The Friendly Skies

Last year I went to Colorado to visit my mom for her birthday; I had a nice trip but was ready to come home, as I missed my husband, my cats, the beach, and the 95 degrees of heat in Florida.   I was also f*cking exhausted.  I had spent the last 4 days hiking… and doing all types of outdoorsy shit.  Truthfully, the only kind of outdoorsy shit I like to do is sit my ass on the beach whilst drinking a rum runner. 

My mom drops me off at the airport and holds my hand as she walks me to the security check point.  Yes, I was 29 years old, and she held my hand like I was 4.  I have repeatedly tried to fight this in the past… but she never listens so I just concede and let her… We say goodbye…, she is teary eyed and gets me all choked up… fuck I hate this part. Finally she is on her way back to the car, and I on my way home.  

I grab some crappy airport Burger King breakfast and board the plane.  I was alone in my row, as the other two seats were empty (Oh happy day!) Nothing I like better than stretching out and reading during a flight.  I sit in my seat (window) and wait for takeoff.  Right before we begin to taxi down the runway the door re-opens to let some late arrivals’ on board.   I look up and see two of the largest women I have ever seen in my life step onto the plane.  Now I’m not being mean, these women were very overweight, and there was no way they would be able to fit into the seat comfortably…(for themselves or anyone sitting next to them).  I quickly look at the two seats beside me… and then back up at them.  “Please god…no”, I don’t know if I muttered that out loud or only in my head.  

What I do remember is the flight attendant stopping in front of my row and ushering them in.  Fucking great.  The younger one gets in first and sits right next to me, at that point I realize that one of her rolls isn’t a roll at all… but instead a new born baby, so new, and small that I couldn’t believe it was allowed on a plane.  I roll my eyes and try desperately to push myself into the far side of my seat… as her cup certainly ran over into about a third of my seat.  The very two things I try desperately to avoid sitting next to on an airplane (fatty’s and babies) were now sweating and breathing all over me.  Very funny Karma… you bitch.

The flight attendant walks over and ask's the women if they need anything before takeoff, they laugh, and say “oh no, we’re fine… the little one just loves to fly”… I give them a couple seconds to ooh and aahh over the baby, and then I say…

“Well, I’d like a new seat if there is one available”. 

The flight attendant (while giving me a chastising look) - "Unfortunately there aren’t any available "  

Me- “You didn’t even look”

FA- “I don’t need to, this flight is completely booked”

Me- “Fine, I need double Vodka and Orange Juice then… thanks” 

I get my cocktail after takeoff and slam it down immediately.  If I was going to survive this flight I needed to be medicated…one way or another.

The two women next to me kept talking and talking to each other and the baby.  I learned that they were mother and daughter, and that the baby was only 3 weeks old, and they were from Omaha.  Fucking Midwest…  I’m rather partial to the coast… sorry.

The baby started crying hysterically about fifteen minutes into the flight (she loves to fly my ass).  It was a high shrieking cry… that made my teeth grind.  I shot her mother a “can you please handle your kid” look, and ordered another double from the flight attendant. 

Well lucky for me the babies mom did handle the torturous crying, by feeding the baby… not from a bottle mind you…from her f*cking  gigantic milk filled breast.  It touched my arm, and the odor wafted through my nostrils.  

I immediately started sweating … wishing the plane would just go down, and end this bullshit.   What the fuck is wrong with people?   Bad enough you are taking up more of my seat than me… but now I have to endure your screaming child… and leaking tit, which I might add probably weighed more than me!  There is quite a difference in big nice boobs (which I have) and big disgusting national geographic boobs.  

I tried to meditate and mentally go somewhere more pleasant… however; the babies’ lip smacking and gurgling would constantly bring me back to my current hell.   I had to forgo the vodka, because I didn’t want to open my mouth… and let any of the contaminated air touch my tongue.

It was in fact the longest flight of my life.  We finally landed and my row was of course the last to leave the plane… once I was off of the plane I let out a big sigh, and stretched my cramped little body… In mid- stretch the lady with the baby comes up to me and says “It was nice flying with you”.   Are you fucking kidding me??!!  Nice?? It is was one of the worst experiences of my life!!  Deciding that punching her in her face I didn't even want to speak or look at this woman for another second, I just gave her a murderous look,  turned on my heel and walked away.  


 Next time I am so flying first class.

