Reasons he’s not calling you

I pity the telemarketers scheduled to work on Wednesday nights. That is the night where all dating-aged women across the nation are waiting for the phone call. And not the one to switch their long distance service. Apparently there is something known as the 4-day rule that is programmed into the male DNA. It has to be, because when have they ever followed any other rule willingly?

When a boy turns 18 and goes to register for the Selective Service, he is advised of the 4-day rule as part of the process. Under penalty of being shunned by all deerkillin', heartbreakin', fartmakin' men (Yo! Amber!) a guy may not call a girl for 4 days after he gets her number. Why? We took a small poll, and according to our (two) sources, 3 days makes you look desperate and 5 days makes you look too uninterested. Huh? So Saturday digit exchange=Wednesday phone call.

Let me just clue ya’ll in, we females do not hate it when our crush can’t get enough of us. And if you’re texting and calling us one hour after you secure our phone number (Tips for the clueless: Just calling to make sure you got home ok. Or: I’m just wishing I hadn’t left town and was still with you.) and continue this communication for three weeks straight, we absolutely do not think you look desperate. As long as we’re reciprocating. (No stalking freaks, please!) And, by the way, four days of silence gives a girl’s mind a lot of time to wander. And four days of girlfriends’ input on a topic like this can never be good for a guy.

Reasons he’s not calling:

• Dropped his phone in the river fly fishing and simultaneously forgot how to use e-mail to ask you for your number to reprogram into his new phone


• He’s working (aka: getting paid to play solitaire all day) and is totally exhausted


• He can’t let you see him without his baseball cap until he’s gotten hair plugs installed


• He’s looking for the perfect orchid to match your porcelain (Kranberry: like a toilet) skin


• He’s given up airheads and has therefore worn through three composition books planning the perfect date to dazzle you


• He’s honestly lost your number and is wandering through the village like the prince with the glass slipper listening for your heavenly laughter (Amber: more like donkey braying!)


• After correctly deducing Amber’s predelicktions, he’s suffering from a number of complications from BCS wax:

All night BCS “spa” wasn’t so sanitary (SHOCKING!) and he developed cellulitis and is now sitting in Dr.’s office every day for three weeks getting antibiotic shots in the butt.

He's in the hospital after breaking his leg while fainting from the pain

He's still carefully picking all the wax from his netherregions after he chickend out

He made the mistake of sitting down in the shower before yanking the wax off and has been stuck there for 4 days (Blush: the irony of the 4 Day Rule is that it will always bounce back to cause you trouble) because he either can't reach his phone without castrating himself or is too embarrassed to call someone. Because who would he call? His friends, who no matter how close they are, they ain't gonna help him with THAT. Nor does he want to call strangers (911) to help him with THAT.

• He is composing the perfect sonnet, but can't find anything to rhyme with "nantucket"


• Special section for our favorite roofers and other laborers (temporary or otherwise):
  Maybe there was a nail gun accident
  Maybe the contractors locked him in the portopotty
  Maybe he really does think slower than concrete dries
  Maybe the portopotty fell over while he was in there with a groupie who "just stopped by to see when they would be opening and oops my skirt blew up, etc" and he's now in a neck and back brace


• He's waiting to ask Amber out in person so he can see the hairball trick again


• He's chicken coz we’re so obviously way out of his league


• He can’t afford to shell out $75 that Blush and Kranberry make whenever they karaoke


• He's had a batman phobia since childhood.


• During one of the many full-body hugs, he figured out that (one of the posse members) bought her boobs at Victoria’s Secret and they are removable.


• His friends told him we sing like braying donkeys


• Coz he's a MAN. He doesn't plan ahead. Ride with the Wind! Bee freeeeeeeee! Nothing can tie me down! He has no idea what he's supposed to be doing right now (unless some woman tells him). How's he gonna know what he's doing tomorrow or next weekend? Huh? Don't be such a nag!

Sports Fishermen vs. Roofers: The lesser of two evils?

The seasonal outdoor laborers (roofers, loggers, demo crews, etc) have moved on to greener pastures, and apparently the next seasonal migration of men to our region are sports fishermen.

Reasons why sports fishermen are so much hotter than roofers:

1. Red sea turtle boxer shorts coordinate in color AND theme with red Hawaiian swim trunks
2. Have enough discretionary income to pay for guided fishing tours
3. Better dancers because there are no oversized shoulders to throw them off balance
4. Higher IQ: Remember, no license required to become roofer, unlike becoming a fisherman (Hee!)
5. Much sexier making out on a boat than in a trailer/hotel room with 8 other guys
6. Their real jobs don't have purposely misspelled words in the company name like "(Insert construction term here) R Us"
7. Better wardrobes which are bought at Academy instead of found in dumpster (Amber: presumably)
8. Keys to yacht more impressive than keys to rusty cement truck
9. Fish for dinner is still better than whatever you can scrounge up at the Circle C convenience store
10. Lounging around on a private fishing boat is much more enjoyable than perching atop a roof wearing a hard hat

It ain't dainty, fo sho!

It is dainty to be sick if you have leisure and convenience for it.
Ralph Waldo Emerson

The last few months have been a little hard on the posse medically speaking, and let me tell ya, it has been anything but dainty! While Blush wins for length and variety of illnesses (including cellulitis, bursitis, and a throat infection, not to mention the tests for suspected gout*, mono, a thyroid disorder, disfunctioning liver and step … all of which resulted in 22 office visits, a trip to the ER, six different antibiotics and wandering the city like a nomad looking for nurse friends to give her a shot in the butt every day for 3 weeks), Amber wins the Wednesday Happy Hour Gross Medical Condition of the Week Award:

As diagnosed by Dr. X, who, if you didn't know, has a master’s degree in electrical engineering, so of course he's brilliant in my book.

