This is blog of a woman who didn't know what she wanted and so chased after dreams and men in search of the answers...drunken hilarity ensued. Then one day she met a man who was everything she wanted, but he wasn't so sure. Then she did the unthinkable; after they broke up she gave him this blog address and she let him into her mind as well as her heart. Unbelievably, even after sorting through the sordid archives of failed relationships, one night stands and her lusty (and embarassing) pursuit to secure the heart of a certain young line cook, John somehow managed to fall in love with her too. Melina and John were married a little over six months after they started dating, running away to Las Vegas to seal the deal. You can imagine what the over/under bet was to see if they'd even make it a year!! Over a year later and they are still going strong...this blog has become their story. Need to tell me something? Email me at Melinalovesjohnny at gmail dot com
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Tuesday, November 28, 2006
Living in Fear...not quite as catchy as living in sin
Email to Melina: (after long discussion of new budget and how much each of us needs to contribute to the joint account) " that leaves us collectively with about $800 left to go drinking."

Email to John: I don't think we need $800 a month to drink!

Email to Melina: Good...I didn't want to have to tell people that we each have a $400 a month drinking habit. Does that sound bad? It sounds bad to me...I just don't want you to have to sit in all the time is what I meant. I don't want you to get bored. (note to readers: we don't actually drink away $800 a month but we have been going out and spending it for food, entertainment and buying all our friends rounds as if we were high rollers--which is why we reprioritized so that we can get our hardwood floor!! Can you see me kicking the gross seafoam green rug in scorn and kissing the hardwood flooring samples--muah! You'll be mine in a year!)

Email to John: I'd never get bored of you! We can do so many things together! I can rape your belly button with my tongue again and snag lint. I can tickle you until you get mad at me!!! I can chase you around the house with the pole again! (Dear readers: I chased John around the parking lot of Lowes the other night with an extension pole for a paint roller. I weilded it like a light saber and cackled as he cowered in the shadows). We can have food fights! We can mope that there's only turkey in the fridge! We can go to the movies and you can "go down on me in the theater" just like Alanis.

Email to Melina: blah blah blah blah blah (it was something totally off topic and didn't say anything about my awesome list that would've fought all forms of boredom...I left stuff off for Christ's sake! He could rub my feet. We could watch scary movies so that I could shiver in his arms petrified. We could walk the dog. We could watch Blind Date and say confidently in a "smug married" voice that Bridget Jones would hate, "Thank God I don't have to date crazy people anymore..." (the sentence never gets finished because it would go like this, "Thank God I don't have to date crazy people anymore, I've found their Queen/King".))

An hour passes.

Email to John: Hey thanks for telling me that you'd never get bored with me, Jerkface!

Email to Melina: I could never get bored of you! I will constantly live in fear and suspense of what you'll do next! (this was paraphrased)

So there you have it. I scare the bejesus out of my young groom. Say it with me, "I have the power!"

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Wednesday, November 22, 2006
An Anniversary of Sorts...
Last year at this time, I was frantically getting off of work and running to the mall to find T and myself something stunning to wear out. We were excited, we were getting out of town on the biggest bar night of the far out of town? Not far at all...but we still managed to call it the Far Away Bar. I remember being at the mall and trying to find an outfit and then thinking to myself, "What's the point, I'm not going to be meeting anyone anyways" but somehow I still managed to purchase a cool black drapy tanktop that had silver mesh at the top that met in a V on my chest. Being as poor as I was last year, I had to wear a black tuxedo jacket over top of the shirt because I had to leave the tags on i...I knew as soon as the night was over, it was going back.
Because I never drove anywhere last year since my location was just too close to thitwbar, I offered to have a sober Thanksgiving Eve and drive T around...that notion even shocked the hell out of me, but it was more important to me to make sure that my friend had a fun, and safe time. As it turned out, my decision was best, because it was the first snowfall that night as well!