Hot Pursuit

Have you ever lied to your parents about your whereabouts, only to have the situation go so horribly wrong that you can almost hear your own eulogy? The lie actually tasted bad coming out of my mouth. “Yes, dad I’m only going to downtown West Palm Beach”.   I wasn’t the kind of kid that lied to my parents. Well not until I got a new car from my dad, and he suddenly adopted the belief that the only safe streets were the ones in my own neighborhood.    I was practically forced to lie, or else I would never get to drive anywhere other than school and work. 

I told my dad that I wouldn’t be too late and headed out. (That would be lie numero dos).   It was my senior year of high school, I felt like an adult, and downtown West Palm was sooo not adult.  Every high school kid in Palm Beach County frequented that area, and I felt like I was ready for bigger and better things….  


 I picked up my best friend Tiffany and we changed into our "real outfits" in the car before getting on the highway. (I know most girls know all about changing in the car, because if your parents saw what kind of sluty get-up you were really going to wear, you would be grounded for life.)

We were headed to this club in Fort Lauderdale called Baja. Those of you reading who know of this place, I will give you a second to stop cringing.  This club was advertised all the time on the radio stations, and sounded so awesome, plus a few people that we knew had been there and said that they weren’t so strict with the ID’s.  Now- a -days there is NO WAY I would go to a club that wasn’t “Strict” with ID’s, but back then that phrase was music to my ears.

We got into the club without incident, and proceeded to gyrate, and grind until the club closed.  It was 1998 and we shook our asses to such classics like “there’s some hoe’s in the house”, “shake that ass bitch and let me see what you got”, and let’s not forget the grandfather of all booty songs, Uncle Luke’s “Scarred”.   We left the club at 4am, covered in sweat, and reeking of spilled alcohol.  The sight of us would have done our parents proud. 

I was already calculating the probability of my dad grounding me.  I lived about an hour or so away from Baja, and I still had to take Tiffany home.  Oh well, I was already 

in trouble, and it wasn't like I could get into more trouble at this point, so I didn't worry about it.


I got onto I-95 and start the incredibly long journey back home.  I looked into the rearview mirror and commented to Tiffany that there was another set of headlights a ways behind me, and at least we weren’t the only people on the road at this hour.  I looked at the time, and then back into the rearview just in time to see the other pair of headlights slam into the back of my brand new car.  

We screamed, but I didn’t lose control of the car, we were okay and still driving, I slowed down, and started to pull off to the shoulder, when I saw the car fly by me.   I became incensed.

Me- “That mother fucker hit my new car, and now he’s trying to escape!”

Tiffany- “Oh my god, what do we do”

Me- “We fucking catch him, that’s what”

I immediately slam down on my gas pedal and my car shoots up to 100 miles an hour.  It might help if I mention that daddy had bought me a Camaro.  As I chase this guy on I-95 I pull out my cellphone and dial 911.

911- What’s your emergency?

Me- This son of a bitch just ran into the back of my car on 95 and is trying to run away

911- Is everyone okay? Do you need an ambulance?

Me- Yes were fine, I’m chasing the guy now, we are northbound passing Linton Blvd

911- Mam, you’re chasing who?

Me- The guy who hit me! He’s is trying to get away. You guys better hurry up.

I stayed on the phone with the 911 operator the entire way giving her turn by turn updates on my hot pursuit.   I followed this guy to his home. That’s right his home.  He pulled into the driveway and I jumped out of my car like a mad woman swearing at him, as about six cop cruisers pulled in lights and sirens blaring. 


 Now I want you to take a moment and picture the scene.  Its 4:30am, we are in a gated community, and I am dressed like a prostitute screaming at this man for hitting my car…as we are surrounded by police cars...  Exactly, a hot fucking mess.

Bet you can’t guess what happens next…  The police inspect the front of his vehicle, and don’t see a freaking scratch.  Apparently I had chased down the wrong vehicle. 


I wanted to fucking die right at that moment.   I point my finger at the cop and say that,  somebody hit my car and ran away, and that they had to find him.  I’m sure that hit and runs happened all the time, but this was my first.... everything.  My first car, my first accident, my first hit and run, my first car chase… in my head the situation was so much more important than it  was in real life.  I half expect the helicopters with search lights to fly around looking for this person who hit me.

