Been there, done that, was at the funeral.

This past weekend, at Tommy's (the same night as The Riding Crop), Stan  I were sitting at the corner of the bar talking to a couple of people. It was towards the end of the night, so we both had good buzzes going. When Stan & I get going, we can egg each other on in the worst ways possible. Okay, generally I'm the enabler, spurring him on. It's rare that I'M the one causing the trouble.

So were were chatting with a few other guys, one of whom is a little bit of a stalker. I can't recall exactly what prompted it (my mind was fuzzed by multiple Stoli & Tonics) but in reference to my stalker, I literally said "Been there, done that, was at the funeral." I think there was an actual audible gasp from Stan, but I could be wrong. At the very least, I know he gave me a look that said "I can't believe you had the balls to say that within earshot."

In order to preserve any remaining sense of dignity I have, I won't go into detail, other than to say that while I am amazed I used this line, I am NOT proud by the back story.

But dear god. it was a funny line.

Houston, we have a problem. Yes, but we have a riding crop

This past weekend, we went to a bar party. Long story short, it was supposed to be a Bear Run (newbies can google What is a Bear Run) that got cancelled due to some massive fuck uppery by the douche bag who was supposed to be organizing it. Rather than call it off, the bar owners (our friends Frank & Chris) decided to just have a party at the bar for whoever could make it. So there we were, 50 or so bears hanging out, drinking & chilling.

A bunch of us (Punk & I, Stan, Stamford Steve, Joe C. & The Maldens) were there. Side note - this crew (plus Randy & Jason, Stan's hubby Steve, and a few others) is the main "Juice Box Journals" crew. Any time we get together, in whole or in part, you can be sure trouble, chaos and maybe the apocalypse are soon to follow. Stan, Stamford & Randy are, in particular, a dangerous trio.

So we had all caught a pretty good buzz, and were off chatting with different people. Suddenly, and I'm not exactly sure when, where or how, Stamford had a riding crop in his hand. Now I know it's his (Stan teaches horse riding, and introduced riding crops to our group years ago. They show up all too frequently), but he should NEVER be allowed out in public with one. Especially when drunk. He'll start out gently swatting people on the ass with it, but will inevitably forget his own strength & start smacking the shit out of some unfortunate soul.

Luckily, Stan somehow got the crop away from Stamford. Keeping it out of Stamford's hands was paramount, but it didn't mean that we couldn't have fun with it.

...Aaaannnnnnd this is why I'm fat.

Did I mention that Punk is a chef? He's owned/run his own restaurant (The North End) for over 20 years. There's almost nothing he doesn't know how to cook, and cook wonderfully - and I've benefitted/suffered because of it. So this morning, as I'm finishing walking on the treadmill (walking off last night's delicious BLT's), he sticks his head in and says "I feel like making something." This is a common sentence in our home. When I say it, you know there's a pitcher of cocktails in our immediate future. When Punk says it, something tasty (and usually sweet) is on the horizon.

[caption id="attachment_131" align="alignleft" width="360" caption="Are they as good as they look? Fuck yeah."][/caption]

This mornings concoction? Cupcakes. Not just cupcakes, but Key Lime Curd Filled Lemon Cupcakes with an Italian Buttercream Frosting. I came downstairs to see the kitchen aid whirring, and Punk boiling the sugar for the Italian buttercream. I've been with him long enough to know that "You are insane" is not the thing to say when he's in a baking mood. Because do the two of us really need 2 dozen cupcakes? If I mention that, he will inevitably respond with "You didn't get that way from looking at it, douchebag."

Here's the thing. He's used to cooking "restaurant scale". I'm not sure if he's even capable of cooking for two anymore. A Pasta dinner for the two of us will involve a pound of pasta, a dozen or so meatballs and a full loaf of Italian bread. During the week, I'm a hero at work for the amount of leftovers I bring in.

So yes, I blame my husband for the 40 pounds of weight I need to lose. If he was a shitty chef, I'd be much thinner. But then again, if he was a shitty chef, I wouldn't be noshing on this fucking awesome cupcake right now, trying to decide just what cocktail would best complement them...

 

Edit: After much experimentation, it was determined that Cosmos were the best complement. But then again, I say that to a lot of things.

It was Amityville Horror, without the pig.

We were away this past weekend. Technically we were up at our friend Rich's house camping, but the weather was so ungodly hot that we refused to sleep outside. So I don't think you can call it camping if we slept in the air conditioning. But that's not the point. The point is what happened in our house while we were gone.