We got to the bar and I described the whole evening like this...
That was the night I met John. I was there for all two hours and only about twenty minutes while he was there. He was one of the "cute boys" that we regretted leaving the bar because, but he (and all the other cuties) was only a minor footnote in the blogpost (which is really awful and I must've had nothing to write about) because I never expected to hang out with him again...he was living in the city, I had heard that he had " girlfriend problems" (which I later learned first hand about sadly) so I chalked the experience up to this--I took his picture with T (John dated T's old best friend at one point), I sat across from them for about ten minutes while they caught up, I was introduced and then we left. I asked T on the way out, "Who was the guy with the hot guy with the cane?" (hot guy with the cane=John's old roommate) and she said, "Him? That's John. He's really cool, but he's not your type." In my head I questioned, what was my type these days? Jerks, losers, ex-boyfriends? At this point I was well into my man ban and had been sex free for about two, close to three months...I was trying "to get my shit together so I could figure out what I actually wanted in a man besides sex"...holy shit, who knew that Man Bans actually work? (Amber probably does,but she's a smarty pants)

I never mentioned him again to T until we hung out with him and Tony randomly one December night and then I said to her the next morning after he dropped us off at home, "He's kinda sexy." She gave me a look, "You think so? I wouldn't think he'd be your type."
But quite frankly it had taken everything in me not throw the poor boy on the ground and have my way with him...but of course, he's mentioned as a footnote again in the blog because I didn't want anyone to think I was obsessing about him or starting my "crazy talk" the back of my mind though, he was there.

And now John's mine all mine.
So this Thanksgiving, I'm giving thanks that I got to meet John that snowy night at a bar I never go to...and John's probably cursing the evening and all of tenaciousness that followed :)

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Tuesday, November 21, 2006
Giving Thanks...
I'm awfully thankful for having an awesome husband. It will soon become apparent why.

This was our weekend (In list form because I'm lazy):

Friday-'Drink, drink, drink your face off ' (sing to "Shake, shake shake senora...") was our theme. We hung out at home, we did some drinking, we did some twisting into human pretzels, we did some breaking of furniture while twisting into pretzels, we did some testing of new $140 purchase (Which I was a big fan of, and I wholeheartedly approve of John's purchase...after the fact) After consuming mass quantities of rum we went over to our friend Tony's house and then out on the town (by town I mean the tiny Cornfield in which we live). After that I was carted to an after party that I don't really remember. I hear that I was brought home and carried tenderly into the house. However, I tend to think that I was dragged toward the door and then told to walk or he'd beat me for being such a lush...that's just a guess though.

Saturday- I woke up slightly drunk--to head off a hangover, John handed me a Screwdriver made with leftover Everclear--hmm, I love him because he gives me grain alcohol at 11:30 in the morning. Inevitably, hormones and boozed caused something "amazing" to happen...I started to cry because I'm a big baby and I missed my daddy--particularly because we always had such fun Thanksgivings. Then I received some bad news (while still drunk) on the phone and bawled some more. Unable to articulate my sorrow to John without hic-cupping, sobbing and wailing (then apologizing for being a "freak about everything"), John did the only sane thing that a man in his position could--he went out and bought vodka and wine which we sipped all day laughing, watching tv, and just have a leisurely good time. He cooked me an awesome dinner (the first of two), and made me a fort and called it Fort Leisure (which we slept in for the rest of the weekend). We went out to get a movie but when we came back...I had some of the most amazing sex ever--so good that the old lady that I am, hurt her hip/back from attempting to be all bendy like (Again!)...John can stay, it's decided.

