DAMN I LOVE THIS WEATHER

And so do my babies. Here is what I caught on film while weeding this afternoon.

I know, you read that right. I was out of doors WEEDING. Getting dirty. I exposed my butt crack for two hours while bending over pulling nasties out of the ground. IT WAS FABULOUS. I have found a new method of relaxing that is not only good for me, but for my butt crack as well.



Princess Velcro. What a cutie.

Check out Timmy in his element. Rrower.


And once again, the princess catching some sun.


AHHHH what a beautiful day!

ROLL CALL

Would the fella's in the House of Cute please stand up, please stand up, please stand up?

While glancing through my pop culture life style, a couple of cuties caught my eye. Take a look at their cuteness, they might just make your day.

He can dress well, is a successful buisness man AND score one of the hottest honies around.

Is there a CUTIE in the House?

Yes he might be animated, but have you seen Liono rock the discoteque?

This cat can really ROAR! Let's hear it for the sexiest Thunder Cat around! MEE-OWWW!

With hair, or without hair Chow Yun-Fat is worth eating!

Chow down on these photos ladies!

Generally he plays a bad guy, but that doesn't fool me!

He does all of the cooking at the House of Cute.

And let me tell you, there's nothing burning in the kitchen, it's Gary, he's SMOKIN'!

LL might be cool to the touch, but the Cool J is HOT.

He can RAP me up anytime!

So misunderstood, this actor has haunted the House of Cute ever since his role in The Professional.

To top off his cuteness, he was born in Casablanca, Morocco! Take that Gary, Indiana!

AHHH the power of ME

I had a day. A day of all days. One to end the world kind of days. One where you look back and think “why didn’t I just stay in bed.” Oh yeah, it was one of those.

It was TUBEsteak. (For those who don’t know this reference, feel free to check out http://bagsfagsanddrags.blogspot.com/2006/04/tube-steak.html ) I had a class. (I teach beverage sales skills for a multiple location company). My class was located at an establishment outside of Portland. But this is only where the story begins.

I am a public transportation DIVA. I would rather a bus/train take me there than to drive. This, however, is not my point. I will save the reasons why I public transit for another blog. My point of this blog is “AHHHH the power of ME.”

Anyhow. I plan my route via bus line days in advance. It should only take me an hour door to door. Not too shabby. I can read. Relax. Prep for my class. Only it is TUBEsteak, and not my day. So instead of boarding my bus, bus #35, I somehow end up on the #96. Oh yeah. You don’t even know what this means do you? For those of you out-of-towners or car-drivers, this means that by the time I realize I am on the wrong bus I am in BFT. BUTT FUCK TIGARD. I am ½ hour from my class location, and I have 45 minutes to get there.

This, however, is not the point of my blog. It is TUBEsteak, and not my day. But the point of my blog is “AHHHH the power of ME.”

I do end up getting to my location, oh yes. By the power of “MOTHER.” I have 10 minutes to set up and gain composure. I get my twenty breaths in. Set up my glassware and handouts and am ready to go.

It is a glorious day. We are outside on a patio, in the sunshine, 70 degree weather. I start my class, get into my grove. Because we are outside I have to compete vocally with traffic and an eardrum busting train, but all is good. I have everyone’s attention. They are laughing and learning and having a good time. Oh but wait, some of them aren’t. Instead they are smoking and drinking and talking a good time amongst themselves.

We have all attended school at one point in our lives. We all know the classroom dynamic. Those who sit in the front are the goody-goody-nerds and those who sit in the back are the cool-rock-in-roll-I-don’t-have-to-listen-to-you kids. This disruptive table of mine was located in the back. And they were having themselves a gay ol’ slap-each-other-on-the-ass kind of time (which is something my Gym teacher used to say).

I continue with my class. I continue with my class until it becomes so unbearable talking over the traffic, train and tough guys that I finally say something. “Hey. I have traveled out here to talk about wine. Please give me and your co-workers the respect we deserve and pay attention.” That was it. It was all I said. EVERYONE got quite. I continued. I was tired. I finished and was ready to get out of there, but TUBEsteak wasn’t done with me yet. OH NO.

One kid, who didn’t listen to me the whole time, snorting under his breath and talking baby talk every time I asked a question, claimed I was directionally challenged (which might be true considering my wrong bus adventure) and didn’t know what I was talking about. But he wasn’t the topper. The rowdy group wasn’t the topper, although they made my job difficult. The topper was “CHIEF.” That is what I will call him.

“CHIEF” was the leader of the gang. He was the one who smoked cigarettes and talked throughout my entire presentation. He was the instigator. He gave me DEATH looks throughout my entire class. “CHIEF” met me on my way out. He opened his mouth, and this is what he said:

“I just want to apologize if you thought we were being rude. We weren’t. You only get respect if you deserve respect and you DON’T deserve respect. You are rude and condescending, and don’t deserve my respect.”

