The phrase “Make it happen.”, is one of my well known business mantras.  This doesn’t mean to make it happen all the time.  I cannot function when I work all the time and neither should anyone else.  It is a wonderful practice to also make time for one’s self.  Finding the balance between the two is the key to success.

I was reminded by this while one of my colleagues was celebrating his birthday last Saturday.  While he and I speak about our business ventures to each other quite frequently, we both live our own lives and carry on through seperate lines of work outside of these other ventures.  This night in particular, we were both celebrating.  In the midst of the celebration he brought up some business I have known both of these people for a number of years.  Thankfully, they both took my advice and the celebrating continued.

While there are somethings that I may say to try to do all the time, there is a time and a place for everthing under the sun.

     When browsing to my favorite news provider, sometimes I realize a screenshot is worth a million words:

     I recalled a beer once.  But now I forget…

     So… 

     Should I order the cheeseburger, or the beer?

     On second thought, I’ll skip it. 

     Right now, I can’t afford to pay attention.

We generally have friends over on Saturday nights. Not because we don’t dig going out, because we do. But going out all the time does tend to get old, plus you have to worry about the PO-PO pullin your ass over in the middle of the night.

Of course, I’m a spoiled, lucky girl. I have a designated driver at all times and I dig it. Regardless of that, it’s nice just to stay in, cook a smorgassboard of tasty good stuff and drink hot toddies or beer or wine or Jack….

Well, on tap for the past weekend’s buffet was pork tenderloin, rosemary potatoes, steamed snow peas and a variety of other crap.

I must say, I’ve never cooked a tenderloin before and I rocked the balls out of it. Baked it sloooooow in the oven, double wrapped in foil filled with every herb you can think of. After being on slow bake for 3 hours, I jerked that badboy out of the foil and slung it on the grill… G-R-U-B!!

Everybody ate way too damn much.

I, of course, was no exception. Quite the contrary. I started drinkin whilst cooking. The flavor of the day was Meridian Chardonnay, mighty good.

I asked Big T to open me the first bottle and it was on. Between me and Taucha, we polished off close to three bottles. A little much.

I paced myself, like a professional New Orleans drinker. Sipping all night long. It’s hard to tell how much wine one has consumed when one’s glass never quite gets empty before somebody happens by to freshen it.

So, it’s 1:00am, and everybody is leaving. I had been giving Big T the eye and making obscene gestures toward him all night. REOW… come here big daddy.

He was sitting on the couch in the love den, when I crawled up in his lap and made close up obscene gestures at him before departing with my clothes and heading toward the bed. I knew it was a matter of 1.8 seconds before he’d be following me that way.

Woooo! I was feeling my oats. I was gonna tear his ass up. I was gonna make him scream my name and write bad checks. I was gonna make him beg for mercy.
Let the makin out and major league cannoooodlin begin!

I kiss my way down into a desireable spot. Somehow, don’t ask me how… I passed out. His goodies right in front of me and I pass out. Of course at first, he thought I was thinking or taking a breather….

He taps me on the head. “Baby, are you ok? If you’re gonna go to sleep, release that and get on a pillow.”

“I’m not asleep. Swear I’m not.” As I sit up and leave a drool puddle on his belly. “Ok, so I might have been asleep.”

“That’s ok, baby. Go to sleep.”

So I did.

Well, I woke up to him staring at me. “Gotta hang over?”

My head was spinnin, “Hell ya. I’m dehydrated and my head’s spinnin.”

“Why don’t you go back to sleep?” He picked. “You do remember falling asleep last night, right?”

All day long, kids, I had to hear him slip in little comments about my inability to handle my alcohol and still be sexually fucntional. I mean, granted, it was all in fun, but how embarrassing is that?

“Sorry, baby. I swear I’ll never drink again.” Rolling my eyes. “Gimme some aspirin.”

“Yah. Yah.” He gets me aspirin, “You know you got yours and you were done, ready to go to sleep. Sometimes I think our roles in this marriage are jacked the hell up.”

“I know, huh? I spit, burp, and fart better than you.” Smiling at him like the cat that ate the canary.

Pick on me again some more.