Dr. X: You have a bit of food stuck on your tonsil.
Amber: *mortified* Oh! I'm sorry! Let me go get some water … and a harikari sword

Dr. X: No no no, it's nothing that you would know about
Amber: *sniff* gonna keep the sword handy
Dr.X: and water probably won't dislodge it anyway
Amber: *sniff* tequila?

Anyhoo, seems like I have a very rare, and disgusting, tonsil
condition. A hole that traps food. Seriously. But not like a
zit, because according to Dr. X, it's not a zit coz it's not entirely closed up.
Yuckomundo!

So after Dr. X and his trusty lab dude both tried and fail to scrape my tonsil out of my throat with various pointy sticks (No! Shine the light on her tonsil, not her nose! Ms. Amber, relax and try to suppress the gag reflex.*Editor's note: Never knew that was a MEDICAL instruction* Her tonsil, her tonsil! Hand me that wire loop! Not her nose! Ms. Amber, relax please.) they decided it was a job for a specialist.

Incidentally, Amber and Blush are both patients of Dr. X, although he doesn’t know they are practically sisters (They have been asked that so many times at the Slice of Heaven, they just roll with it now. “Yes we are” is much easier than getting into some long drawn out conversation with drunken roofers.). If Dr. X did know about their kinship, it might change his diagnosis since Amber believes that we are all getting these weird infections from the soap in ‘Heaven.

*When Dr. X said I had gout, I asked him, “Is that really even a disease? Isn’t that just something you read about in Civil War novels?” He was highly offended and rattled off the textbook medical description for gout, which to me sounded like the teacher on Charlie Brown: Whaaaaaa whaaaaaa whaaaaa. Whaaaaa wha wha wha whaaaaaaa.

Roofers

The Slice of Heaven is located in an area that has seasonal work which occasionally calls for demo crews, roofers, contractors, and other various outdoor laborers to decend upon us. They sniff out 'Heaven like bloodhounds on a coon. While we have found them to be mostly good ole boys, they do have a few peculiarities. How can you spot 'em?

You might be a Roofer if:

• Your shoulder span is greater than your IQ
• You chase natural disasters looking for work
• All of your t-shirts are missing sleeves because your shoulders don't fit
• Your answer to "can you conjugate a verb" is "Conju-what?"
• Your regular housing arrangements include 8 guys to a room
• Getting dressed up means wearing your cap with the company logo
• You know to the ounce how much you can bench press
• Your definition of the good life: when your paycheck covers your bar tab
• You think buying a woman a shot is the ultimate romantic gesture
• Words that are synonymous to you: Parking Lot/Toilet
• You think "I'm just gonna sit here and look at your tits" is a great line
• Your last-ditch, roll-the-dice line is "If you're not going to be nice to me, I guess I'm going home to jerk off and go to sleep" (hey, bubba, don't let the door hit you in the ass on yer way out)
• You sit around in shithole bars and make fun of the shinglemakers
• Your aftershave bears a striking resemblance to tar shampoo
• You can maneuver the ramp at the Slice of Heaven with a beer in each hand and a woman on your back!!!

Post-Weekend Wrap Up

The Slice of Heaven rarely disappoints for an evening of unlimited mocking, and Friday night was no exception.

Among the most memorable:

The Ham Lady

She wore a dress that was mostly backless, except for these criss-cross laces making her look like …. a ham. She was also wearing these obviously new “come f*&$ me” shoes. And she was on a date. Like a first date. One thing to find out that your friend/crush/etc. shares your affinity for colorful locales (Amber: shithole bars) and suggest it as a lark 6 or 7 dates in, another thing to take someone there for a first date. On the other hand, maybe it’s better to find out up front their ability to mock. So Amber and I made up this whole conversation that we thought must be running through the Ham Lady’s head about what kind of nasty place he’s taking her to, and if he thinks the enchilada dinner makes up for this, he is sadly mistaken, and there she had went and bought brand new $14.95 shoes and had her 23-year-old daughter strap her into the ham dress and everything.

WELL! We were delighted to see that after a couple of beers the Ham Lady was totally into the Slice of Heaven. She was dancin’ in her chair (One karaoke singer was serious about working the crowd and said if people didn’t want to get out on the dance floor, they could just dance in their chairs. I appreciated his permission to do so.), and she was singin’ along and clappin’ and who-hoooin’. Amber looked at her and declared, “Another Slice of Heaven success story.”

Sammy Hagar and Sandra Dee

There is a little game The Posse likes to play called “Guess the Song.” Let me tell you, we failed MISERABLY on Friday night, and it is always so delightful when we are surprised. First up was a Sammy Hagar look-alike with wild blonde curly hair, a Hawaiian shirt and white shorts (he’s not at all concerned about the Labor Day rule). His duet partner was a sweet shy woman with a blonde ponytail and innocent white blouse. We were rubbing our hands together with anticipation….We could see some totally raunchy rock song coming up that was guaranteed to make Ms. Innocent blush. We were totally floored when they sang Johnny Cash and June Carter’s “Jackson.” And there’s Sammy Hagar acting like he’s stomping his foot western-style, but really he looks like some kind of mentally challenged heron raising his leg up and down and pointing his flip flop totally out of sync with the beat.

