Oh, guys. I have bad news. We are kind of sort of leaving Bitchburgh. We’ve all taken our time off for various reasons, but it looks like right now none of us have what it takes to be a Bitch. CC is too busy being married and fabulous, Hot Mama went and get herself a full time job (because you know, raising two boys, three if you count Hot Papa, isn’t enough. She’s superwoman), and me, well…. lemme explain.

I’ve changed. A lot. Perhaps you’ve noticed. I’ve out grown Bitchburgh. I hate saying that. I love Bitchburgh. There is some funny, funny shit on here. And there always will be. I will leave this up. Mainly because I’ve already decided that I’m never going to run for office. And really, most people who know me already know it’s my blog, so I figure if there were ever going to be any negative ramifications, they would have happened. (Sidenote: Over on my new blog, which we will get to shortly, I’m going to tell you about an amazingly wonderful ramification of my blog. So you should probably tune in for that).

So yes, I’m over it. It feels like I’m forcing it when I write here now, and that’s never good. I have lots to say, I just want it to be….different. And I didn’t want to highjack Bitchburgh and make her something she wasn’t. I was over thinking up ‘blog names’ for people and a host of other things.  I want to thank Bitchburgh for getting me through my sex life over share phase, the birth of my youngest son, and my boob job. I will be forever grateful and I have nothing but love.

But the time has come to move on. I needed a space where I can be me. I mean actually me. Where work folk, family folk, my kids, everyone can read it without me getting embarrassed/arrested/fired. Where I can get passionate about my passions. Where I can post adorable pictures of my children and wax rhapsodic about Merlot. It will still be me, I promise. Just a bit more refined. Fancy. Bigger words. Less vagina.

I hope you will join me. And this blog isn’t going anywhere. You never know when we might make an appearance. : )

Yours in writerosity,

The woman formerly known as Mindbling, now known as Bethany.

See you at Running On Wine

Nothing says 2012 like someone who is actually 2012. Can we just let the poor man rest in peace already?

Mavrick and I rang in the New Year the way god intended: buck naked and groggily high-fiving each other because it appeared we had made it back to our hotel room.

SCENE:

It was pitch black. He looked at me (I think). I looked at him (again, it was pitch black, it could have been the headboard. Who knows?). There was a knock at the door. We both jump.

Lightly accented voice outside of door – Housekeeping!

Mavrick – Are you serious? It’s what, 6:30 in the morning? Really? Housekeeping? REALLY?

Lightly accented voice outside of door – *shufflesofftonextroom*

Me – What the hell… what time is it?

I stumble out of bed, fumble around in the darkness for my phone. I look at my phone.

Me- There is no way…. *shakesphone*

Mavrick – What?

Me – You have got to be… *grabs work blackberry*… no freaking WAY!

Mavrick – WHAT?

Me – grabs Mavrick phones, shakes that, too….’Sweetie. It’s 11:00 in the morning.’

Mavrick – *thunk*

Let me explain.

We haven’t slept in past 7:00 am since early 2010. This, to us, was the best possible way to start the New Year! That and sex. So we had sex, then we sat down to piece together what happened the night before.  It started a little something like this…. (cue dreamy swirly video to flash back sequence)

Mavrick’s step-sister, Ali (who I will NOT be skewering on the blog because a.) she is awesome, and b.) see previous post about boxing) was having a fondue/New Year’s Eve party at her amazingly swank loft home in gorgeous downtown Dayton, OH.

I think I speak for all of us when I say that if you ever get a chance to visit Dayton, you go. Okay. In all fairness, maybe you haven’t thought that. But Dayton is actually quit lovely, and we decided what the hell, let’s pack up the truck and head into adventure!

We were further motivated by the fact that Ali had recently gone through a Dee-vorce, and not only was this her first newly single and ready to mingle New Year’s Eve, but her ex, the usually affable Bama, was having a competing party with his new girlfriend. Right.Across.The.Street.  This would not do.

So off we went to Dayton, with nothing but a duffle bag and good intentions.

The whole night started out innocently enough, with Mavrick and I stopping across the Ohio border to get 22 OZ cans of Colt 45 malt liquor (ancient family tradition). We then made our way to our hotel, the Dayton Grand, and got ourselves comfy.

By got comfy I mean, of course, polish off Colt 45’s and a bottle of SkinnyGirl Sangria. We then walk to Ali’s house to begin the party. We cracked open some wine, and that’s about my last full, non-fuzzy memory.

Pro tip: Don't drink or smoke anything endorsed by Snoop Dogg. Ever. For any reason.