I said a few things. Thought about slaying him and tried to get out of there as fast as possible. The manager met me on the front steps, apologized profusely for his staff and I went home to cry in a tub filled with lavender infused bubbles.

This is where I get to “AHHH the power of ME.”

I stand up for myself. I handled myself very well. I told the rowdy group to shut the fuck up. I pleasantly told “CHIEF” that I was sorry he felt that way. I didn’t get into the gory details with the manager about “CHIEF” and his crowd. I went home. I drew a bath. I sent an email to my superiors to let them know, not in detail, what happened and to ask for advice as to where to go from there.

I was immediately contacted by several managers, heads of human resources, etc. I was apologized to MANY a time and asked to relay, in detail my experience. My day started to disappear. I hear talk of “write-ups” and “verbal warnings.” I feel good. I feel great! I am being listened to. I am being treated like a human, unlike the day before. I didn’t want to come out as the “tattle tale” or the “bitch” but no one should be treated this way. NO ONE.

“AHHH the power of ME.”

Until “CHIEF” was fired. I felt great until that. I was told that “CHIEF” was demoted the week before and a long-time problem employee, however, I wasn’t ready for my voice to carry so far as to affect his employment. What if he has a family? What if? What if? What if?

And so I am left with the upper hand, as a better person, but I never set out to change a person’s life, nor income. I only wanted to make things right.

“AHHHH the power of ME.”

TUBE STEAK

Today is Tuesday. My lovely friend Bo-Bandy calls it “tube steak.” I think it is fucking hilarious! So on this beautiful Tube Steak, I would like to talk about my friend Brit.

She is down. Overwhelmed. Stretched too thin. Feeling too many emotions that just make her head swell. I want to give her a rest bit. I want to give her a break. I am giving Brit my “TUBE STEAK” blog to use as an energy boost or as a nap, which ever she prefers. For the rest of you out there, be thankful that Brit is even LETTING you read this.

Brit and I met while on the job. I won’t call it work, because it wasn’t. We sold high end Italian Ceramics. We couldn’t afford the ceramics we sold. Richies would come in and ask us stupid ass questions like “what pattern do you own?” (We made close to minimum wage. We couldn’t afford a $22 coffee mug.) So, I would lie. Every day I owned a new imported Italian ceramic design. Brit didn’t lie about it. “I have one of those.” She would point to the pattern of which she bought a chipped coffee mug from the damaged/sale table the week before. Brit is good like that. She won’t lie to make other people money.

At first the owners, who looked a bit like this:

Would keep us separated. Brit would be on duvet duty on the second floor. Duvet duty consisted of changing out the bed linens on the six plus beds that were located upstairs. Each bed had to be stripped from its décor, listed from bottom to top:

1) Dust ruffle
2) Fitted sheet
3) Top sheet
4) Duvet cover
5) Coverlet
6) 2 standard pillows
7) 2-3 Euro shams
8) 2-3 small throws

Each one of these items had to be taken off of the bed or removed from the insert and re folded into its original plastic-zip-protector baggie to look as if it had never graced a floor sample. YEAH, do that six times over and you might think that you are losing your mind. “Oh, but it sounds so easy!” you say. Well un-making and re-making a bed on the second floor of a non-air conditioned building in the middle of summer is like taking a Total Body Challenge at the Sahara. No, it is like doing the Iron Man Challenge in August at Vegas. No, it is like being Oprah’s bra while she is frantically shopping for high-end Italian leather handbags.

Anyhow, that is how the owners, would keep us separated. This “second-floor-switch-a-roo” only worked until noon, when the oldest owner would leave after having a glass or two of wine to head home to get her crunk on. Her daughter would file out shortly there after citing “lunch with friends” or “big boot sale” or “I’ve got a pot of chili going on the stove.”

“Can you gals close up shop?”

“Heck yes we can!” A sly nod between the two of us. Once the cat was away, BOOYA. Brit and I would break out the martinis and pretend to dust the ceramics until closing time a six.

All in all it was pretty coosh. The two owners were manic, on one emotional plateau one minute and then flying to another the next. We worked with a few crazy rich teenagers who were friends of the owner’s family. They were fun to watch come into work every day in a “crisis.” (MY HAIR, MY FRIENDS, MY TRIP TO MIKINOS!) Brit and I would nod, look at each other and nod again.

“Fucking rich whores!”

Those were good times. Brit and I became great friends. If we had never worked there we would have never met, and I would be so sad if we had never met. Even though I wouldn’t have known that you were out there, I would have had a hallow place in my life, where you should be. Brit, I love you. We all want you to be the happy, linen folding, martini sippin girl, with your Jerry Garcia past. Don’t let the world hit you too fast and make you change. Take a moment each day to remember what has come before. Dieci Soli.