ZZ Top

The next little surprise was ZZ-Top-looking dude singing “Purple Rain.” But, like, a super-old ZZ Top with a meth problem. And Amber reminds me that at one point I was going to pull a humanitarianism and go back him up, but I was terrified that things would crawl out of his waist-length beard and into my invisa-bra (which is another story for another day). Ewwwwwwww. People got out their lighters to hold aloft, more for sympathy than for adoration. But ZZ Top did make the most of his time while waiting between songs and advised us all: “Don’t waste yer life!” I’m not sure if he has any openings to become my life coach or not.

Math Club President

Then there was the Math Club President and her Soccer Mom Side Kick. MCP, a very young woman, was wearing a plain blue sweatshirt and navy walking shorts. She had her kinky hair pulled back in a sensible pony tail and had on big tortoise shell glasses. Her SMSK had on a very short denim skirt and a just to throw us off, a conservative polo-type shirt. The shirt… so incongruent with the way she kept squatting in the denim skirt as she sang, and I was concerned about the suitability (Amber: What?? There’s a dress code now??) of her underpants that were in danger of being on display in ‘Heaven. What would her mother say?! (Amber: We KNOW what Blush’s mom would say! Hee!) We were so busy drinking in the juxtaposition of MCP not only being IN ‘Heaven, but actually singing, that we didn’t even have time to Guess the Song. We would have totally blown it anyway, because they belted out “Welcome to the Jungle” like they had been singin’ it in their basement since 1987. Unfortunately, that didn’t mean that they were ever on beat. Even more unfortunately, MCP left before her match made in heaven (hur hur) Audio Visual/Physics Club President sauntered in, resplendent in his khaki shorts, short-sleeved button down TUCKED in which is pretty much a hanging offense at the Slice, and black plastic rimmed glasses straight from a movie starring1960 NASA nerds.

Bride and Groom

OH! And let's not forget the wedding party! A stout middle aged couple who had finally realized that it was cheaper to maintain one trailer than two. The whole wedding party was from Michigan and all were clad in tourist T-shirts excpet the bride who's "going away outfit" consisted of capri pants and an ethnic-print blouse with some wooden wind chimes hanging from the neckline. And she still had the Diamonique hair accessory perched right above her very round bangs and right below the 1963 bouffant. So the couple was sitting around, minding their own business, when the Karaoke King calls them up to the stage to sing the Island Mating Call. They have no idea what's coming, but are being good sports and waddle up to the stage. The groom is not lettin go of his 47th beer of the night by any means and brings it right on up. As soon as the bride sees the lyrics begin to roll, she gasps in horror and shakes her finger at the wedding party who has surreptitiously signed them up to sing "Let's get Drunk and F*&%." The groom doesn't even blink, but bellows out the song in between swigs of beer. Unfortunately, he doesn't gaze into his bride's eyes as he serenades her because he has to concentrate so hard on the words rolling past to take notice of her.

Plane tickets to wedding destination: $750. Honeymoon suite: $200. Three rounds of drinks for the wedding party: $180. Wedding reception at the Slice of Heaven: Priceless.

Friends

I don’t know how many times this year I have said, “I have the BEST friends EVER!”, but I do. Maybe being divorced has caused me both to rely on and appreciate my friends a lot more. Maybe by this time in my life I have weeded out most of the deadwood that was bringin’ me down. Maybe because of the bumps and bruises we all have, we are more tolerant of each other. Maybe this is Karma payback for that day in late 2000 when I decided that no matter how people treated me, I was going to try to be the kind of person I had always admired (although this is very much a work in progress).

At any rate, who else but the best friends in the world would:

• Offer to run over your ex and split the $10,000 fine
• Pick up your kids at a total stranger’s house on a moment’s notice and care for them indefinitely
• Have the honesty, compassion and wisdom to tell you, “I don’t know what to say.”
• Come over to keep you company while you cry AND bring wine
• Listen to you sing every song on the radio during a 14 hr road trip and not change the station
• Back you up on karaoke
• Ask a guy anything for a quarter
• Teach you how to curl your hair and fix your make up after the age of 15
• Not only not complain about how often you stay over, but buy you new bedding
• Know that dessert at your house will be Girl Scout cookies AGAIN, but come over for dinner anyway
• Teach you how to buy and wear a bra
• Listen to stories of people they have never met and keep all the names straight
• Offer up their homes for a rendezvous
• Cheer when you walk into the bar at Ladies’ Night
• Keep a secret
• Ask you at the beginning of your rant if they are supposed to just listen, agree with you, play devil’s advocate, offer advice, or help blast the jerk of the moment
• Offer your clueless self insight on alternative lifestyles
• Invent a new category of Extreme Amusement: The Mockolympics

Atlanta Boys: Asses or Assets?

Shout out!!!!

ASSES!!!!

Ain’t there no fishin’ in Atlanta? Obviously the catch and release program is unfamiliar to these boys!

Most fish, when they gets caught, resign themselves to being eatin’! De fish saw yer bait, decided to take a nibble, was open to more, and ended up takin a big ole bite, knowin she’d be endin up on yer hook.

Now, if you ain’t planning on catchin and releasin, don’t brings de ice chest and set up to keep de fish. That just adds to de fish’s confusion! I understand if you get it in de boat and realize that it has to bes thrown back, but at least gives the girls the heads up! Mutual catch and release can be fun if it is based on honesty!!!

Cat gots your tongue?