The cop began to tell me that there was nothing he could do, when a call came in that someone had reported being involved in an accident.  The caller could not recall if they had hit someone, or had been hit.  The cop tells us to follow him to the scene, so we do. 

At the scene there is this Dodge Neon that is smashed up on the side of the road. The driver was on a stretcher as he was highly intoxicated and severely hurt.   The police officers checked the paint on the back of my car and it matched his car, so there it was...case solved.    

Only thing was that it was now 6am, and my dad was going to murder me, I had done so much wrong that he could murder me twice. (Kind of like a double life sentence).
 I eventually called my dad and told him the story minus, the part about being in Fort Lauderdale, being in a real club,  and my high-speed chase on I-95.   He told me to come home immediately, and asked if I was okay.. 


I thought I was so slick , and maybe able to get away with it, until he asked for a copy of the police report  so he could  call insurance. .. Apparently they have to put location of accident on the report..as well as my statement which specifically mentioned clubbing in Fort Lauderdale.... yes I was grounded until I graduated.  

Golf Gone Wrong

A couple of years ago my friend Sandy and I decided to join a women’s golf clinic.  It’s not like we are avid golfers or anything, as matter of fact we really stink.   Golf also really isn’t our “thing”. Think about it, prior to Tiger, golf was known as an “old man sport”, and there certainly isn’t anything appealing about a bunch of old men wearing funny pants, chasing a tiny ball across acres.

I joined this clinic for two reasons:  The first reason is that a coworker’s wife was the one starting it, and I felt kind of pressured.  Secondly, I figured it would be something different, and constructive to do with my spare time, plus I was super pumped about wearing little plaid shorts and knee socks!  Sandy joined because I begged her too.

We had completed a few golf sessions, and had an okay time, but it felt as if something was missing.   Ahhh yes, cocktails. Now don’t go getting on your high horse or anything, and judge me.  I’m not an alcoholic by any means. I just believe some activities are more fun with a cocktail in hand; i.e. golf.

We discussed our idea with the other ladies in the clinic, and found that we weren’t the only ones who felt this way. We all agreed that it would defiantly improve our game, and if it didn’t it would make the experience a little more fun.  We had begun “cocktailing” every week on the golf course, the golf clinic had become so much more fun, and my game had even improved a bit. 

One week in particular however things went horribly wrong.  It began like any other day that I had golf clinic.  I went home after work, changed into one of my get ups, and headed to the liquor store.  I was always so embarrassed when I went into the store to buy the tiny little bottles of Vodka.  I feel like the tiny bottles just screams drunkard.  I always felt the need to explain to the clerk, that I was on my way to golf and these fit into the golf bag better, but I’m sure he thinks they are in my purse and I drink them straight up at work… oh well can’t win them all.

I show up at the course… walk in the back, mix my drink, and jump into the golf cart with Sandy.  I should note that while I bought the tiny bottles of vodka, Sandy brought a liter.  Yes she sure did and placed it right into the cup holder in the cart.  I’m sure the real golfers looked at us with pure disgust as we zoomed by them in our vodka mobile.  Now this is how I remember the next part.  I was golfing, yada yada yada, we ran out of cran-apple juice, yada yada yada, and then I woke up in my bed at home the next morning.  No lie, that’s exactly how the memory (or lack off) goes. 

I woke up a little confused, as I was in my pajamas, and I smelled really good like my soap and shampoo. 

I looked over at the clock; it was 6:30 am. I closed my eyes and tried really hard to remember what happened… Nada.   My husband was in the shower, so I leaped out of bed, and ran towards the windows in the front of the house.  I looked out and let out a sigh of relief.  Okay, the car was here and parked remarkably well in its parking spot.   Huh, well I made it home safely, parked the car properly, and managed to shower… hmmm I couldn’t possibly have been that hammered.  I was headed back into the room to get ready for work, when I thought I should just double check with Sandy before I went in pretending like I knew what happened the night before in front of my husband.  God Forbid I was wrong.

Me:  Hey Sandy, you up?

Sandy:  Yeah, how you feeling?

Me: I feel fine why?

Sandy: what do you mean why?

Me:  Ummm I don’t remember what happened.

Sandy: Nothing?

Me:  Was I hammered? How did you let me drive home?

Sandy:  OMG, Yes you were super hammered. I don’t know what happened it just hit you all of a sudden, and I didn’t let you drive bitch, I drove you home. You couldn’t even drive the golf cart anymore.

