I did not write this weekend.  Why you ask?  Well I will tell you.  The (force) pull of vodka (and beer) is too strong with this one.  I think it is easier to blog while still drunk from the evening before.  And by evening before I mean the 1 pm bbq from the day before “before”.

“Oh Effbit”, you say.  “Your name should be “Funnybecauseshe’sdrunk”.  I wave my gay cocktail in your face and say “Shut it. Fuck you.  I hate your shoes.  But you’re right”.  And you are, totally and completely right.  So I ask you – do I perv on the boy-mans because I have a fondness for the booze?  Or do I booze because I am perving all the time and still maintaining an acceptable facade of  “doesn’t need to be arrested for indecent thoughts about the mens, but should definitely be kept a close eye on”?

So let me tell you fine folks why being an independent consultant rocks my proverbial socks…because I can have sangria after I wake and write my emails.  Because I can blog about the hotness between phonecalls.  And because I’m wearing what I wore yesterday.  I am lucky enough to roll out of my Brooklyn apt, call Laymee, and make her decide for me where I’m going to eat/drink/blog.  AND THEN get a new client.  While drinking sangria.  Jealous?

Another pitcher of Passionfruit Sangria, Table 4

I will admit, though I find myself awesome – and I do NOT use that word, I was shamed out of my apartment this morning when my cleaning lady came.  I say shamed because I woke at noon.  And I was shamed because goodgoddamnit, that lady was like the mother to me that I never had, and DOESN’T JUDGE ME when I am hungover/screaming “fuck the surcharge, I am NOT paying $4.29 to my mobile phone carrier for no stupid fucking reason” into said mobile phone, AND she brings me dominican food because for some reason she finds my disfunction endearing.  She scrubs under my stove and I barely managed to brush my teeth.  I have often found both Laymee and The Cat gazing disapprovingly at my post-lobodomy-patient form for these very reasons.

Why is it that at very-nearly-thirty-five I can barely keep my shit together you ask?  I wish I had a concrete answer.  I can only surmise that this may have something to do with it.

That little space, under the bottom lip and above the chin? Yeah, that's a chin divet, and I want to lick it.

I had to introduce the Pattz to Laymee under the caveat of “You kinda have to consider it lay-away.  In 10 years, that is going to be some damn-fine noshing.”  It’s taken a while, but methinks she’s come around.

We see eye to eye on a lot.  I bowed out gracefully on the Mr. Laurie dibs – Laymee is far too fanatical a lady to compete.  And she, using her good judgement, understands that should Mr. Rickman turn up and say “I am leaving the Rima, and I needs to be with one of you highly intelligent and hot bits of stuff” that she should take this as her cue to disappear cuz I will not hesitate to cut a bitch.  There are, of course, discrepancies.  There is some embarrassing shit in the vault.  I am not going to bring it up, but just know that it’s there.  Seriously, no fine Adam’s apple goes unnoticed – and if it’s attached to a fairly less-than-delectable ass?  So be it. (Ok.  The mental image of an Adam’s apple actually attached to an ass is killing me.  Normally I would delete that last bit in the name of “don’t confuse the readers” but fuck it.  I’m still laughing.  And I’m in a Columbian eatery drinking and blogging.)

So yeah.  I managed to fumble my way through a press release today.  I think.  I will likely have to rewrite it.  But I’m STILL able to toggle windows between actual work shit, boy-crush blogs, and Laymee’s iChat window.  Go me.  Today it’s Effbit 1, Layme -5.  Because I’ve got bananas in my sangria and she’s just got Schlitz.  Seriously.  And you can’t get drunk on that shit.  Virtual pub crawl is going to have to move now because it’s Monday and the poor Columbian lady wants to go home.  Nothing to see here, kids, move along.

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