I am just sayin’

You wanna play catch and release…I’m GAME!!!

Cleanliness is next to Godliness

One of the most delightful things about the Posse is the diversity. We hail from all over this hemisphere, we have totally different skill sets, our personalities run the gamut, and yet, we are all fabulous. In fact, when one man became confused about whom he was interested in most, Kranberry said, “Face it Ladies, I wouldn’t be able to choose from among us either!”

So the other day Amber acts totally offended when I mention that sometimes she is a bit … particular …. about certain things. Hello!!?! Are you NOT the woman who refuses to use the restroom at A Slice of Heaven, and, in fact, went on a total tirade about how “I DO NOT go potty in the lake. I DO NOT go potty in the forest. I DO NOT go potty in the ocean. I DO NOT go potty on the side of the road. Blah blah blah.” ??

I tried to convince her that going to the restroom in the Slice of Heaven is not that bad. I mean, sure, it’s always a safe bet that you should grab a couple of napkins from the bar ‘just in case’ because apparently after 14 years of continuous operation they can’t quite get the hang of how much toilet paper they need per night. Or maybe they have a certain budget for toilet paper and once it’s gone, it’s gone, baby. Deal. The dispensation of the soap, however, deserves describing.

Don’t even think about using the industrial liquid soap dispensers on the wall. They have never held soap since the freebee supply they came with ran out. And women in all stages of drunkenness (from vomiting to soiling themselves) have probably tried to use these dispensers, so there is most likely next year’s winning science project contained right there on that little handle.

But, never fear, the Slice of Heaven staff has got you covered. There is a little sandwich-sized Tupperware right there on the counter between the double sinks. Fitting perfectly into the Tupperware is a very soaked, slightly moldy sponge. And resting on that throne fit for a queen is the slimiest bar of Ivory soap you have ever seen.


I told Amber that it doesn’t have to totally gross you out. Just run your index finger in a small circle along the top of the bar twice, then rub your hands together vigorously under the water and you’re good to go. You could literally see her skin crawl as I described it.

So that got the Posse to thinkin’…. We’re the local girls here. We should contribute to our favorite establishment and supply them with a pump container of antibacterial Dial. But then we started thinking that maybe this should be for the exclusive use of the locals, like some clubs here have the special Local’s Entrance and exclusive Local’s Bar.

We could put the soap in a glass case (like a fire hose) that we could mount on the restroom wall. And we would be in charge of the key. The key would be attached to a really big wooden paddle like in the seventh grade when you had to ask the teacher for the restroom pass and then everyone knew you were on your period. And the Posse member who drank so much that she threw up the weekend before (you know who you are you “self-regulating” wussies!) would have to sit at the bar with the wooden paddle around her neck for the entire next Friday night. And while we originally intended for this to be a mark of shame, we now realize that there is a certain clientele (Goooooooo ROOFERS!) who will find this extremely attractive, so wear the khaki skirt at your own risk. I’m just sayin’.

Casting About

The Catch and Release program name is kind of a spoof on the guys that chase, chase, chase you…are just about to “catch” you, and then “release you.” They don’t call, they stop texting, they just disappear off the face of the earth. (The worst is the non-consensual release)

But the Posse knows that it’s all about adjusting our own expectations and attitudes. We know that sometimes it’s ok just to enjoy the moment… to cast out your line and see if your bait gets a little nibble … see if your bobber starts to twitch just a little. There is absolutely nothing wrong with spending an hour or so with someone who declares you “The Coolest Girl I Have Ever Met!” even if you know he will never dial those digits he begged for. Better than staying home curled up with a half gallon of Ben & Jerry’s crying over Grey’s Anatomy reruns every weekend. Nope, we climb back into the boat with our girlfriends laughing and mocking and totally entertaining ourselves each weekend.

Below are openings guaranteed to lure in that big shiny redfish … the roofer with the big shoulders, the adorable guy here on vacation, or anyone in the vicinity that looks like he might be able to string together three sentences that could be mildly entertaining.

1. This is a tag team effort. When a big shouldered brute approaches, Kranberry asks, “Sweetie, how much can you bench press?” Brute: “Blah blah blah, fireman testing, blah blah blah, best weight ever, blah blah blah.” Blush: (poking him on the arm) Honey, the correct answer is “You, baby!” Best response was from ‘Uncle Andy’ who replied, “Baby, not only could I bench press you, I could curl you all night!” Whooo-hoooo! Other good answers, “Whatever you need baby!”, “You’re not even that heavy!”

Danger Note: a man who actually knows how much he bench presses is either a fitness instructor, steroid taker or professional body builder. Any knowledge of an actual number is indication of self involvedness!

2. Often we take turns being on “quarter duty”, which means you are trying to hook your girlfriend up with the man she’s got her eye on. So the friend takes a quarter, shows it to the target (victim) and uses a variety of lines beginning, “My friends paid me a quarter to…

• find out how tall you are.
• ask if you work on an oil rig.
• grab your ass, but I said I’d do it for free. (Ok, this one is self-serving if you just want to skip the middle man. It has had 100% success.)
• find out your shoe size.
• ask you to sing White Wedding, and if you're good, they’ll all throw their panties at you.
• ask you to show us your nipple rings/take your shirt off/show your boxers.
• find out if you carry your own Purell.
• find out if that beer gut is real (Amber’s cracking herself up)
• ask if someone is paying you to dance like that.