Sunday--More maxin' and relaxin' in Fort Leisure where Leisure Wife (that's me), Leisure Dog and Leisure Spouse hung out all day watching football, rolling around laughing, John not laughing at any of my jokes!! Ever!! I took a nice two hour nap and when I awoke, there was a fantastic dinner in front of me! We found out on Sunday that our family Thanksgiving dinner that was supposed to be John, myself, my mom, her boyfriend, John's dad, John's mom, John's sister and her boyfriend has grown about more four people...apparently John's sister's boyfriend has four kids. Don't get me wrong, I like kids, but I don't know if I like one room, on Thanksgiving (Speaking of kids, in my drunken state on Friday, I made John map out for me when I can have a baby because I'm feeling old...due to the fact that I will be 3-fucking-0 in less than four months...ick. Oprah has me scared since my fertility has been nosediving since 27--I never watch that stupid show, why'd I catch that one? I'm not really in a rush other than that).

So that's it in a nutshell. This Thanksgiving I'm going to give thanks for my awesome leisurely weekend, and laying around with the most fun person in the world. It was nice being pampered, in craziness, in drunkeness and in health.

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Friday, November 17, 2006
Ungrateful, that's what I am.

John comes in last night, after driving through horrible weather (we had a tornado warning and flood watches as well) and announces happily, "I have a present for you!" He smiled at me like a little kid proud of his gift. I hopped off the couch greedily, was it a shirt? Or a pair of earrings? Perhaps booze????

I opened it. As I removed whatever it was from the satin pouch, John said, "It's to replace the glass one that was broken!" And I saw this curvy purple glass dildo. I was happy to see a replacement although a little apprehensive--the last one was awesome until afterwards--then I hated it for a few days. When John told me how much he spent for it, my enthusiasm for it waned considerably which made John sad...I mean, he did make an extra special detour to purchase it for me. He did present it to me with such pride and excitement to use it.

So I came home to it...held it a while and realized that indeed, I am happy that it's here...and that I'll be even happier when we get this!! Bless the person who decided to make an adult jungle gym!

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While I was paging through some newly purchased porno magazines that my husband stocks in the bathroom to shock guests (and I'm sure to look at himself), I was struck with an odd thought. These women were flawed. Rarely in a magazine had I ever seen a tiny wrinkle or roll in a woman's skin as she bent over, let alone a butt as big as mine(! ), because in all other magazines--they had all been photoshopped out. These women had blemishes, some had stretch marks, their breasts weren't perfect and hell, they even had smile lines (and from the pictures they seemed to have a lot to smile about)!

I just thought it was funny that men don't mind looking at real women but we seem to need them completely airbrushed. Weird.

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Tuesday, November 14, 2006
Rough Draft... short story class is plugging on. I had to turn another (this time true) story* in. Unfortunately, I wrote it it in one work day. If you can manage reading the whole thing, I could use feedback desperately. Please don't just say it sucks...because that won't help this dying dog of a story.

I live alone in a pretty nice neighborhood where all the neighbors know everyone else is. We know each other's names but we rarely use them. Like an unspoken code we all prefer the cordial wave or the nearly imperceptible nod that comes from the safety of the mailbox or from behind a soapy car rather than have to actually talk to one another. I'm not complaining. I appreciate this.
My life is a very orered existence and because of this, it follows the same pattern every night. I read a book while I eat dinner--it's like a dinner companion who instead of talking, simply tells you a story. I've always preferred something involving tracking down a serial killer or some king of thriller where I can try and figure out who the the killer is and what the motive is. I have to admit though, I am one of those people who has to sereptiously sneak a peak at how the book ends. I've never been one for the books that have some girl's bodice busting open in the skillful hands of Fabio.
After reading a few chapters with dinner and cleaning up my dishes I like to watch Jeopardy. To be honest my trivia knowledge, not to mention my trivial knowledge is probably one of my greatest sources of pride. One that I usually reflect upon when I sit out on my front steps and watch the world grow dark. This is my time to think. I think about what I've accomplished thus far and what I have yet to do--both short erm and also for the long haul.
I sat on the steops last night and now my mind refuses to slow down, even for a moment. While I was admiring the pinks and greys of dusk I heard the Kellers across the street fighting. The warmth was starting to fade from the evening air and typically I would've headed inside, but last night, I sat immobile while Mr. Keller's voice drowned out the silence and young Kim Keller's screams ruined my own peace from the past.
The rules are that you're supposed to forgive and forget, at least that's how the saying goes, but no one really ever does and I don't think that I'm any different. I can never truly forget but I do think that it's strange who I have and haven't been able o forgive. Because I can't follow the rules, I've always imagined that I pushed these feeling and memories into an overhead compartment within myself. It's been a place I haven't revisited, but Kim's screams opened the storage space and spilled the contents within back into my memory.