There’s nothing Diva digs more than a fiesta. Well, unless beer is involved. And what would ya know… I got both over the weekend. My bestest friends Holly, Mario and Tausha heard through the rumor mill that I was making enchiladas and such for dinner Saturday night and that was enough for them. Holly said she’d bring some good stuff and we’d have a fiesta. Complete with rice, beans, salsa and chips…. and BEER. Yay! Come on over boys and girls. There were all us adult types, 6 teenager and 2 munchkins. So, I was cooking my ass off listening to the VOLS get spanked. (Sorry drifting off, a little annoyed it didn’t go any better than it did… interception throwin mama’s boys)… Anyhoo…I made Chicken enchiladas and homemade red sauce (mmmmm):

And beef enchilada casserole:

Rice n Beans (refried beans just aren’t pretty, so there’s no pic).

And Holly’s grub-ass homemade, garlic filled, spicy as hell salsa:

We were playing kamakazi karaoke in the lair when “Just a Gigalo” came on. This is the point where Lil T (the 2year old grandson) informs me that he is, in fact, a gigalo. Big T confirmed to Lil T, that it’s ok to be a gigalo.

I tried to explain to him “You should be a pimp, it pays better. Say pimp.”

“No! Gigalo!” He screams and runs off.

It’s true. If ya have a choice, for goodness sake, be a pimp. Look, he could pimp his auntie and her friends out. He’s got every one of those girls wrapped around his pinkie finger…

And its official. I crowned my BFF (Holly) my beeeeyach. She’s a skank and I love her more than a squirrel loves a nut.

She is now in charge of kitchen clean up every time we drunk at the house. She is quite good at it. Reckon if she would have known I was gonna blog her ass and slap her picture up on the internets that she would have stayed in her PJs? Heh. Again, I say, you are a skank, but you are a damn fine kitchen cleaner upper.

I know you, my friends on Blogger’s Lane, are really getting uptight thinking “What the hell would Diva want for Christmas??”

I’m here to help. I don’t want to end up with another toaster.

In no particular order, I will list the items you are welcome to put under my tree this year. We’ll have a hot toddie and discuss the fun uses for these lil ditties.

First. The Yodeling Pickle. Anybody out there who wouldn’t want a pickle that yodels? I for one am just bubbling with anticipation for Christmas morning! Wake up, all dreamy eyed to a beautifully decorated box… and out pops the pickle.

I’m also amused at the thought of getting this cute little smoking monkey. I think I could teach it to spit, fart, burp, cuss and drink beer too with enough time and training.

Lastly, I want this so I could always have a weinerschnitzel in my hand.

Sick, huh?

There ya have it kids. I promise not to regift.

I swear to all that is Holy… I’m trying my bestest to get into the holiday spirit. It just ain’t me. But I’ll not sit here and spew a bunch of Bah Humbug and tinkle on everybody else’s happy happy ho-ho-ho.

Quite the contrary. In my efforts to pull the Grinch out of my ass, I have found that a nice alcolhic beverage can be very beneficial. My drink of choice? Ahhh, a nice cup of fresh brewed double shot o’ espresso combined neatly with a shot of Bailey’s Irish Creme. Yes, it is tasty. Mmmm, mmmm, mmmmmm.

So, one cup of cheer at a time, I have managed to begin my holiday-ing with relatively little pain and suffering.

I slung up two Christmas trees this year. One in the living room where everyone hangs out and the other in the Den Of Love downstairs.

Wanna see? I know you do… even if you don’t… here it is in all it’s blinged out glory!! This is the silver & white tree. This sucker glows by the light of the fire even with the twinkle lights not plugged up.

Let’s sing…
“Silver balls….. Silver balllsssss… it’s Christmas time in the Lair”

This is the wooden tree. Tastfully decorated thanks to JoAnn’s craft emporium. Everything on it is made of wood. We like it. Eco-safe, tree parts that will be used for years to come. Poor thing still needs something on top, but I’ve yet to find me a wooden angel or star or santa…

Up close with my fave ornaments…. The sappy but sexy LOVE BELL… When I get lucky, I run upstairs in all my nekkid glory and ring that bad boy… (Scary thought, huh?)

Now just because I have my own forest of Christmas trees doesn’t mean that this tree or this tree are safe.

I made a promise to myself that I would go steal them and leave ransom notes for each tree if either tree owner turns their respective back for more than 2 minutes.