3. Baby, why are you wearin’ that gay cap? (hand painted and bedazzled)

4. Did you come to Las Vegas to be uptight or what?

5. Are you the designated driver tonight or what?

6. Are you here for a fitness convention? (Best reply: No, a steroids convention)

7. Are you a roofer?

8. If I was as smart as you ladies, I wouldn’t be a professional mover. (Kranberry’s response: Baby, that’s why God gave you those big shoulders!)

9. Sorry, we’re not accepting any more friends named Matt. Move it along! (We love to see men beg)

10. Can you conjugate a verb?

11. You had me at rubric.

12. I love a man who’s prepared! (to man sporting his own koozie)

13. I love a man who comes with instructions! (to guy in t-shirt that says "Take me home tonight")

14. No, thanks. I'm just here to mock. (again, the loving to see men beg scenario)

15. I have a boyfriend, but my friend (insert name of friend next to you) will probably go home with you. Might cost you a quarter though.

16. My friend Blush kisses all the karaoke singers. For free!

17. I'm not looking at you. I'm looking at your friend.

18. I'll give you a quarter if you introduce me to your cousin.

19. My friends gave me a quarter to tell you to fuck off, but I told them I would do it for free.

20. You know, in some states you can get arrested for what you're doing to my knee.

21. Can you swim? (Said to Coast Guard Guys. Guaranteed to raise their blood pressure in 2 seconds flat.)

Post Holiday Weekend

Road trips….

I’ve never had a bad road trip (including the one where the dumbass driver flipped the car while changing the radio station – the good then still outweighed getting my car towed and laid up for a week or more in a body shop 200 miles from home, believe it or not). In fact, I would venture to say that at least one road trip I have taken has been life changing for me, and that all have bonded me to people in a way that I could never replicate under ordinary circumstances. But confine a few friends within the several hundred cubic feet of space in an automobile with snacks, music, and an open road, and that is a recipe for discovering the joy in life. Even better if the road trip has been arranged with less than 48 hours notice.

Each road trip has at least one good story that gets better with each telling…

• The visit to Iowa that ended up with a “side trip” to Minnesota
• The amazing music in Waterville, Ks
• Skidding through Skidmore, Tx
• Climbing the North Hill* in Mexico
• Eating tapas in Houston
• Road rage in Giddings, Tx
  
  *If by “hill” you mean: sheer rock wall with no available oxygen and footing only suited to a spry mountain goat
  

Elaboration on any of the above stories is available on request, but with the disclaimer that I may be the only one who judges the content to be absolutely hilarious.

Dinner Parties….

In addition to making time for more road trips in my life, I am deeming it my personal mission to revive two things from the 1950s/60s: dinner parties and cocktail hour. You know all those classic movies where the woman is wearing the pearls and the huge poofy skirt and walking around the living room with a martini glass in her hand? What happened to that? Why is the image of a (working, single) mom having a much-needed drink after work deteriorated to someone sneaking around the kitchen drinking whisky out of a coffee cup as she pulls the chicken fingers and tater tots out of the oven and throws them at her kids who are watching inappropriate television shows on the living room floor? Baaaaah I say!

Based on an impromptu experience last night…. Let’s bring back the cocktail hour and dinner party! I pledge to buy a drink shaker and more than one flavor of adult beverage fixins. I pledge to stock cans of mixed nuts in my pantry. And I pledge to clear up the papers, mail and magazines on the piano and coffee table so that Merlot doesn’t yearn to wear a biohazard suit when she walks through my door.

The Lucky Chair (Amber)

There is a chair at A Slice of Heaven that is situated right next to where the bartenders take the walk up orders. It is prime real estate, and also coined "Boardwalk" by Merlot.

Top Ten Reasons They Call it the Lucky Chair

10. Get to meet every man in the joint.

9. Get to check out every man in the joint's package with your knee(s).

8. 99.9% of the men that stand at the bar will molest your thigh. More if you're wearing a short khaki skirt - we have double confirmed this information.

7. The spot is so crowded that you can caress a cute guy's calf (or whatever) with your toe to get his attention, or kick an ugly guy in the ass and he'll never know (as long as your dumbass drunk "friends" don't tell on you). Not that I know about this - I've just watch "Blush" do it so often I thought it should be on the list.

6. You can turn your back on the surly bartender.

5. You stay pretty cool because of the cold beer that's spilled on your back.

4. You can pretend that the guys watching the soccer game on the tv behind you are checking you out.

3. Bartender will spray you with water if you ask nicely.

2. You're guaranteed to be propositioned by a minimum of 3 old fat married guys (more if it's a holiday weekend).

1. Beer spilled in your hair masks the smell of smoke in your hair.

Ladies' Night

I’d like to propose a new rule to the posse. If one of the posse members has to be driven home from any local establishment because of.. uh… being suddenly overcome by fever… I propose that the posse members escorting the lady home confiscate her phone upon arrival, turn it off, and leave a little note on the bathroom mirror to be found in the morning stating where the phone has been hidden. It would save a lot of regrets and/or embarrassment over texts that may or may not have been sent when under the influence of … fever. I’m just sayin’. Any seconds to this motion?

So, you didn’t think that yesterday’s post was all the Posse had to say about break ups did you? Amber has the following additions to our open letter to the male gender ….

