Keepin' it Classy...

It happened...Again.

I worked all day, ran around the hotel for 7 hours in heels making every detail for someone's event perfect down to the last carrot stick. They left, I cleaned up and then went immediately over to a friends house for a cocktail party I was hosting as a couple's wedding shower.

I had spent weeks planning the food, the decorations, the festivites. No detail went unattended. I bought dozens of pieces of glassware so there were no paper cups, I fought a hard battle over plastic anything. I wanted it beautiful and classy and perfect. So I'm cooking, and cleaning and setting up, I throw on my little black cocktail dress, have people lighting candles... I'm making drinks, people are oohing over the food- I am aware of a drink in my hand, but too busy to be concerned with it.

Things are rolling along, everything is on schedule, Sinatra is playing and all is right with the world. Until I realize I have downed 2 cosmos and 2 lemon drop martinis without even noticing...until my head is in the toilet. Nice.

Way to keep it classy...

Gah! Why does this always happen to me? It seems no matter how hard I try I cannot ever time it right. Nothing ever goes as planned. What am I doing wrong???

Boys who talk funny....

As a rule, I think most women like men with accents. Some chicks love the English lilt, or Aussie ruggedness, maybe a Scottish brogue. Some women are ready to drop their panties for men who speak any of the Love Languages. We all have some imaginary Pretend Boyfriend who whispers something romantic and foreign...maybe in French or Italian. But no. Not me.

I am a sucker for boys who drop their R's.

So no, it's not 'foreign' so to speak.... certainly not fancy or rugged. But what is it with those boys from the northeast and their sexy letter skipping accents that makes me crazy?

One of my very best friends always tells people when I finally do get to Boston I'd probably be happy to just listen to random men speak- read the phone book even. It's true, too. I'm afraid to take myself to Boston for fear of pouncing on dark haired boys who happen to say hi or ask me how I am. ("How ah ya?") Just thinking about it makes me giggly and beside myself. Some sweet waiter will want to take my order and I will kiss him... A gentleman will ask me if I want a beer and I will practically dry hump him. Gah!

I will be out of control. I will get my ass beat by some local chick for drooling over her boyfriend while I listen to him on his cell phone! But it's not even the young ones. Old guys talkng like that is the cutest damn thing ever. And the more they cuss, the better. I can't wait to go to a bar and hear a whole crowd of them yelling, "FAHK!"

That shit doesn't get old for me either. I have had one friend who drops his R's and three years later, I'm still begging him to say "clam chowder" one more time. Is he annoyed by it? Probably. Tells me I've got to learn to play it cool, but I swear this is some kind of sickness.

But at least I know any man who speaks like that could kick the shit out of your English Pretend Boyfriend...

Bad Mommy!

So I was dropping the oldest girl off for a slumber party and the mommy of the friend comes out to chat. She tells me she and her husband are going out for a few hours, something they do every Thursday. "It's a spiritual group."

I immediately am sent into a panic- as any kind of conversation teetering on religious beliefs makes me do. So I am off kilter when she says,

"Do YOU belong to a Spiritual Group?"

My immediate, no thought process involved reply?

"Sure do- but it's a different kind of spiritual. It's the one that comes from a bottle!"

She did a double take and my 12 year old yelped in embarrassment, "Mommy!"

Yep. I'm tellin' you... Mommy of the Year for that one.

The Way I See It...

So NASCAR has decided to make a venture into other worlds and one team has even teamed up with my very own RED SOX as owners. Formerly Roush Racing, now Roush-Fenway Racing. They even had a special paint scheme this past weekend at New Hampshire to commemorate the joining of the two.

If you know me, you'd think I'd be a little more excited about this marriage of my two very favorite things on Earth. But the problem is this: I cannot stand Jack Roush.

I love NASCAR. It has been a sports staple of mine for years. I fell in love during a 1996 Rockingham race and have never looked back. (Anyone else remember Rockingham?) I love the drivers, the drama, the intricacies of these three dollar parts determining million dollar paydays. Silly season, crew chief swapping, rivalry making, bump drafting, road course, super speedway, short track, engines blowing, tire rubbing, I LOVE it.

I adore Carl Edwards- he is truly a genuine, happy, grateful, enthusiastic driver. He is talented, he is funny and personable. He does BACKFLIPS off of his car when he wins for gawd's sake! He's fabulous.

Jack Roush? Total a-hole. And I can't endorse or become enthusiastic about anything that furthers his bid to become a dominant owner. Anything that adds credibility to his company. He spent a good portion of the late 90's calling Ray Evrenham a liar and a cheat because he truly couldn't catch up. Screamed that Ray soaked the tires or expanded the gas bladder! Even NASCAR went over those cars with fine toothed combs. They took samples to labs. Ya know what was in those tires? "Air, Jack."

He could not concede that Ray was an amazingly brilliant man who was a genius with those cars at the time. To this day I say Ray and Jeff Gordon were such a dominant force because they were so far ahead of the competition at the time and the competition just finally caught up and leveled the playing field.

It was a feeling among most people in NASCAR that yes, we all loved Mark Martin, but not his owner. He was a whiney baby who cried when his cars didn't win.

But then he got in the airplane accident and almost died and all of a sudden he's a damn saint. Whatever. Kenseth wins a championship and it's supposed to look like a Cinderella story. Screw that. I'm not buying.

So yes, I love the Sox. I should be beside myself with glee that my sports 'had a baby' so to speak. I should be able to take my eyes off that 24 car for 2 seconds to check on my Red Sox car. But I can't. The wrong dude owns it. But that's just the way I see it....