Happy Holidays, boys and girls.

I think I need a 12-step program. I have a major problem that, no matter how much effort I put into it, I can’t seem to fix.

Big T comes to my office now and then to visit. One afternoon, he popped by and asked us, “Do you have any string or twine or anything around here. I need about 2 feet of it.”

I, forever and always being the helpful & loving wife that I am, say, “Well baby, I have this left over blue ribbon from the bridesmaid bouquets if that’ll work.”

I toss him the ribbon and think nothing else of it. He says he loves me, gives me kisses and goes on his merry little way.

Fast-forward to 5:15pm, when I get home from work. I come in as usual and Big T gives me my hugs and kisses as I head upstairs to start dinner… when it caught my eye…

That ass-munch had duct-taped the ribbon to his lighter that sits on the end table. The other end of the ribbon was inserted into the slate slabs that make the top of the table. It looked like one of those pens that the bank tries to keep safe by chaining them to the teller spots.

Why would he do such a sarcastic thing?

Because I am Diva. I have a problem. I steal lighters.

Yes, my friends, I’m a kleptomaniac.

I found that I am attracted to steal lighters like a monkey will steal your wallet at the circus. It is bad.

How bad is it, you ask. When Big T asked me to empty my jacket pocket and purse, the lighter count was seven (7). Ooops.

Moral of the story is.. Until I get the proper help, if we’re out drinkin’ together, please (please, please) keep your lighter in your pocket or at least come get it back from me.

Consider this fair warning. I can not be held responsible.

You perverts!! I know you thought to yourself… “Ohhhh, Diva’s done been rollin’ in the woods again.”

No. I’m a good Christian girl and I don’t roll in the woods or anything of that nature. Not anymore anyway, I got married 2 months ago.

Oh, speaking of pervi-ness. It has come to my attention that I am NOT the only one around this place who had no clue what Half Nekkid Thursday was! Go me! Still doesn’t mean I’m gonna tack my rack on my page. (Although it is more of a ragin’ thing that I thought).

Anyhoo… the cherry I refer to is the Christmas song cherry. I am a complete and total karaoke junkie. Why, I dunno. It’s not that I’m any good at it. I think it’s the fact that I can go get hammered and make an ass out of myself and it not bother me.

So, I made the rounds over the long weekend to my favorite waterin’ holes to partake in cold beer and greasy food whilst listening to all the other drunk monkies attempting to sing their own renditions of many-a-song. Sometimes can be scary, sometimes can be totally awesome, sometimes I need earplugs to keep from bleeding out my ears.

It’s after Thanksgiving and not a single holiday ditty had been krooned. WTF? It’s time to get in the spirit and make people accept the fact that they are going to spend more money than Hugh Hefner does on his playmates.

At both Ronnie’s and Coyote Joe’s, I popped the cherry on the beloved Christmas tune, by belting out Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas. Actually, I only sang it because I felt the need to pull the Grinch out of my ass. I’m not sure if it worked yet.

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Me and Big T called a truce on the fart war as he was getting way too serious and thinking of ways to smoke me out. I waved the red flag sometime on Saturday night when he was kicking my ass by close to 10 farts, er points.
Besides it was costing me too much in candles and air freshner to keep the house smelling fresh with that much shit flying.

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I have been a really good girl the past couple of days. And Big T has been very cooperative! He’s even trying to cut back and eat healthier with me as a show of support. Not sure how long he’ll last before he caves and sneaks to Burger King for a grease bomb, but he’s got my undying gratitude for not doing it in front of me.

I have sucked down ungodly amounts of water rather than Diet Dew and Diet Coke. I have kicked Taco Hell to the curb (last I heard, they’re about to file bankruptcy). The fridge is filled with healthy crap like you’d find at a fat farm and we’re actually eating it. My ass has even managed to hoof out 3+ miles a day on the treadmill at increasingly increasing speeds. Go me.

Swear to God, there is no way my ass is buying new fat clothes after I gave all the old ones away and done went out and bought all new smaller clothes last year. Not gonna do it.

