but Parents magazine and Child magazine. First of all, where’s my So, That Whole Being Pregnant Thing Didn’t Work Out magazine? Second of all, why the fuck did you call me in here, have me take off my pants, and leave me in here for forty-five minutes? Perhaps we’ll never know the answer to these questions.

When the doctor arrived I was unceremoniously poked and told I was fine. Ah, if it were that easy. I do believe it was a fine poking that brought the general shitty feeling that’s been lingering.

In other news my Dude and I have decided to take Thanksgiving off. I can’t abide the thought of dealing with my family right now so we’re going to Furr’s. If any of you happen to be in the greater Tulsa area and are looking to give thanks, you know where we’ll be. Ok, you might not but shoot me a text message and I’ll let you know.


Give a little bit of my life to you

Here's some professional quality photos of
  • Novemberween
  • . I'd love to have put them in a snazzy little photo album that said Good Times! or something, but let's face it, I'm having trouble keeping my hair washed these days. Since none of these pixxx have captions, I will provide a brief run down of the drunks in my house.
    * Me. I'm dressed as Veruca Salt. I wanted to go as Lady Who Just Had A Miscarriage but I couldn't get my creepy doll made in time.
    * My Dude. Sporting a hand-me-down poodle skirt, Brian is everybody's teenage queen. I don't know if you can see it, but he's just got a cool new jacket from his boyfriend in Korea.
    * Mat. Some people have a fake chainsaw. Some people will get what's coming to them.
    *Julie. This woman puts up with things that would try the most seasoned of kindergarten teachers. She's not a kindergarten teacher though.
    * Jon. He claims to be dressed as a chimney sweep, but I'm not entirely convinced.
    * Heather and Stephen. Stephen really went all out by making his own lederhosen and bringing his totally hot girlfriend to my house. That was super kind of him.
    * Tony and Emily had just come in from Tunica. Emily had to keep adjusting her fake gramma uterus all night. Tony had surprisingly firm gramma boobs. I guess that's what you get for being the Best Gramma in the U.S.A.
    *Jana. God bless her and her standard flapper outfit, even though I've still got feathers from that boa left over from the Lucky Lady.
    *Clayton and Macee. Clayton was celebrating his new Browns jersy. Macee was wondering why the fuck he brought her to a house filled with drunks.
    *Kelly. She's wearing a sexy bob wig, but her hair kinda looks like that anyway.
    *Michelle. Why is it that clothes that look good on her make me look like I'm playing dress up with mental patients?

    Hopefully that gives you a pretty good idea of the evening. To get the full experience keep a few things in mind:
    1. Everything was sticky. We were drinking sangria and I'm very surprised we all weren't covered in flies.
    2. Although it doesn't look like it, we all missed Sarah B. very much.
    3. At that same time one week prior, I was at the emergency room. Although you can't see it I was out of my skull. When they say don't mix painkillers with cheap sangria it's really just a suggestion.

    If you have any questions feel free to ask.


    Things that are good

    My kitties
    The red leaves in my front yard.
    Satan's Cheerleaders
    Seth from The O.C.
    The Outlander books
    Having a day off work (Thanks veterans, I only wish we could honor you hear as they do in England. I also wish it was still called Armistice Day)
    The distinct possibility of a new puppy
    The note I got from Sarah B., namely for the drawing of the sad girl.
    All of my bosom chums


    Look on up at the bottom

    Ok guys. A sleepless night punctuated by hysterical crying has told me that I'm maybe not as ok as previously mentioned. Please bear with me.

    In other news, I just ate a McGriddle and I'm ashamed to report that I heartily enjoyed it. That's what I get for living in a test market.


    Sometimes I don’t depend upon the kindness of strangers

    Working with the public as I do, it is amazing how quickly a person fails to see the good in people and focuses simply on the assholes that ruin everyone’s day. My mother taught me to be nice to everyone and I really think I’m doing her proud. Was everyone else’s mom just remiss here or what? Anyway, in light of recent events, or what I like to call Bloody Saturday, people have been amazingly…nice. I know all my bosom chums have been wonderful. My sis made the most tasteless jokes imaginable, chucking me on the cheek from across the Atlantic. Sarah was there with the girl time support and pet names such as Punkin’ and Buttercup. Hell, I even got a hug from her mom at Target last week. Jon was there when I really needed to share the gory details and he brought me a pocket size tool kit to boot. Mat gave me a hug and pointed out that I had indeed hit rock bottom, so I could only go up from there. And my sweet Dude was more amazing I could ever imagine. But the truth is I really expected all of these people to prop me up. I mean, shit, if they hadn’t then it would really be time to reevaluate some relationships.

    What warms my heart the most is all the well wishes I’d gotten from phantom and not so phantom internet people. C’mon people. We know that the internet is a wretched hive of scum and villainy, so it’s truly happy making when come from nowhere and tell me to stay gold. You guys, you know I make it my mission to always stay gold and I expect the same from you.


    Another day, another something

    I’ve managed to drag myself back to work and it’s really not that bad. For one I get to wear to cool new boots I got this weekend and for two I think I was beginning to develop bedsores. It is strange being back though. People are inquiring as to where I’ve been and part of me wants to tell them what I’ve been doing, but then again, maybe I won’t. No one wants to hear that and I don’t especially want his or her sympathy. Part of me wants to tell them just to see the horrified look on their face and know that I’ve made the terribly uncomfortable. But that would be using my misfortune for evil, and that’s not fair. I guess.

    I promise that I’ll write about something else soon, but I’ve been kinda preoccupied. Or I’ll just turn this into an “I lost my baby, now you get to hear all about my fertility problems and my mucus count and my ovulation schedule and how I pray to the baby Jesus each and every day that he’ll bless us with one of his little lambs.” Yeah, I think I’ll do that, just to see who my true friends are.


    You're gonna make it after all

    After laying on the couch for a week I became horrified by the smell of my own pajamas and was thusly forced from the couch. Friday night we walked across the street in order help Mr. Pingry celebrate his birthday. Although the times were as good as the homemade tamales, I soon had to return to my sofa of solitude and the sweet arms of my bridal quilt, which is sadly acquiring a suspicious smell of it's own. Perhaps that's what self-pity smells like.
    Saturday my sweet mommy came to town and took Brian and I out to lunch. I'm positive that nothing feels as good as my mother's cool hands on the back of my neck. We dropped Brian off so he could take part in celebrating bedlam football, then we shopped. Some people talk to their moms over coffee, some people scream at their moms. My mom and I shop together and talk about mother/daughter stuff. We talk about our men, we talk about our miscarriages, we buy cute blue quilted jackets and super soft gray hoodies. We talk shit about the republicans. When she left it was time to get ready for Novemberween.
    We'd been planning to have a halloween party for some time and as one might guess, there was some question as to whether or not the show would go on. Well, if anyone needed a party, it was me. So Brian whipped together some sangria and we welcomed our guests, many of whom were still drunk due to the aforementioned bedlam football. It was a small gathering, but the fun was strongly concentrated. As soon as I get the pictures back, I'll put together a delightful photo essay. Now I have to get back to the couch.
    Thank you for all the words of encouragement. I'm going back to the doctor tomorrow and hopefully all this crap will be over with.

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