Wednesday, February 24th, 2010
There are many reasons why I love writing Naked Thanks. I love seeing what is going on in Stacey’s life, I love thanking people who make such a difference in my life, and on days like today, I love it because I have to think of something I’m thankful for.
I sure didn’t feel very appreciative when I got home from work this evening. In fact, I wanted to light a few people’s hair on fire. Including many of those closest to me. But I refrained. I didn’t express to one of them that they have the intelligence of a feral pig. I just took a long walk home and immediately sat down at my keyboard with two lollypops the size of my fist and thoughts of thanks.
Then out of the blue, my very good friend/ex-boyfriend texted me and said he was utterly bored and wanted to chat. I warned him that I was in a horrific mood and would probably be as fun to talk to as an inmate coming out of solitary. But he went with it anyway and we gabbed for a few hours about absolutely nothing. Of course, Nate is more entertaining talking about absolutely nothing than most people are talking about boos, babes, and battle scars.
I miss the days where we could do some illegal canoeing while writing haikus about toads and not have to worry about the trials and tribulations of jobs that make you nuts. But Nate is still better than a whiskey and a shrink over the phone.
I like many things about this picture. Nate kind of looks like a Floridian Johnny Depp here, which is cool. He's double fisting bottles, not glasses, also cool. And, he is wearing what he wore pretty much every day in college plus a light weight fedora. A nod to the days of yore.
Friday, February 12th, 2010
I have endured a normal amount of embarrassment in my day. I had an ex take a video of me intoxicated and snoring. That was awesome. I had a neighbor chastise me for having sex so loud that it stressed out his pregnant wife. A less than comfortable conversation to endure. And the list goes on. But one of the most mortifying experiences of my life was when I stood topless in the rather swanky DC jazz club, Blues Alley. Not in a bra, not with my hands clasped over my breasts, just completely boobs out topless. My arms were even arched back in some sort of Victoria Secret position to make things even louder and prouder.
While I have been known to encourage skinny-dipping and aspire to run naked around the Washington Monument, I did not plan on exposing my mammary glands to discerning jazz connoisseurs. It was actually a very innocent mistake. I had decided to wear a black lightweight halter top to the evening’s concert to pair along with some very respectable pants. Of course me having my boobs, I opted not to wear a bra under said top and just threw a coat on and headed to DC’s Mecca of jazz.
We were a tad late arriving at Blues Alley and when we walked in, almost all the other patrons were seated and ready for the concert to begin. Which meant of course that I was standing, almost spotlighted, in a group of seated civilized jazz fans. When my very chivalrous date stood behind me and took off my coat the hook on my shirt snagged and the whole thing fell to my waist. So with arms back and no where to hide I stood there boobs out for that little slice of jazz heaven to see.
Surprisingly, I was not heckled. No one took a picture. No YouTube videos appeared the next day. And while I proved very popular with the band that evening, I was not mortified to the point of abandoning ship. Those jazz heads are so liberal, bless their hearts. They probably see boobs and jazz as going together like vermouth and gin.
Jazz heads are just cooler. Exhibit A being this picture I found online. If my boobs had been out for all to see at a death metal concert, I'm sure the reaction would have been different.
Wednesday, December 30th, 2009
Ollie has taken to Las Vegas like a fish to water. Here’s a little photo montage to illustrate:
CASH: Ollie helps himself to the contents of Daddy's wallet then proceeds to play, "MAKE IT RAIN!" sans pants for 45 minutes
BOOBS: Ollie ponders a return to breastfeeding
FOOD: Literally "licking the platter clean" at dinner
Sunday, November 29th, 2009
One of my oldest friends from childhood decided to do the dirty and marry the man she loves. But before she slapped on the ball and chain, I decided to throw her a bachelorette party that would have us drunk and partially naked for 48 hours. Annapolis, Maryland, where the festivities took place, is a perfect town for such a weekend as it is teeming with virile Naval academy gents in spanking white uniforms. The odds are good and the goods aren’t odd.
If I ever grow a third eye and find myself really desperate to get some XY chromosome action, I am thumbing my way to Annapolis where the men are plentiful, patriotic, and very well-groomed. The bachelorette weekend had one of our attendees offering her services as a fluffer, a professional baseball player practicing his striptease for us, and a renewed love for tequila shots and the boys who buy them for you. Unfortunately, we were not arrested for indecent exposure, nor did we spend the night sandwiched between Midshipman, but we got darn close.
The bachelorette party goers take a rest with Captain Bob after mooning half of Annapolis.
Lauren Moore, the bride to be, with some lifelong pals. God bless the United States Navy.
Friday, November 20th, 2009
Unlike in college, when I could drink a bottle of bourbon and still do a balance beam routine, I actually have a terrible tolerance now and don’t drink that often. Of course when I do, I just get to pay the price that my 18-year-old self guffawed at.
The night I made love to Jack Daniels with my stomach lining, I had spent the evening in a place called “The high rollers lounge,” and managed to consume an alarming amount of free! whiskey while also discovering a love for gratis Cuban cigars. Where did I find this fine complimentary contraband you ask? At a fundraiser for children, of course. It’s amazing how many times you can slur “it’s for the kids” as you drop another bill on the table, lap at your keg-size cocktail and inappropriately shake your (very small) boobs for the underage legally-blind (I swear this is true) dealer.
At appropriate times, like fancy fundraisers for children in need, I’m going to drink like a painted lady of the Old West, and I know I can count on Jack Daniels to carry me through.
2001- the year I really embraced Jack Daniels. Things have been rosy ever since.
Whiskey and the airplane move are a tough combination. But persevere! I was flying high after this slight crash.