Hells Yea I'm Fabulous

Sunday has always seemed well deserving of the title "Sunday Fun Day". For me and my "industry" friends, Sundays are usually the start of our party, because we all work at bars over the real weekends. This Sunday was no different. The day began with mimosas and bloodies at Lulu's and took off from there. After consuming all of the champagne and vodka that our bodies could (at least that's what our waitress said) we left Lulu's and headed down to River Street to indulge in the multiple flavors of frozen drinks at Wet Willies.

The weather was such a change from Friday and Saturday, so we couldn't resist driving the convertible to the beach and continue our day full of booze. After sucking down raw oysters and a few shots, it was time to hit downtown yet again. By the time we reached City Market our buzz was in full swing, and what better way to keep it going then attending a drag show at Club One; free admission, free pool, and men dressed as women!

We all exchanged twenties for singles and perched our sloshed selves at a table in the front row. Another round of drinks and shots were order just as the the lights dimmed. Men dressed up in bold colors, big wigs, and tacky jewelry flooded the stage while belting out Shakira. The strobe lights and disco balls were in full swing, making it hard for me to distinguish if the lights or the performers were more colorful.  All different shapes and sizes of drags took turns at center stage, including a massive blog of sparkles, studs, and stars shaking both Cindy Lauper and the floor boards.  The strobe light kept up with the beat, as did the consumption of our drinks.  

Before I knew it, the stage was empty of cross dressers and all that was left on our table was teetering towers of glasses.  This meant it was time for a refreshed cocktail, so I picked up my wallet and headed towards the bar.  Most of my friends looked a bit too tipsy for another shot, so I only bought two shots of Jack, one for myself and the other for Tara, my coworker.  Tara knew by the look on my face that the other shot was her's so she proceeded to stand up and walk toward me.  She was only about two feet away, with arms outstretched, when her four inch platforms gave way, causing her to loose balance.  My hands were full with drinks so I couldn't reach to help her from  hitting the floor.  She simply reached toward me, missing my arms, and grabbed ahold of my yellow tube dress.  

Tara never hit the floor, nor did the drinks, what fell was my dress.   Standing there for a split second, breasts exposed, drinks in hand, I found myself confused.  Drop the drinks and grab my dress, or chug the shot then pick up the dress.  I chose the later.  Just as I slammed the Jack and returned my dress to its rightful place, a bouncer walked up to me.  He wasn't happy and told us we had to leave immediately.  I knew not to ask why.  I choose to follow orders and Tara and I shamefully headed up the stairs and out the door.  

Lesson learned... I will wear a bra next time.

Time in the Closet

Despite the fact that I have died my hair dark brown, my brain still manages to have blonde moments.  Yesterday, as I was getting ready for work, a loud siren went off outside.  I live right down the street from a fire station so I naturally assumed it was coming from there.  My iTunes were blaring from my Mac as I was straightening my hair, preventing me from hearing the Madonna ring tone of my cell phone.  Over the music I heard the siren again.  

I looked at my cell phone to see that I had missed a call and had a new voicemail.  It was left by a friend in Tallahassee so I assumed it was just a "What's up?" message.  I was wrong.  He must have known that I would be completely unaware as to the reason for the siren and knew he needed to inform me as to its purpose.  It was a tornado siren! There was a severe tornado warning in our county and I needed to seek shelter immediately.  

Without a minute to waste I grabbed my computer, phone, and makeup bag and headed to the bathroom.  As I was preceding to apply my mascara I realized that when the tornado hit I would be that girl.  The girl that was blown away because she was too involved into applying just enough coats of the black eye makeup to realize that  she was standing in a top floor bathroom with a large picture window in it.  I grabbed my phone and headed downstairs to the storage closet.  I waited out the storm for about twenty minutes surrounded by spare paint and extra bedding.  

Even though a tornado didn't hit, at least next time that siren sounds, I will know what it means.  I wish it meant that sexy men where racing to dress, put on their boots, and slide down the poll, but no.  It simply means to take cover.  Not only am I now educated in tornado precautions, but I have "remodeled" the storage closet in case I ever have to spend time in there again.  Boxes have been pushed to the back and a plush beanbag chair resides in that prime real estate.  Next to the chair is a case of water, a stack of mags, and a nifty man-powered radio/flashlight thing I picked up at Restoration Hardware.  Next time, I will be ready.

Tramp Dandruff

The past weekend was the Ranger Ball so, again, I was forced to serve the respectable captains and lieutenants along with their wives.  They are not the ones I dread. 

 

I stand back from the well full of cheap liquor and watch in disbelief as hookers stroll through the heavy oak door.  One after the other glides across the room, appearing to be playing dress-up in sparkly prom dresses.  It's as if some advice column told them the way to look sophisticated is to cover your entire body in glitter, rhinestones, and sequence.  Somewhere one must have read the more you shine on the outside is directly proportional to your inner self and the only thought that ran through her mind was glitter.  

 

Not only were the dresses hideous, but everything in site was glossed by the stray "tramp dandruff".  However, it did make locating their dates very easy--all I had to do was look for the uniformed man coated in coordinating sparkles and play a matching game. 

 

From past experiences with glitter I know that it sticks and clings to everything, but the men didn't seem to mind their new Bedazzled suits (I'm not sure if Swarovski encrusted camo will work well in the military though).  One of the perks of all of the glittered adorned women may be the trophy status.  I imagine the men compare sheets in the morning to reveal the ones that scored with their hired dates or maybe its a challenge who's masculine body is coated in the most sparkle.  

 

Either way, I know there is know hiding it, and I understand there is no shame, so my advice to you unlucky patrons of the Ranger Ball--go to the nearest craft store, buy bulks of glitter, pour it all over your extra-long twin sheets, and roll around.  You too can go to work the next day and show off your glory.