Just because women KNOW something is up doesn't absolve you from having to make the break-up call. You know all that crap women have to read about how men can't read our minds and that being subtle doesn't work, etc. Well we did our homework, we managed to overcome four generations of grandmas telling us what nice girls don't say, and told you what we want in bed (you're welcome) and what we want you to do for our birthday/anniversaries even though that takes ALL the fun and romance out of it, but if it makes you more comfortable, you big fat whiney babies, we women did it. So. Anyway. You have to make the call. It's the least you can do after the Poprocks experience. We promise it won't be as bad as you imagine. We also promise that the things a woman who doesn't get a good breakup call can think up to make your life miserable are 1000 times more demented and horrible and bloody and creepy and …ahem… than you are capable of imagining. I'm just sayin'.

Tell the truth. It will set you free. Literally. Don't make up some story or use something you read in Maxim. One of our posse is assigned to read Maxim every month and give a report at the monthly BitchFest. We know all about all those stupid little amateur tricks. And you have no clue about ours. But you don't have to tell the whole truth. "I met someone else" is fine. "I met someone else and have been seeing her at the same time I've been seeing you and she's younger and skinnier and prettier and has zero cellulite" is not necessary. And it's mean. A mean break-up call doesn't count. If you're mean, you'll have to make another call, and you don't want to do that, do you?

Reasons Why I Dumped You

The mother website for break up excuses can be found here: http://reasonswhyidumpedyou.blogspot.com/

Now, I know we said yesterday that you should not be mean when breaking up with someone. And we still stand by that premise. However, that does not mean that you don’t need to vent with your girlz/homies in private later. The Ladies’ Night gathering this week produced quite a list of reasons why I dumped you. They got a little more honest as the night wore on…

Non-gender specific reasons:

• I don't feel the chemistry is there
• I think the physical distance between us is too great (not to mention the intellectual abyss)
• This match never responded to my communication request (duh - see comments about dead animals - Amber got this one alot - bunch of whiney animal killers)
• I want to pursue other matches
• I'm just not ready for the next step (Amber used this alot)
• Based on statements in their profile, I'm not interested in this match (see DEAD ANIMAL)
• I would rather not say
• Your psychiatrist is on your speed dial
• I needed a scorecard to keep up with your personalities
• There is a difference between being separated from your wife/husband by MILES and being “separated” separated, you cheater!
  
  
  Male reasons:
  
• I am pursuing another relationship (duh, he's male)
• My mom/wife found my eHackery account and made me close it.
• I prefer women with larger breasts
• The internet cafe in Africa that me and my 10 friends were using to create fake profiles was closed down. Please send $100 and your credit card number to: I am being an international business man dot com.
• I’m too big for you (oh yeah, this was really said out loud to a posse member, and unfortunately for him was met by uncontrollable laughter)
• It’s not you, it’s me (because it’s always been about you hasn’t it, big boy?)
• I still love you, but I’m taking your kids and all of your savings and the house… but I still want to work it out. (Yes, this actual statement left the rest of us just as befuddled as you are reading it.)
  
  Female reasons:
  
• I prefer men with all their teeth
• I prefer men who like to have sex more than once a decade
• I prefer men who pay their own bills
• No condom, no dice
• Whataburger isn’t dinner and listening to you fart isn’t foreplay
• I assumed when you asked me out on a date you were single (and what does ‘assume’ really mean?)
  
  
  

Breaking Up

Dear Assholes,

Please allow me to inform you that I have documented proof that you can break up with a girl, leave her thinking you are still the greatest thing that ever walked the earth, and that it can be accomplished with a 12 minute phone call.

Is 12 minutes of your day really too much to A) gain your freedom without fear of someone stalking you with a kitchen knife and B) put a girl who’s been obsessing about WTF is going on out of her misery? I propose that it’s not.

Let me break this down a little bit for you. Something has happened that causes you to want to break off a relationship with a girl. You’ve been thinking about it for a week or so, trying not to let on. Please do not be fooled. Women know. Or let me restate that: a woman truly interested in you, who does not have her head up her ass, and who is not using you to solve 17 different issues that have nothing to do with you, know. And it was way before you started calling her “homie” instead of “sugar bear.” And it was way before you stopped initiating/responding to text messages, sexy or otherwise. Actually it was the first night you didn’t wish her Sweet Dreams. So. Anyway. We understand that you needed some time to make a decision, but we’re clear that you’re not fooling anybody here.

Now, if losing your nerve is going to be an issue, you could possibly send her a text letting her know you need to talk. And now you’re committed buddy. Cause she’s already broken out whatever alcohol is in the house/called girlfriends to bring backup alcohol/gone out to a bar to drink alcohol without fear of running out. You decide how drunk you want her to be when you deliver the news. I know that right now you’re thinking I’m brilliant because if you let her get really drunk, it’ll make it easier on you, but I offer you this caution, it WILL run through her mind that if she gets drunk enough and doesn’t remember your phone call, you will not officially be broken up. So choose your timing wisely.

Some women think you should tell the absolute truth about the reason for the breakup. I don’t happen to be one of them. If you are one of the two verified NICE guys on the planet (one living in a major Texas city and one in Boston), then by all means, tell the truth. We already think you walk on water, and your sincere, responsible reason for breaking up only makes us admire you more. If you’re not a nice guy, then tell us something that has enough truth for us to get the point without being mean. (Tip: apparently e-Harmony provides a drop down menu of benign breakup phrases such as “the distance is too great.” Feel free to choose one of those.) The point is … be a MAN, a kind, gentle MAN and do the right thing, tell her she's great, and you had some really wonderful times and you're glad you had them. Let her know that she wasn't wrong to think you are a great guy. She will shed a tear, or two, or 40 million, but you have both walked away with your dignity and warm feelings intact. And who knows what is waiting for you further down the broken road?