At my house it always started the same way. Of course, there were warning signs, but to be quite honest, sometimes I knew I was pushing my father's buttons but I kept right at it. His temper was slow boiling, it took days before you actually saw it start to come to the surface, but sure enough, by the end of the week he was angry enough to hit. Like a priest who had one too many confessions, my father kept track of my weekly transgression and when he had enough of them, I was punished for them all. This is how it would start.
He would call me down into his den, while watching one of his numerous news shows, "Tara, get down here. Now!"
It was in the tone reserved for the days I was going to get my ass beat--a loud, shaking voice. It was not the goofy voice I would hear singing at some ungodly hour in the morning while he unloaded the diswasher on a typical day. I'd hear him summon me from the safety of my rooom and my head would swim trying to think of what I had done wrong, what he actually knew, and about how bad the night was going to be. These things were nearly incalculable but I weighed different scenarios in my head as I emerged from my room, trying to determine which failures were going to be highlighted tonight, and what kind of punishment that would entail.
Nothing was too trivial for him. The beatings were equal opportunities for all my crimes, whether it was a ten minute curfew violation or that time when I smart mouthed him on Tuesday, he remembered everything I did wrong. With each step downward, my coward heart would attempt to leap out of my throat, but somehow I kept it where it belonged, although it beat in my ribcage like a wild animal. My knewws and hands would shake as I made the slow mark down the eleven stairs that would take me to him.
When I wasn't sure what I had done wrong I would hide my hands in my pockets so that he wouldn't see that I was nervous. I'd smile the best I could, asking, "What do you need, Dad?"