Me: What I was that hammered?? What did I do? Wait if you drove me home how did my car get home? Did one of the other girls bring it?

Sandy:  Umm you almost threw up on Dean (our golf pro), and no your husband drove it home.

Me: Fuck my Life.

Sandy: Good Luck Babes, I’ll talk to you later.

I felt so sick to my stomach after I hung up the phone.  I looked at my bedroom door like a death row inmate looks at the electric chair.  He was going to freaking kill me. 

I walked in smiling, even though I felt a sudden wave of nausea.   Let’s just say it wasn’t pretty.  I tried to explain that I didn’t know what in the world happed, that got me so bombed.   My body chemistry must have been off that day or something, and that I was really sorry.

He said he wasn’t really mad, as he was sure I learned my lesson from the amount that I threw up. (I had no clue what he was talking about, but agreed anyway).  I assumed at this point that the vomiting probably didn’t go well, which led to my shower and the reason why I didn’t feel sick or hung over this morning was because I had been in bed and passed out since 7:30pm.         

                                                                                                                                                     

Golf clinic ended shortly after, and Sandy and I haven’t stepped foot onto a golf course together since.  We doing our drinking now a days in controlled environments that we are familiar with, like bars.  

CELL BLOCK 5

When most people look back at their 21^st birthday celebration, it’s memorable for one of the following reasons:

1.       You can’t remember it, meaning you obviously partied yourself into a blackout.    

2.       You ended the night wrapped around the toilet promising your first born to whomever made the room stop spinning.

My 21^st however, was memorable because I spent that evening at the Orange County Jail, as an inmate.  Now I’m sure the first thing that comes to your mind, is drunken disorderly conduct or something exciting like that right? Well, no it wasn’t anything that cool.  My situation was total bullshit and I’m still rather salty about it today (9 years later).

My friends and I decided to celebrate my 21^st at Universal Studios Halloween Horror Nights in Orlando.  For those of you who don’t know what that is, I suggest you Google it, as its freaking awesome.  For those of you too lazy to Google, I will quickly explain.  Basically, Universal Studios becomes a haunted theme park, complete with psycho’s chasing you with chainsaws, haunted houses, and lots of alcohol. 

Once inside the park, I make a beeline for the first “beverage cart”, and order myself a Long Island Ice Tea.  I proudly present my License which shows that I am 21, and that it was my birthday.   The bartender winks and me, makes my drink extra strong.    I take a sip, and hand it to my friend Marc to taste, who then hands it to my friend Alf to taste.  They agree that Mr. Bartender did a good job.  No sooner that we finish these sentiments a large man comes up to us and asks for ID.  I ask him who he is as he is dressed in regular clothing with nothing signifying any sort of authority at all,  he quickly flashed me his badge, and I handed over my license. 

The officer then announces that we have a problem, even though I am 21 my friends were not, and I was providing them with alcohol.  I just stared at him in disbelief.    He must have thought I didn't hear him from the blank look on my face, so he repeated himself, and led us to the behind the scenes section that served as the security headquarters.  It was back there that I met the most evil bitch of woman cop ever.  What is it with women cops that they feel the need to prove themselves by being meaner and “tougher” than anyone else?  It’s like get over it, you don’t have a cock, god made you a girl.   Maybe that’s why bitter women like that become cops, it’s the only way they’ll really get to fuck somebody… just saying.

Anyway she takes our ID’s makes us sit while she runs them.  She informs us that we will be thrown out of the park, and not able to come back for one year.  I’m so furious at the whole situation.  It was ridiculous, I didn’t buy them booze, they had a sip… now were getting kicked out, banned, and the rest of my friends have no idea where we are or what happened to us.  Now this was back in 2000, we didn’t have cell phones.  I mean yes they were invented, no most of us didn’t have one, as we were poor, in college, and they were so expensive then.  I had no way to get it touch with my other friends, and tell them to leave, so we could go party somewhere else.  For all I knew they were in line for a haunted house and wouldn’t even realize we were gone for a few hours.   My birthday was fucking ruined, and I was devastated.  

It was at this moment, as I was wallowing in self-pity,  that the bitch looks at my license, and following ensued.

Cop- “This doesn’t look real”

Me-“Well it is”

Cop- “ I don’t think so, you don’t look like you can be 21”

Me- “Well I am”

Cop- “If this license comes back as a fake you’re fucked”

Me- “Fuck you and run the goddamn thing then, you already ruined my fucking birthday what more do you want”.

