My Honey had a show this weekend – a benefit for fallen soldiers. His band does quite a few benefits, in fact, usually whenever asked.  They’ll be doing another one next weekend for some children’s charity.

The benefit this weekend took place in the large parking lot of a local bar.  A very well known bar with a rather ignominious reputation. Those of us who grew up in this town all knew this particular bar for the Harley Davidson’s parked outside, a generally hairy and often scary clientele, and the colorful notations in the Police Blotter. Of course, all that meant to me was that I was dying to get a look inside.  Now the bar’s reputation has mellowed (apparently it even hosts a college night and karaoke!!), although there are still Harleys parked outside and the sandwich board sign announcing the Wet T-Shirt contest is still happily displayed when you drive by. Nevertheless, there was still a extra ounce of excitement for me that the show was hosted there – albeit in the parking lot. Perhaps I could connive my way in to use the bathroom?

There was no need to connive – they were more than happy to let me in.  I suspect they always would have. I never did use the bathroom, although in order to really accurately report to you my impressions of the bar, I should have ventured in there – maybe with a stick and a can of Raid.

I am please to tell you that the bar was every bit what I was expecting it to be, plus a skosh more disgusting. There were cheap counter-top slabs attached to pillars to set your drink on and battered bar stools to sit on if you aren’t too particular about splinters in your rear. The ceilings were very low and smoke stained.

The real glory was behind the bar and on the ceiling beams. There were skulls and shark teeth and pictures galore. Tucked inside one niche was the gas tank of a police motorcycle from the 1980’s. The thing that fascinated me the most, however, were the twenty or thirty bras strung up along the ceiling beams.  Now, I’ve been in many classy establishments that used tacked up women’s underclothing for decoration, but there was one bra that had me spellbound. It was silky, leopard print and it was huge. I’m not talking about normal huge. I’m talking about HUGE huge.  Elephantine. Gargantuan. E-freaking-normous. I could have put my head comfortably in one cup and worn it as a hat. I contemplated the power this brassiere must have had in order to hold up those puppies it was tasked with juggling. And, holy moly, it must have been really expensive.  The lady in question would certainly have had to be very drunk indeed to give up a custom made bra such as this willingly.

Besides, the decor, the people watching was extraordinary. I haven’t seen so many bearded and mustachioed men since I went down to Tombstone for Helldorado Days. One or two biker chicks held my attention for a while – that is until they decided to take a seat in the one and only booth and I was subject to an absolutely horrifying beaver shot. Seriously. I wouldn’t even begin to make that shit up.

I did my best not to stare, but honestly, I don’t know how good a job I did. I kept hunting through the crowd for the owner of that magnificent bra.

One of my favorite authors had the latest in her outstanding Highland Pleasures series – Jennifer Ashley’s The Many Sins of Lord Cameron. I read it and posted a review on my examiner.com page. Click on the cover and follow the jump to see what I thought.

There is a store around the corner from my house that just drives me insane. It’s not what it sells – antiques, but rather the outside decor. It has just grown weirder and weirder as time goes on. 

It began with one metal buffalo on a rolling stand. That wasn’t too odd, neither was it that strange when the buffalo got himself a girlfriend.  But things didn’t stop there. Oh no. Now there is an entire herd of buffalo in various sizes that are trundled out to the parking lot or stationed on the roof every single day. But that’s not enough. Now all the of the stupid buffalo are painted metallic gold and silver with various colors of bright zebra stripes.  Imagine a life-sized buffalo painted gold with teal, orange or green zebra stripes.

There is also a Gilligan’s Island style boat painted about six different colors on the roof, too. I know. It doesn’t make any sense to me either.

To further enhance this bizarre marketing strategy, lately an airplane was situated in a mock crash into the roof – nose down with broken wings.

And a sign that says something about pigs flying and making a messy landings.

Honestly, every time I drive by the place it makes me angry and, because it’s only around the block from my house, I pass by ALL THE TIME. I don’t know that I’ve ever responded so strongly to a marketing ploy.

Is it just me or would that monstrosity annoy you, too?

I was crouched down in the hall using an unwound paperclip to fiddle with the bathroom doorknob. Someone had locked the door, but no one was inside. Of course, both children implied the other one had locked the door from the outside. It didn’t really matter who did it, I just needed in there.

I cursed when the stupid paperclip bent again and I was denied access. I stood up and stared at the locked door.  All right, what did I really need in there for? We have another bathroom, but it’s the scary “boys” bathroom. The 2^nd bathroom has a shower, but none of my stuff is in there so I couldn’t wash my hair or face. Well, maybe I could forgo the shower for this morning.  I glanced at my hair in the mirror in my bedroom.  Surprisingly, it wasn’t too bad, which was a damn good thing because the hair implements are behind the locked door.  I would have access to no hairspray or gel, blow dryer or curling iron.  I supposed if I looked around the house, I would find a hair tie or two.