He had such predatory skills, he could entrap anyone I think; even the mostly innocent. He'd start off slowly, and build up his questions until I had finally incriminated myself. I turned myself in every time. All he ever did was give me the rope to hang myself with. Well, that's not entirely true. Sometimes the neighborhood boys acted as my father's own private Gestapo. They were my friends, but my father bribed them with trips to the batting cages or to get ice cream. It was easy, these were boys who were raised in the shadow of divorce and were dying for a little male attention. They were comfortable with him and answered all his questions because the questions themselves seemed innocent. After a while, when I learned where this information leak was coming from, I made sure that whatever mischief I was involved in; that the boys were my cohorts. If they were guilty too, they would think twice about telling him anything.
Dad was a master interrogator; the first question would be fairly easy to answer. "Tara, I found the tage to your new shorts ripped off, did you rip them?" Even though I would try, he would never let me answer right away, he had more to say. I wanted to simply roll my eyes and tell him that everyone ripped the tags off their clothes, but I knew better. It may be a small thing to me, but this a monumental display of disobedience to him.
"I specifically told you that you ruin clothes that I spend good money on when you don't take that extra second to cut the tag off with a pair of scissor."
I could see him getting angrier and angrier with me because I hadn't answered him yet, he hadn't let me! This was where I had to make the quick decision of whether to lie or not. IT was risky because if I lied and was caught, the beating would be worse. The worst thing a person could do to my dad was to lie to him, but it was best thing to do if you could get away with it. I couldn't hesitate any any longer; otherwise he would know that I was making the decision. Swallowing air like someone drowning, I kept my head down and said, "Yes" as I tried to keep my voice from trembling.
"Look at me when you talk to me. Don't look at the ground, " his voice commanded as it got progressively louder, "Yes what? What did you do wrong Tara? Tell me."
I always made that mistake too. You have to answer a question completely. I remember looking straight into this stranger's eyes which usually belonged to my dad. Normally they remindedme of the dark, still water of the creek behind our house but today there was nothing but rage reflecting in them. I said in a quiet voice,
"Yes, Dad I ripped the tag off of my shorts."
"Tara," he began in his dramatized tired voice, "you can't even follow the simplest of directions. When are you going to listen to what I tell you? Do you think I talk just so I can hear myself speak?" You never answer this question because there are more to come and they will only get progressively worse. You must pick your battles.
"What's this I hear you went into the woods again when I told you that until you know exactly what poison ivy looks like, you're not allowed to go in there? Christ, I'm sick and tired of hearing you whine about how much your legs itch."
"Dad! I was only in there for like a minute because Natasha's mom asked me to go find her." Another mistake, you should never try to reason with him or try to make him understand. Reasoning is like talking back and talking back is never allowed.
"Well this is just great!" he said throwing his arms up in the air in a exaggerated way to show his exasperation with me. "So let me get this straight," leaning over the arm of his La-Z-boy and pointing at me, "you'll do what Natasha's mom says but you won't listen to your own father? Don't you see something fucked up there?" As he spoke the veins in his neck rose and pulsed as his face turned a blotchy red. This was never a good sign. Time to turn to the panicked plea.
"No Dad, that's not..." I tried quickly to say something to get out of trouble, to explain, but he cut me off. He always cut me off.
"What? That isn't what you did? You didn't do what Natasha's mom asked you to do?
I knew I had lost the battle. It was pointless to even try so I kept my face expressionless and stared at him. I ignored the words that continued to prod at me and began to wonder waht it would be like to peel his face off and see what was going on behind it. I imagined it was cold and sterile--like machinery; no margin for error just constant calculations and adjustments.
"Answer me damn it! You went into the woods when I expressly told you not to do so, right?"
"Yes but..." I pleaded again for him to just listen to me, but I knew that hew as going to get out of the chair. That was a bad sign; you're safe until he gets up. He would sit in teh recliner while I had to stand in front of him being grilled. Then he'd usually get up and scream at me within two inches of my face. We can thank the Marines for teaching him how to "break a person down to build them back up correctly." In a hiss he repeated himself, "You can't follow my instructions no matter how sinmple, can you?"
I gave up, "No Dad. I'm sorry." I said weakly. There was nothing more to say.
"You're no better than the fucking do, except at least she learned to listen to me," his face mpw a deep explosion of red, the vein over his right eye throbbed sickly. I forcued on it, not bothering to hear what he was saying. It didn't matter after this, because we were past the point where he would camn down. The next and only step from here was the basement. I swallowed thickly, waiting for him to give me the invitation to go down the four steps and bend over his blue weight bench. The invitation was slow coming that night. Again, not a good sign. Hewas still screaming about something-- I couldn't focus on what, I was too distracted by beads of spit that would fly out of his mouth and moisten my cheeks like tiny wet parachutes. I wated to flinch, but I knew that too, would be against the rules. I just had to ride it out. Sometimes the punishment came quickly, but days like these, I had to wait for it.
"Tara, go sit in the basement until I decide what I'm gonna do with you." He sat back down in his recliner, turned the volume of teh television up, doing his best to pretend to ignore me as I walked down the steps. It wasn't until I was standing by the bench that he'd lean over and push the door shut, muttering something about not wanting to see my face. The evening had been carefully scripted and now it was playing out just as he had planned.
And now this; seven years of torment hit me last night on the steps. Seven years of not thinking about it, making sure that my life was completely ordered, that there were no hidden dangers and somehow--here it all was again--removed from the secret overhead compartment in my head and emptied out in my brain. I couldn't stop the memories from coming back now. It was about once every two weeks or so we'd make a trip to the basement. The only things that changed were what he used to him me with and what was given to me the next day to make me not think about how much the bruises hurt. That year I managed to score a new Seag Gensis, a Diamondback bike with pegs on the back wheels for tricked I never learned, trips to the movies on school days when there was a bruise that shouldn't catch the eye of a school administrator, and tons of new clothes. I was envied by all the kids at school for being so spoiled. I never once corrected their mistake.
Sometimes he would use a board, or one of my mother's Dr. Schol sandals, you know the ones with the wooden bottoms? I can still remember the noise it made when it connected with my ass, like a hollow crack. I thought that if you heard it, you'd never forget it. But I had forgotten it in until last night, hadn't I?
I wonder if Kim across the street has heard it before, or if she soon will. I sat last night on the strep until well after midnight, reliving times I had though I"d put away for good, their argument kept me frozen to the step. I heard what my neighbors must've heard from the safety of their stoops or front porches. We probably ruined their evenings, they probably went inside, and shut the windows to get any peace from our skirmishes. And I did exactly what they must've done, listened with hungry ears and then did nothing.
Mr. Keller's muffled anger oozed out into the streets and I heard the familiar pleas from Mrs. Keller to leave Kim alone. She sounded just like my own mother who would try to get involved. Weeping she would try to be my champion, "Tommy, she's just a kid..." she'd trail off ringing her hands because she couldn't think of a better argument. I tried telling my mom that when she tried to stand up for me, she only made it worse. Dad would just get angrier with me. I'm sure Kim was thinking the same thing; she should probably tell her mom that.
I hate myself because I sat there last night, with my ear tuned into the harness across the street, angrey that the noise, that the memories were blocking out the summer songs of the cicadas. I saw the light go on in their basement and my throat closed. I couldn't stay there any longer. For the first time in years, I found myself curled in a ball on my bed, crying myself to sleep.
So today. The day after. I'm wondering if he really did beat her and if I would be able to tell. Old wounds had been opened and I learned what kind of coward I really am. I don't want to know if Kim got hit. I resent her. Tonight after Jeopardy, I'm going to close the windows and put the air conditioning on in case I need to block out anything that might go on across the street.
The rule is that you forgive and forget. I've forgiven my father but I'venever been able to fogive the neighbors who let him get away with it. I'm such a hypocrite.
*Names have been changed (obviously) but this is just one dandy true story.