Now my friends it was that last sentence that sealed my fate.  I stood up when I said that, and was immediately put back into the seat and handcuffed.  Apparently the authorities don’t like it when you use profanities at them, while standing up.  Perhaps I looked threatening.  I mean I was all of a hundred pounds, wearing a tiara, and tank top that said “Angels Exist” with wings on the back.  Not to mention the glittery make up and fake lashes I donned for my big birthday.

I sit cuffed to chair hysterically crying.  I really believe the saying “FML” was invented right then and there.

The bitch comes back from running my license and says that there is good news, and bad news.

Good News- My license was real, and it was in fact my birthday.

Bad News- My license was suspended, and it’s a crime to carry a suspended license on your person, which is punishable by a max of one year in jail.  She was placing me under arrest.   Yes you read that correctly.  Believe me I can’t make this shit up. 

I immediately throw the biggest tantrum ever.  I argued that I wasn’t driving, I used my license as identification, and I knew it was suspended because I didn’t have the freaking $300 to pay my speeding ticket.   Obviously she didn’t care.

I continue the waterworks and hysteria as I am being placed in the back of the police car.  I look out the window and see my new boyfriend (now husband) talking to the police.  Thank God someone knew what was happening to me; hopefully I get bailed out quickly.

Obviously I had no clue that for some fucking reason it takes like 4 hours to book you, before a bond is even set!  I was in the holding cell with a pregnant prostitute, and a lot of scary looking girls.  I just sat in the corner and cried.

They made me take of my tiara for the mug shot of course, and while I was out there the men prisoners who were in a separate holding cell began whooting and hollering at me.  Oh my god it was awful.  All I heard as I was escorted by was “psst psst, hey girl, hey girl”.  Really?? What the fuck is wrong with people?  Maybe the handcuffs turned them on... weirdo’s.

As I’m sitting in the holding cell this male corrections officer starts to talk to me.  He says that I don’t look like I could have done anything that bad, and asked for the story.   I tell him my sad story, and he seems amused by me.  He left and went and checked on my bail.  He said it was set at $500, and my friends had not posted it yet, but not to worry that he was sure they would leave me in jail.  He also said that I was beautiful and if he was my boyfriend he wouldn’t have let this situation happen to me.  Now we had completely gone into creep land. I promptly shut my mouth and stared at the wall, contemplating how I was the one behind bars, and the future “Charles Manson” was guarding me.  WTF.

The rest of my jail time went like this:

•   Getting checked for lice, horrible   
•   Being forced to shower, with pregnant prostitute and scary girls.  I don’t even have to words to describe how horrible and traumatic that was.
• Changing into my XXXL jumpsuit, with size 16 flip flops.
•  Being assigned to Cell Block 5
•  Having pregnant prostitute ask me for my bologna sandwich.  (which I gave up immediately)     
• Witnessing a large black woman take a nasty shit in the middle of cell block 5, as that is where the only toilet was.

Basically, it was the worst fucking night of my life.  I got released @ 7am once my posted bond had processed.  I call my boyfriend to pick me up, and wait outside of the jail.   Oh, and the future Charles Manson was there waiting with me.  His shift was over at 6am, but he stayed around to "make sure I was okay."   Seriously FML. 

I saw my boyfriend’s car roll up and broke out into a sprint and never looked back.  Happy Fucking Birthday to Me! 

THE EVIL MIDGET

 Now I’m not one to judge people, or be mean to someone based solely on how they look… alright who am I kidding, I completely do.  However, not being friendly to someone because they  were born with a set of unfortunate circumstances, is completely different than not being nice to the creep in the corner, who keeps showing you his toothless grin. That being said, there was this horrible midget who worked at the Publix near my home in high school.   For those of you who don’t know, Publix is the best grocery store ever.  They also contribute to the community by hiring all the freaks, which are otherwise unemployable. 

Now back to this midget.  He looked like Beetle Juice, a famed member of Howard Stern’s “Wack Pack”, in other words he was utterly hideous.  His grotesque outward appearance is not the reason why I have this deep dislike for him, no he seemed to have a personal vendetta against me.  This little fucker and I basically had a full out war going on.