I continued to stare at the locked door.  I debated removing the doorknob all together but that seemed rather excessive since I knew My Honey would be able to unlock the door when he got home tonight.

Crap. My toothbrush and deodorant were in there.  That was bad. I have a spare toothbrush at work and some deodorant as well. I guessed I’d just resist breathing on anyone until I got to work and could perform some basic toiletries.

I jiggled the knob again.  Nope.  No spontaneous unlocking had occurred.

My makeup was behind the door. I would have to resign myself to going to work with no shower, odd hair (nothing new there really) and no makeup except the mascara left over from yesterday.

“Whatcha doin’?” The Bandit asked strolling down the hall brandishing a Prince of Persia sword.

“Coming to grips with my life.” I sighed and let my shoulders droop in defeat.

“You want in there?” he asked, nonchalant.

“Yes.” I bent and peered hopelessly into the tiny hole in the knob that confounded me so. The Bandit reappeared at my side.  I hadn’t even noticed he’d left. He held a very skinny screwdriver in his little fist.

“I’ll do it,” he said and pushed me aside.

I looked at him skeptically and breathed a heavy sigh. I glanced at the dog sleeping in the hall and hated him for a moment because he didn’t worry about silly things like cleanliness and fresh breath.

No less than three seconds later, The Bandit swung the door open, a satisfied grin on his face. “There you go. No problem, Mom.”

I blinked at the light streaming out of the bathroom. I didn’t know what to say. How does a mother comment when faced with her six year old son’s lock picking expertise?

“Why can’t you remember to flush the toilet when you use it?”

The Sister’s are feeling sullen. All three of us at the same time.  This probably isn’t good for the world as a whole and definitely not good for the happy, smiley, nauseatingly Sesame Street store greeter type people that seem to populate our world.

I’ve decided I just don’t want to talk to people anymore.  This isn’t good considering my job requires me to listen to people and express empathy for their tough financial situations. Apparently, I’m a consummate actress because my customer evaluations always come back glowing. We also resent clerks in stores offering to help us and we resent them when they are invisible. There is no winning with us. We resent the slackers at The Church (Barnes & Noble’s instore Starbucks) who hog all the tables when we meet there for coffee, yummies and bitching. Don’t these freakin people have jobs? We could go on forever listing the people who irritate us but after a while that would get irritating.

I don’t know if our problem is that it’s been a ridiculously long, hot summer or our general malaise with our chosen professions.  Perhaps it’s because there is no diet in this world that works and we’re all deathly tired of salad. Maybe it’s because, since we haven’t won the lottery, we lost Greece when the rest of Europe decided to bail them out.  We have hopes for Italy or Spain – specifically Italy.  We contemplated whether or not to allow the Pope to stay in Vatican City, but we think not. I plan to put my bed directly under Michelangelo’s masterpiece.

However our problem began, it’s escalated into a dire situation indeed.  I suggested today that we get shirts that read:

My son was nicknamed The Bandit for a reason.  Beyond a doubt my son is the mastermind behind any devious adventures either at school or at home. At this point, of course, all his misdeeds are minor,funny and blog worthy. But the boy is a consummate liar and soon that won’t be so funny.

At the age of six the things he chooses to lie about are minimal, but the way he does it is worthy of a mob interrogation.

For example, his father came upon the boy standing on the stove and leaning into the highest shelves of the open pantry.  “What are you doing?” he asked The Bandit. Of course, Daddy had a pretty clear idea what was going on.

The boy didn’t jump or look guilty, he just glanced at his father. “Nothing,” he said with a straight face. 

“What’cha got in your hand there?” Daddy motions to the box of cookies Bandit has in his hands.

“Nothin’.”

“Really,” Daddy tilts his head and raises his eyebrows to indicate disbelief. “I see you holding the cookies.”

“No, I’m not.”

Daddy scoffs, loudly. “Dude, I’m looking at you.  I can see you.”

Again with the straight face. “I was counting the cookies.”

“Counting them?” Daddy nods in disbelief. “Looks to me like you were eating them.”

Bandit purses his lips together, scrunching up his chin, and just shakes his head just like Al Pacino in Scarface. “No.”

“You’ve got chocolate all over your face, man, I can see it.”

Then in a move that would make Gotti proud, he says to his father, “I don’t have chocolate on my face.”

If he gets any better at this, I suspect the CIA is going to come calling.

You can follow the link to the review I posted this week at examiner.com.  Just click on the book cover if you’re into that sort of thing.