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Thursday, November 09, 2006
In Dreams, I walk with you...
Last night was hysterical in its hi-jinx and creepy dreams, but it wasn't too conducive for sleep--I tossed, I turned, my arms fell asleep, I got laid upon by my husband who pretends in the middle of the night that I'm either the mattress or a pillow. You see, John and I went for wings. We weren't there long, but we were there long enough for me to come home roll around on the floor with John and the dog, then pass out on the couch while trying to watch Aqua Teen Hungerforce (which is kinda a little ritual that we have--watching ATH not the passing out...ok, maybe that too).

Apparently John undressed me, because I woke up this morning in only socks and when I went to grab my bra it was still clasped...he's the only man I've ever met that removes a girl's bra by pulling it over her head like a shirt. That got me to thinking about my dreams...but I said nothing at first because they were just soo weird. John said to me trying to distract me from my temper tantrum--I was beating the blankets whining about not sleeping enough, "I had some really crazy dreams last night," but he didn't know who he was talking to because in between getting woken up by John's sleep sneezing where he would do the following all in one swift motion:Sneeze. Sit Up. Flail arms. Hit me in the boobs--so while he was doing all that, I was having the weirdest dreams in the world.

First, I dreamed that I was trying to write a short story about mechanical sharks created by the government to kill people ( an odd little idea). Then I dreamed about the same sharks but this time they were out to get John and myself--it was like watching Jaws but my stumpy legs were in the shark's eyes view right before he chomped on me! Then I dreamed that John's mom was a heroin drug runner in a college town and that a shipment disappeared. For the rest of that dream we were frantically trying to get ahold of more heroin to replace the missing heroin so that we wouldn't be chopped into tiny pieces. We were not successful, unfortunately--I'd like to thank the creators of Fargo and Quentin Tarentino for providing me with enough bloody references to create a dream that was that gross! Then I dreamed that John and I were having sex...that turned out to not be a dream though, I think. Let me explain.