It began when my dad sent me to Publix to pick up a couple of things for him. No problem, Publix was literally down the block.   I believe I was in the bread isle when I saw this little creature following me just staring.  I mean he didn’t even pretend to be adjusting the items on the shelf or anything.  He was just at a dead stop in the middle of the isle staring at me.  I mean I know I’m good looking but really??

 I just ignore him and go about my business.  It was in the next isle where he approached me.  He came up to me and asked if I needed help finding anything.  I politely told him I was all set and headed towards the register. He rushed to bag my items, which consisted of bread, laundry detergent, and fabric softener.  I maintained my polite smile and thanked him.  Then he asked if I needed help out to my car, again I told him I was okay and reached for my bag.    Would you know that the little bastard grabbed my bag out of my hand and said he was going to have to carry it out for me whether I wanted him to or not. I immediately snatched my bag back and told him that really I was fine, and rushed out the door.  Of course I saw his creepy little ass staring at my car as I drove away.

I avoided Publix for about a week.  I figured by this time it was safe, as he probably had a short memory span and would forget all about the “incident”.  I had even begun to convince myself that I had over reacted, and almost felt like apologizing… almost.   This time I went with my sister.   In the car she was telling me about the creepy midget that works there that followers her through the isles, I couldn’t believe it! I quickly told her about my encounter as we pulled into the parking lot. 

We had made it through most of the store before we saw him.  We quickly ducked out of the isle he was in and headed towards the register.  He saw us and rushed to bag our groceries. The whole time he kept saying “oohh you guys are sisters” over and over again… such a creep.    This time we had a lot of stuff so we needed a cart, and he pushed the cart out for us. Look, it’s not like we had a chance in hell of him not pushing it out.  He had a tight grip, and wouldn’t let go.

We get to my car and my sister hops in and locks the door.  Bitch leaves me out there to fend for myself with the midget.  Look if he was full size he would have been a creep. The fact that he was a hideous midget made it creepier.   He kept muttering to himself, and to tell you the truth, I couldn’t make out what in the hell he was saying to me. I just wanted him gone.   When all the groceries were in the trunk this little bastard stands in front of my car door so I can’t get in.   At this point I lose it.  I tell him to “move his fucking midget ass away from my door, and get the fuck away from me.”  Needless to say I pissed the little bastard off.  He moved away from my car and called me a bitch. 

I got in and began to drive out of the parking lot when that evil fuck pushes the cart into my car.  A brand new Camaro, I probably had it a month.  I swear it took everything I had not to turn his ass into a half size speed bump that day.  I did however shoot him the bird.

Now here is where things just get ridiculous.  I get home and am furious about my car, so furious that I decide I’m calling the store and letting them know what kind of psycho-path they have working for them.  I get the manager on the phone, and tell my story.  Do you want to know what this fucker told me??  He said “Well honey two wrongs don’t make a right”.

What the fuck just happened here.  He said that he was told by the midget that I had used derogatory language towards him, and the cart slipped from his grip.  The manager was actually lecturing me about calling him a midget and flipping him the bird. I felt like I was in the Twilight Zone.

The conversation ended when I told the manager to “keep the fucking midget away from me, because next time I would run him over. "

Needless to say I didn’t go to that Publix again, until about a month later.  My dad had dropped of a prescription there and needed me to get it. I told him I didn’t want to go because of the midget, and he told me to grow up and just go pick up the prescription. 

I made my sister go with me; no way was I facing that bastard alone.  I prayed for him to be off the entire ride to the store.  We get there rush to the pharmacy, no line, no midget.  Things were looking good.  Hopefully this would go off without incident…wrong.   I pay, head out of the store and back to my car.  We get in the car and start laughing, at how nervous we were about this stupid little midget.  We must have been so distracted that we didn’t notice him in the parking lot collecting the carts.

I remember starting the car and looking up to see him standing in front of my car making obscene pelvic thrusting gestures at us!  We scream, I panic, throw the car into reverse and hit the gas so hard that I nail the pick-up truck parked behind me.  Now the midget is walking towards us, so I just throw it into drive and leave. 

We get home, I’m hysterical, and not laughing hysterical either.  We get in the house and try to collect ourselves.  There really wasn’t much damage to my car, just a scratch. I was sure the truck was unharmed.    About 10 minutes later there is policeman standing outside my door, asking for me.