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On the baby makin’ front, we gots a big fat strike out. No bun in the oven over here yet. I reckon since the doctor said my fat ass needs to lose a few pounds before actively pursuing baby makin. I have to admit I was sort of bummed out when I had to make my way to Walgreens for Midol, tampons and bon-bons (actually I got Diet Dew, not bon bons…).

I can only assume that I knew I wasn’t pregnant because I had a wicked mean bout with PMS this week and felt like I was going to strangle several people for relatively small and mostly harmless offenses.

There are some things that you just expect when you are on a 3am-after-party-food expedition. Granted at 3am, choice are limited to few establishments.

After partaking in my fair share of cold brew and closing down Catscratch Jane’s on Wednesday night, the whole load of us decided food was in order as it was late & we were packing a cool buzz. Never mind that my ass had to get up at 7:00am to finish broccoli casserole. So, personally, I was in need of coffee.

Where else would ya go at 3am on Thanksgiving morning for a little sobriety effort? Why, Waffle House, of course.

We wandered in giggling and cackling about anything and everything. All it takes for me to get tickled is enough beer and somebody else starting to laugh. No shit, laughing & yawning are contagious around me.

We finally played musical chairs long enough, got seated and our waitress came over. She was obviously annoyed that she was working and she was obviously even more annoyed that she was dealing with us. If you have to work that shift, at least make an effort to enjoy it.

Whatevers. This poor chick had the personality of a wet-sweat-sock. She took 2 of our orders, not speaking between, just sort of grunting at whoever happened to be next.

Just as she grunted toward #3, her cellie rang. The fact that she had her cellie on her was no big deal. Even the fact that it rang while she was waiting on us was no really big deal even. But when the bitch cut me off mid-order to answer it, now that just pissed me off. Her side of the conversation went this-a-way.

“I gotta answer this.” She grunted as she lowered her head, still facing our table (presumably so her boss wouldn’t see).

“Hello? Who is this? Who is this?” She acted like she didn’t know who HE was.

“Who the hell is this, I’m at work and I have customers.” Why the hell would you tell somebody you don’t even know that you are currently at work and are waiting on them?

“Jesus, Robert. No, I’m not talking to anyone else.” She DID know his ass.

“How can I be cheating if I’m working?” Apparently, Robert didn’t have any faith that she was truly working. I guess that Waffle House distinct waffle and bacon smell being emitted by her apron wasn’t enough proof.

Taucha, my drunk monkey friend, decideds she wants to talk to Robert. So, the waitress obliges (and takes another little bit of our order). After only 2.7 minutes, Taucha hands her the phone back and says to our lovely server, “Lose him, girl. He’s a dick.”

Mario getting on the phone didn’t help. It made Robert believe that she really was in the cubicle of a bathroom bangin’ the customers.

We all figured Robert would show up waving a semi-automatic threatening to blow up the Waffle House and everyone in it because in his head he believes that his girl was fucking us all.

Get a grip, pal. Let the girl bring home the bacon in piece you loser.

I’ve finally figured out that most of my knee shaking epiphanies hit me while my ass is firmly planted on a bar stool. This past weekend was, without doubt, no different.

I finally realized why, in fact, my past few months have been, how shall I say, like stink on shit.

Although I’m extremely happy with Big T, I feel like I have lost myself somewhere along the way… I’ve packed on 20 pounds since I got married and my clothes are too tight… which has led to me being severly annoyed at everything… which led to my lack of tolerance to drama in any circle in my life. I got enough drama dealing with my ever expanding ass to deal with anybody elses bull-caca.

I’ve decided that all the petty bullshit and disharmony must be flushed from my life like a Biore strip removes the blackhead on a super model’s ass.

I was in the midst of three different people, on three seperate occassions, having three separate issues during the long weekend, who, for whatever their reason, seem to tote sadness, misery and all out drama in their purses.

Swear to God, after number 2 acted up, I was seriously considering becoming a recluse and avoiding all humanity until these three got it together. Jeez.

My advice to them, get happy. Nobody wants to be around somebody who can’t smile and just share in the happiness. The world does not spin on its little axis simply for you to be in the center of it, no. Your problems are no bigger than anybody else’s. Get a grip, get a job. It’s life, get one.

There is absolutely no sense what-so-ever in all this crap.

How’s that? I just needed to get that off my chest. I’ll put on my hater blockers, go have some Chai Tea and meditate.