Flies. I got a text from Viv (who had crashed at our house Saturday, since she & Rob are in the middle of a bathroom redo) telling me that she killed a shitload of flies. I assumed she was exaggerating.

A little backstory. We always seem to have about a dozen or so flies in our house. I'm not sure why, we just do. It's a constant annoyance. As fucking gross as it is, I've sort of (and this sentence is horrifying to write) become immune to them. So when Viv texted that she killed flies, I just shrugged it off.

Then we came home.

I kid you not, when we walked in the house it was like that scene in Amityville Horror where the window is filled with flies. The frenchwood doors in our back hall had probably a dozen flies flitting around. Okay - kind of weird. But then we started to look at the other windows. They ALL had flies bashing their dumbs fly heads against the glass.. Vivian was NOT exaggerating. She even left the mini vacuum cleaner out to show all the flies she sucked up. There were dozens trapped, flying in and around the dog hair & rug lint. It was one of the grossest things I've ever seen. Punk & I spent the next two hours, two fucking hours, killing, vacuuming & in general, just getting rid of flies. It had to have been over 100. Fucking disgusting. The only thing we can surmise is they came in via the garage, because we had a garbage can that, as it turns out, had some shit in there, and we wound up with maggots. In the explosive heat we've had over the last few days, we think the fly population exploded like 9 months after woodstock.

That was several days ago, and I'm happy to report that we have the fly population mostly under control. But it was a close call for a while there. I swear, if I had seen one set of glowing red pig eyes, I'd have called for a priest.

I posted what?

So THAT'S the danger of posting not just buzzed, not just drunk, but seriously fucked up. I have almost no idea what those two posts were meant to say. Well, that's not completely true.

Bitches laying sown is obviously a reference to the fact that everyone who was sleeping over last Friday/Saturday AM was finally going to bed.

I stopped all my heRy medications just for this weekend was a (poorly) typed quote from Randy - "I stopped all my heart medications just for this weekend."

The background. We had our big summer party this weekend. I mean big - probably 100-125 people over the course of the day. Luckily, we've got some great friends who come down the night before to help with the final set up - cooking, cleaning, getting shit set up, etc. This also becomes, as Joe put it - the unofficial party before the party. It's a chance for Punk & I to party without having to really worry about socializing. Everyone there that night knows the house, and each other well enough that we can just have fun - no small talk needed. It's a well earned pre-party party. Did I mention a lot of them stay over? By a lot I mean we had (including Punk & I) 16 people staying over - it was like an air mattress factory exploded. But damn we had fun.

But there's a moral to the story - when posting drunk, try & at least add a sentence or two, so I don't forget what the fuck I'm posting about.

Oh, and the party? It was.... epic. A huge crowd, great food, lots of cocktails & shots, great fireworks and a lot of laughter.



Then there was the end, when we had a rapidly escalating series of dramas - attempted theft of 2 laptops (and the fucker succeeded in getting an iPod), someone peeing in a tent and, I kid you not, explosive diarrhea in the garage. Really people?

No one else wants a slice of Lemon Cake?

(Followed by, in the highest imaginable sing song soprano voice)  Randy: It's going to be delicious!



The cake is, ironically, the leftovers. The best part of being married to a chef is, obviously, the food. ITake breakfast. I can get up 45 minutes before he does, get coffee going, start frying bacon, get everything laid out, and he will come down, revise the menu, and, I kid you not, 5 minutes later an amazing brunch is ready. He is that good.

But back to the cake. Punk will go through phases. Cakes happen to be something that he's into making recently. But he doesn't make a box cake. It's a 4 layer extravaganza with an italian buttercream frosting, complete with piped roses & decorations. FOR THE TWO OF US.

So dessert was leftovers. For dinner (Punk & I, Randy & Jason, Joe, & Rena), he made Grilled BBQ Chicken, Corn on the Cob, Pasta Salad, Caprese Salad, and House Made French Fries (splashed w/ Fluer de Sel). I'm generally smart enough to stay out of the kitchen when he cooks. My place is, obviously, the bar.

Tonight, at the bar, we had 2 specialty drinks available. Black Currant Cosmos (my choice), or Fresh Strawberry & Pineapple Frozen Daiquiris, Almost everyone else chose that. More cosmos for me.......