I confess, I tell him the midget scared me and I panicked.  He didn’t believe me.  He said that the bag boy I was referring to took down my tag number and gave it to the owner of the truck when he came out… By the way, the owner of the truck was a police officer! There was no damage, but thought I should be taught a lesson.  Really???????

I haven’t been back to that store since that day, and I hope Mr. Midget get attacked by a pack of Pit Bulls or something. 

SEAFOOD FEST -- Part 1

Ah Seafood Fest, fried food, sun, sand, alcohol, and music.  This  recipe either resulted in a great day , or epic disaster.   I had never been the annual Pompano Beach Seafood Fest, so I jumped at the opportunity to spend the day on the beach listening to the bands and drinking rum runners with my new friend Sandy.   I threw on a bathing suit, a cover up, gave my husband a kiss and headed out the door, it was noon.

We arrived at the fest and promptly made our way to the rum runner stand. Five minutes in and we were already enjoying a tasty beverage.  We milled around for about an hour bullshitting, looking at the vendor’s booths, and basking in the sun while having several more rum runners. 

Now here is where our fatal mistake was made.  We were feeling euphoric, enjoying the buzz... and we completely forgot that perhaps we should eat.  

Ladies and gentlemen this is the crucial point where an innocent fun outing, makes that sharp right turn and drags you kicking and screaming down the path of debauchery.  If only we could recognize when the shift happens, and save ourselves by eating a god damn sandwich or something… but no it never ever works out that way.  I believe the conversation went like this. 

Sandy- “You Hungry?”

Me-“No, I’m tipsy… perhaps another rum runner?”

Sandy- “Sounds delicious”

And so it begins.  I can’t really tell you how many of those delicious little concoctions we had… I mean after 4 does it really make sense to keep count.  I do know that we grew bored with the fest, and decided to go to a friend’s home for a BBQ.  To this day I’m not sure if we were invited or if we just showed up, anyway what I am sure of is that there were no hotdogs or hamburgers, at said BBQ, but there was plenty of alcohol.

We did partake in several Patron shots there. Which makes me dry-heave just thinking about it.  I don’t like tequila; I mean who really likes it? Everyone makes the hate face after taking a shot and the burning in your chest…well it just isn’t comfortable.   I’m sure someone egged me on, and I had to prove that I can “drink like a man” when I really can’t.  I mean who am I fooling? I’m a small person.  It isn’t physically possible to “drink like a man”; however I was well past scientific reasoning at this point.   I believe some bad off beat “white girl” dancing ensued, I’m not even sure if there was music.  Thank god for the Patron Blur.  I’m quite sure if I could remember this part clearly I would still be sitting in a hole of shame today. 

A normal human who had all their senses about them would have called it quits at this point and taken their drunken ass home… but again we were both beyond reason and fresh out of any sense, so we moved on to the next location. 

We get to Bru’s Room, and completely lose our minds.  The DJ was playing “Party like a Rock Star” as we were walking in, and we both began putting our best gangsta out there. (We swore he played that song just for us) Good God I was completely “that girl”.  Wearing my bathing suit, and cover up…hair all fucked up and sweaty....my little arm in the air, while singing at the top of my lungs.   I know, keeping it classy like always.   

Of course at this exact moment Sandy’s brother (whom I’d never met before) walked in with his date.  Apparently Sandy had managed to send of a few legible texts while we were en route, so our audience consisted of strangers, as well as people we would have to see again... great. 

  

Not only did she text her brother, but she texted the loath of her life.  I’m sure all the alcohol made her forget that he was the loath of her life.  You know drunken texting at its best.

Now its gets really blurry here, but I believe we drank and acted like fools until the bar we were at closed, and we had to relocate to an after-hours shit hole.   Sandy’s brother being the most sober out of the group made the great decision and ordered us some food. Finally, after over 13 hours of drinking I ate.  I’m positive that the sight of me eating wasn’t pretty, as basic motor skills were too much for me at this point.  I’m not sure how that whole hand to mouth motion worked out for me.  

I remember eating the shrimp... then waking up in my car in the parking lot with the sun rising. I smelled like ass, and knew I was in too much trouble with my husband to even think about.  I said a quick little prayer thanking god for keeping me safe, and out of jail that evening.

As sick as it is to say, this debacle not only landed me in the dog house for a few days with my husband, but brought my friendship with Sandy to a whole new dangerous level.  I had found my partner in crime.