I asked John this morning, "Did you have sex my inebriated body last night?" as I picked up the His reply, "Maybe? Why do you ask?" I looked at his little grin and said, "Well I dreamed we had sex but I couldn't remember if we actually did or not." Johnny says to me with a straight face, "Well if you can't remember, we didn't have sex last night."
He's such a rascal, and I honestly still don't know.

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Wednesday, November 08, 2006
The anger sharks are swimming.
I have had a seething rage for everyone and everything that has crossed my path since 6:30 in the morning yesterday until this very second...aside from Frankie and Johnny (um yeah, that's right I have a dog named Frankie and a man name Johnny how cute is that? Especially since Johnny has no clue about the significance) . But that's just because they are so adorable that I couldn't unleash my unending anger on them. I feel the rage slowly receeding. I think I need a little time away from work tonight. I'm putting a ban on it. I'm going to go home, get a bath, read a book, pick out something yummy (but healthy) to eat, wait for my Johnny to come home--snuggle and 'poon on the couch...and let the rage rise again tomorrow--because I'm not gonna lie, it's hard to be me.

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Thursday, November 02, 2006
Passout Party Just Around the Corner

Camera found! It was lurking with Godzilla...a lovely (and I truly mean that, I pet lil' zill all the time) addition to our shelves courtesy of John's bachelordom/childhood. I'm assuming that my drunken self thought that Godzilla could hide and protect my camera while I decided to pass out. Of course, before I passed out I dragged John upstairs to ravage him. What? Do you feel that host and hostess should stay up and entertain their guests? In our home, we do not. We went upstairs...I may or may not have ravaged that man I call a mate (the jury's out on that one, neither of can remember) while our friends partied until about 7am...Guess they didn't need us. (picture of one of lovely party goers down at our basement bar--John's friend talked to my friend for nearly two hours before they smooched! I'm hoping they hit it off...but we'll see...he swapped DNA with one of my other friends at our wedding reception)

What were we for Halloween before I shucked my costume off and rolled naked in my bed? We were the most distasteful pairing you can imagine. I'll let you guess if you'd like but I'm not going to tell just yet, for fear of being crucified.

In other news. We decided to try and lay low for a few weeks. We want to save up for fun stuff, maybe a little holiday vacation (oh la la), or Christmas presents or even birthday presents! We've eliminated credit cards from our lives and decided that we will live within our means. Our friends,however, have other plans for us. While we ate some wonderful, wonderful wings last night (they're free with a five dollar pitcher of Yuengling-Pennsylvania's idea of the best lager ever--I've never bought into the hype whatsoever--but I do appreciate that it's America's oldest brewery) we licked our fingers and discussed the wonders of Everclear, no not the band headed by Art somebody (who quite obviously had a horrible father), but the grain alcohol that has been banned in Pennsylvania due to the fact that myself and many other college goers in PA couldn't get enough of the stuff--we'd shove it in watermelons, drinks, even pasta salad if we had to (luckily I never went to that point of no return).

Anyways, our friend Tony and John decided that they had a hankering for the potent potable (put that in your glass and drink it Trebek!) and made the decision that on Saturday, we were going to trek down to the fine state of Delaware, (a state which is really on good for purchasing grain alcohol) and pick up a few bottles of the stuff. We're going to make good ol' fashion jungle juice (is that pc? should I call it a rainforest refreshment?), we're going to buy a new trashcan, and fill the lovely container with fruit, red liquid (Hawaiian punch perhaps) and lots and lots of grain. Saturday will be deemed Blackout Saturday, not to be confused with Black Friday. Wish us lots of luck.

PS. I read Jay's post about making sushi with Jason and it got me thinking that I would love to take a little cooking class kind of thing (that DOES NOT INVOLVE FISH RAW OR OTHERWISE) with thanks Jay, I'm going to see if there's anything cool like that in our neck of the woods.

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