Seagulls and Mothers Can Be Vicious

I've been wanting to start a blog for a long time-- I am a persistent reader of several blogs, but have had trouble just STARTING. Where do you start? Do you introduce yourself? Dig right in? Topic? It is overwhelming and just easier not to for a long time. It is like when you start reading a book and you are so anxious to get into it you want to bypass the first few chapters and start around page 180? That is how I decided to start blogging, I dove in to the middle to get comfortable writing.

It is awkward.

I am writing to no audience right now, but wouldn't want to invite any sort of audience until there is more to offer. I wouldn't invite dinner guests over and have nothing to offer but starlight mints.

From what I can tell, this blog is going to focus on:

• Anecdotes from my life, past and current (not past life as in new-agey past life, just maybe my childhood?)
• Product recommendations of things that I love love love
• Recipes

So let's back track to an intro?

I am 27. 27? 28? Yes, I think 27. I am sure 27. 27 is a mulligan year for me. I was 27 last year too. Around my birthday this year, we discovered that I was not turning 28, as I thought. Confused? Imagine how I felt, I was very upset about turning 28 until my husband did the math from my driver's license and figured out I was turning 27. Yippee, do-over year. I am not sure when I got confused about my age. My mom was convinced I was turning 28. I don't question if she is the one who got my confused on my age. My only question is if she did it on purpose or accidentally. Somewhere along the way though she convinced me I was a year older. This got in my head and I never did the math, until this year. What a relief.

This is the same mother who put french fries on my back at the beach when I was little to watch the seagulls attack me.

I stepped on a dead sparrow

I had one of those nights I wish I had a film crew following me. Or maybe I don't wish that? Maybe a personal film crew that I hired myself who wouldn't make copies of the tape and distribute it via amazon or You Tube but would hand the only copy over to me for my own private viewing?Also they wouldn't require payment, just hanging out with me filming was payment enough. But of course the film crew would have to somehow have the technology to record my inner dialogue, or I would have to have long out-loud conversations with myself.

Guys, stop getting me off topic.

I've pieced my night together from:

• Personal accounts of people present
• Facebooks posts
• Text messages
• The condition of my feet, skin, hair, tights.
• The contents of my purse

It was going to be a regular Thursday. I had a work gig at a night club, I go, I show face, I get my check, and I leave. Kat offered to go with me, as she often does on my Thursday going ons -- which is great, it is so helpful to have a friend who will tag along with me on my club gigs and enjoy herself. Well she didn't need to enjoy herself as much as she did though, and neither did I. Maybe it would be better to have a friend not as supportive as club gigs and maybe more supportive of....church? Temple? Weight Watchers? I don't know if it would make a difference.
Kat offered to drive. First though, we were meeting a friend of hers at another bar about 6 blocks away. Ok so we will split the difference and park in the middle and walk to each bar from the middle point, her civic.
The first bar mixed a strong and cheap drink.
And another one.
And maybe another? Sure why not. Ok!
Walking on to the next bar, for the reason I am actually there, my job, overseeing the event. Does it count as overseeing the event if everything I am seeing is a little blurry? Nah, it's not me, it's them, they must be vibrating while they're standing or something, I am fine. I should figure out how to vibrate while I stand. Neat trick guys!
So we've established that the time at BAR 2 was a blur, interrupted only by shots, vodka, a drink that tasted like that plastic cone treat with the gumb ball at the bottom you get from the ice cream truck, more shots, more shots, oohhh I like this song, vodka, several conversations that I can't remember, yelling at a guy to stop touching me, lights ON, and one more shot for the road.
And time to walk to our car. Walking...walking...walking, hey stop following us....walking...walking, you're still following us? Walking....hey do you remember where we parked?
Now is a good time to mention that when I am a passenger, I don't pay attention to where I am headed, I just enjoy the ride.
Of course I don't know where we parked, you drove, let's keep walking, it has to turn up. So we walk. I took my heels off at one point to make the walk more tolerable, they were Jessica Simpson brand, and lets be honest they share qualities with J Simps herself, they're really cute to look at but after hanging out with them too long you want to shoot yourself.
At some point the facebook posts of "HELP IM LOST" began. And the banter- and the revelation that, shoe-less, I stepped on a dead sparrow (at least I got to face my lifelong fear of touching dead things). I spoke to Kat's friend in another state on the phone to process stepping on the dead sparrow, he couldn't console me about that and couldn't help us find the car either. Useless.
I decided we were now street dwellers. There were so many skills I didn't know yet, but would have to learn if I now lived on the streets, and if I lived on the streets then I would be home by now. Makes sense, no?
The bar owner made the mistake of texting me which led to at least an hour of back and forth texts mainly with me just spelling HELP in capital letters and him telling me to come back to the bar so they can help me. The bar was where all this trouble started, no way I'm going back there.
More wandering.
Our situation is hopeless.
Kat lost the contents of her purse.
Collectively we lost our dignity.
I'm so sad we live on the street now.
Look! Driving towards us! It's hope! A cab! We could have asked the cab driver to drive us home. We could have asked him to drive us anywhere....but we were not giving up on this car. We had come so far. Lived a lifetime on those streets. Cab driver, drive us around so we can find our car! So he drove. Kat clicked her panic button. Twenty dollars later, there's our car! Please just take us home, I have a sales meeting in 4 hours.
There are several morals to this story, but the one that really hit home from me is this:

ALWAYS

ALWAYS
buy expensive tights. After all that my HUE brand tights, not a hole in them. My leg ripped, but my tights, still intact. If it wasn't for those tights, I may have broken a leg.