Disclaimer: There will be a handful of crazy women who may not be as gracious with accepting the breakup as I have described. That’s your problem. Not mine. Quit dating freaks.

Dating on the internets

We take a break from our regularly planned blog entry on A Slice of Heaven’s cast of characters to bring you thoughts on internet dating from the posse.

(Blush)
The entire posse has issues with privacy in a small town, and thus local internet dating is not even in the realm of possibilities. First of all, everyone knows everyone in town and before some newly eligible bachelor would even have time to post the requisite photo of himself dressed in cammo with dead fish or animals (and this is attractive as a first impression how?), everyone would already know everything about him including his wine of choice and his desirability to have more children. Second, as if any of us are going to post our “turn ons” and “turn offs” on line for our colleagues to snicker over at the next meeting. Amber, however, went anonymous on one of the popular sites:

(Amber)
I'm not planning on contacting or answering any of these matches – just curious about what the sites can do. I don't think I'm interested in dating at all. I'm pretty sure though that I'm not going to accidentally meet Mr. Rico Suave Armani (RSA) in my line of work or shopping at HEB. I suppose it's slightly plausible that his limo could have a flat tire in front of A Slice of Heaven on his way from the meeting where he has just bought the entire town, but then surely the driver (not RSA) would come in to use the phone ... and you and Kranberry would jump on top of him and molest him on the biceps. And then...and then RSA would wonder what was taking his driver so long in the bar of Ill Repute and he would walk in. His steely gaze would be instantly drawn to the golden-haired vixenness trying unsuccessfully to protect Matthew McConobabe's modesty while he played Nakee Bongos and sang Tequila Makes Her Clothes Fall Off, while George Clooney was having moderate success diverting her attention with come hither and rip off my clothes looks. Ok, why do I need RSA in this story?

(Kranberry)
And speaking of internet dating site photos… Do three-quarters of the men posting not have a friend or mother who can give them a second opinion on the photo? Maybe not. There’s a red flag for you right there. Or scarier still if that is truly the photo that they think best represents themselves.

Let’s face it, most of these men look homeless. Blush said she can’t even fathom that they have internet access, but I know they are using internet cafes in Africa. As a public service, we offer these tips:

· No dead animals in the photo: fish, deer, hogs or otherwise. This signals two things to us… the reality of hairy meat in our freezers and the knowledge that you might possibly have an interest in something other than us. Of course you do, but let’s all keep our little fantasies intact until we at least start E-MAILING for heaven’s sake! Some woman find killing sexy and attractive - not!!! Only if you are Jean Claude Van damme or the rock, then bring it on!

· Be fully clothed. Now, I understand that you can pay extra on some sites to access the naked photos if you so choose. Please, let that be a choice that I can make. Twigs and berries before lunch are a little hard to swallow without coffee!!!!

· Be alone in the photo. If you’re with another guy, how do I know which one is you? I don’t want to work that hard. If you’re with a girl, why are you posting on an internet dating site?

· All matter of expensive male toys are appreciated after you send a verified W-2. Prior to that it is just showing off!!!!

· Honesty is a great quality, however never should it be mentioned that you
1. Live with your mother
2. Only graduated from the 2nd grade
3. Make less than 10,000/year
4.smoke pot regularly/daily or hourly

And finally, a couple of tips for the ladies as well. Keep in mind…

· If the times that he posts indicate that the man is not in the same time zone as the U.S. be wary. He is probably not.

· Just because he went through the rigors of a fluff personality test doesn’t mean he is your soul mate or has a soul.

The Rubrik (Blush)

It had started out as a crappy evening for Blush. She had every intention of staying home and avoiding A Slice of Heaven that night, but the other two would not hear of it. Never one to leave the group hanging, she put on a T-shirt and shorts intending to convey a “fuck off” attitude and made the drive out.

The ultimate big sister, Kranberry took her in hand as soon as she arrived at the house … placed a drink in her hand, glammed up her make-up and gave her a few hits with the much coveted Chi straightener.

They lucked out with seats at the bar right away. It wasn’t the prime real estate – Boardwalk, as the lucky chair right next to the walk up orders was coined – but off to the side by the door. Prime locale for undercover mocking.

Kranberry decided to kick up the mocking a notch and began devising a rubric on a napkin. The Heaven’s Karaoke Rubrik soon sent the posse into fits of laughter induced by the combination of the mockortunities which abounded that night and their own self-proclaimed hilarity. Plus 10 points for working the crowd topped the left column. Minus 20 points for being too drunk to read the lyrics off the screen was on the right. Plus 50 for being a good singer. Minus 10 for an inappropriate song choice (like the good ole boys who insisted they weren’t too drunk to rap). Plus 10 for appropriating the feather boa from the prop wall if you were a female. Plus 50 if you were a male…..

Kranberry’s friend from the night before showed up somewhere in the middle of formulating the list, and his buddy (later independently dubbed Boy Wonder by three posse members-weird) was immediately all over the rubric. First of all, BW knew what a rubric was. They would later find out that he was also not a novice to the concept of the Mockolympics. And second of all, Kranberry pointed out to everyone (since she was the rubric scribe) that BW was not randomly calling out criteria with mismatched values as the rest of the group was. He had committed the rubric to memory in minutes … and there is a chance that he had already had more than one drink at this point, which made it even more impressive.

Kranberry struggled to transcribe the criteria shouted out to her by the group as they debated the merits of each entry and whether the categories should be combined or expanded. Was taking off points for “sorta sucking” as a singer covered by the whopping minus 150 points for overall bad performance? No, the overall bad performance included displays such as the highly inebriated guy lifting his shirt while singing to reveal a pasty beer gut and – ewwww – nipple rings! As a matter of fact, that called for a whole new entry of minus 20 points for inappropriate stripping!

(Bonus points to anyone who can figure out how to get my table format back in this thing!)

A Slice of Heaven
Karaoke Rubrik
Copyright 2008


+
-
+ 10 Working the crowd
-20 Standing off stage
+50 Good singer
-50 Sorta sucks
+10 Stripping
-20 Inappropriate stripping
+10 Good air guitar backup
-10 Skanky backup air guitar
+10 Dancing Queen flaunting homosexuality
-20 Can’t read lyrics off monitor
+10 Appropriate song choice
-10 Inappropriate song choice
+20 Enthusiasm
-20 No rhythm
+150 Overall performance
-150 Overall Performance


Page 2

+10 Use of boa – female
-10 pur (or pus….)
+50 Use of boa – guy
-10 lines
+20 Brings own utensils
-20 Bad gum (gun?)
+10 Singing in another language
-10 Wearing sunglasses
+50 Awesome imitation of real star
-50 Mullet of any kind
+20 Good hootchie
-20 Bad hootchie
+20 PDA on stage
-1 million PDA on stage
+10 Good smile
-200 fusoingd
+10 Applause from audience



Page 3

+20 Humanitarianism
-20 Grape smuggler
+20 Nectarine - no fur
-30 Peach - fur
+60 6L
-4000 Belt accoutrement
+Spooo Bartender flash



Page 4

In
TM Sage
No undies
Pop Rocks

Out
Water

What is the Catch and Release Program? (Blush)

It's a state of mind... a preemptive strike... a road map for sanity... a culmination of lessons learned... and a sisterhood whose ties are stronger than boyfriends, relatives, bosses and occasionally children.

It's a posse of "How did I become single?" women who banded together less than a year ago - some longer. We have grown into each other's best friends, family, comic relief, sounding boards and emotional rocks. As we navigate home, careers, blood relatives, ex's and new relationships, it has become as essential as breathing to check in with one another. We celebrate, console, commisserate, bad mouth, question, support and obsess together.

The Catch and Release Program was born at our favorite watering hole, "A Slice of Heaven." On the hunt for diversion, companionship and laughter to shake off the week, the posse makes the pilgrimage several times a month to this beacon in the night. Coined "Catch and Release" by a random (victim) tourist, the program allows for innocent flirting, olympic-level mocking, and always, always an evening of laughter....

“A Slice of Heaven” is the Alaska of South Texas. Ten men crammed into the place for every woman. It was the dingiest, skankiest, smokiest bar in the tiny town. The marquee outside boasts 365 nights of karaoke. Mostly bad karaoke. Very bad karaoke. Vacationing past-their-prime drunken moms in overstretched tube tops screeching out “Harper Valley PTA”, bad karaoke. Dangerously inebriated twenty-something boys shouting the lyrics to “Highway to Hell” bad. Because if it’s louder, apparently the key doesn’t matter.

Many members of the posse refused to go there, which the Fab Four came to terms with eventually. In fact, as events unfolded at A Slice of Heaven week after week, the subgroup agreed to stop talking up their getaway hangout – less competition that way. Although it was a 30 minute drive from home, it was a world away, both in class and clientele. There was little fear of running into the administrators, local officials or business leaders that they dealt with day in and day out. There the mini posse was free to let their hair down, reveal some leg or other enticing attribute, and flirt with every interesting male who walked through the door, which they did. It was a wonderful practice ground for those in the group that were newly single. Although there were some “regulars” that brought a sense of safety, there was also a smattering of tourists who somehow stumbled into this local’s hangout every week.

The large Christmas bulbs that adorned the exterior of A Slice of Heaven year-round were like a beacon from the far edge of the town’s main strip. There was no sense in ever getting to Heaven before midnight. That was usually early enough to get a prime seat at the bar, but well before the Mardi Gras began each evening at 1am. They called A Slice of Heaven the club of last resort. If you hadn’t hooked up with anyone before 1am, your best bet was to get yourself to Heaven. There you would be gently mashed and mixed together with the biggest buffet of possibilities imaginable in this small, backwater community.

Paradoxically, parking was never an issue at A Slice of Heaven. Unlike some of the more mainstream clubs, which would require a 2 block hike from the outlying lots, Heaven’s parking area only sported a handful of cars. When they barreled into the lot in Amber’s tank of a Tahoe, there was never a fear of dinged doors or sideswiping a soul. Yet, as they maneuvered on the wooden sidewalks passed giggly intoxicated girls and their rambunctious dates who had already had enough, they could feel the thumping of the place beneath their feet.

And when they opened the doors, they were finding more often that there were no seats at the bar. So they stood elbow to elbow sometimes trying to stay out of the traffic streaming in behind them, and sometimes strategically placing themselves in the pathway of whomever caught their eye. The empty parking lot suggested that most of the locals must crawl into Heaven as they awakened from their first drunk of the evening, ready to go another round. The tourists, of course, took cabs. And they imagined more than one girlfriend kicking her once-beloved’s butt out the car door as she barely slowed to a stop in front of the place that was at the center of their latest row. He would roll over a couple of times before he came to a stop, picked himself up, and staggered in through the front door of Heaven with a drunken smile of relief on his face.