According to Mavrick’s step-sister in law, who doesn’t drink, let’s call her Soberella, the following occurred:

I called one of the lovely guests a ‘grown ass man with a pony tail’.  When Mavrick was then asked if I was always this rude, he shrugged and said ‘basically, yes.’ (Don’t worry. I’ve been told I smoothed things over with said guest).

I walked around at midnight, brandishing not one but two bottles of champers, loudly saying, ‘WHO NEEDS CHAMPERS? ANYONE NEED CHAMPERS? WHO NEEDS SOME EFFING CHAMPERS? ANYONE? NO? OKAY!’ then chugged directly out of both bottles. At the same time.

I asked all of the party guests if they had any idea how much I paid for that champagne. Made strange by the fact that I had not purchased one single bottle of champagne for the party.

I went down to allegedly smoke, but apparently I really wanted to run recon on above mentioned competing party. I’ve heard that didn’t end so well. They won’t tell me why.

Those are the items I can tell you about. I would like to thank Soberella for filling in the details that we had forgotten. We felt very much so like we were in Hangover 3 – Down and Out in Dayton, half expecting a monkey to jump on the bed, or a forgotten infant to squall out from the bar fridge.

I want to thank Ali for a lovely time, and for introducing me to the concept of a ‘fondue faux pas’. I would also like to thank Mavrick’s step brother, Browns Fan (really, I don’t feel like that particular blog name needs an explanation) and his lovely wife, Soberella, for hosting us the next day.

Mavrick, Me and Ali. On a very merry NYE, indeed.

I spent my New Year’s surrounded by the love of my life, family, and friendship. I really can’t remember a better New Year’s.  I can’t really remember this one, either, but hey.  You know what I mean.

Yours in holiday hangovers,

MB

Imma make mommy look cray cray....

I spent a considerable amount of time over Christmas trying to get the baby to show off the amazing and wonderful trick I taught him. This is a tradition that started with his older brother, who would do it at the drop of a hat. He would do it without asking. He would walk right up to total strangers and bust this sucker out. Mavbling? Not so much.

There was a lot of, come on baby! Do it for mommy! What does Santa say? And a lot of me, sweating, saying, ‘I swear, he does this all the time when no one is here, heh heh.’ And a lot of people looking at me like, that poor, delusional woman.

Well, to all of those people I say HA!!! The second you all left, LOOK WHAT MY BABY DID! Bask in the cute, folks.

I must have been a very good girl this year, because Mavrick  Claus went above and beyond on the Christmas prezzies. I got a Keurig one cup coffee maker, and if you think I’m not excited about that, then you haven’t been to my house yet. Everyone that comes in gets bombarded:  “Do you want a cup of coffee? Cause I can totally make you one. Fresh. In under a minute. Seriously. You better have some coffee. You look like you need some.”

But as much as I love my new coffee pot, and believe me, I have already considered sleeping with it, it isn’t my favorite prezzie. That lofty honor is reserved for my new running gear and my marathon training class I will be taking with Fleet Feet Pittsburgh.

Before you start calling me crazy, let me preface all of this by saying I have not yet committed to running the FULL marathon. I am currently registered for the half, and that is my goal. Except. Except I can already run 8.5 miles, and I’m doing my first half marathon in March, and a Tough Mudder in April, and after that, won’t I need a new goal to reach?

I seem to gravitate towards things that are considered extreme, like skydiving, natural childbirth and raising a teenager. And I have finally figured out why. I am constantly trying to push myself to prove to myself (and others) that I can do it, because for a long time no one thought I was going to amount to much of anything.

I was a single, 20 year old mother on welfare. I partied too much. I smoked. I had tattoos. I wasn’t going to be shooting to the top of anyone’s Most Likely to Succeed list, not even my own.

I can’t pinpoint the exact moment that I decided to change my life. There was no grand A HA moment.  I just got sick of people looking down on me. I got sick of knowing I could do something, but having people think I couldn’t.

That was the best fuel for me. Think I can’t do something? I will show you. I knew I was smart and I surely wanted better for Jr., so I had to make some life changes, quickly.

I set small goals and I worked to meet them. Get better job. Done. Graduate college. Done. Get betterer job. Done. Get bestest job ever. Done. Meet man of dreams. Done. Fall so in love that the very fabric of my life changes. Done. Have baby. Done. Now what? Run a marathon? Why? Because someone out there thinks I can’t do it. And I am going to prove them wrong. Bring.It.On.

So yes, I must have been a very good girl this year. And I plan on being an even better one next year. After I ace this marathon, I’m thinking that maybe mountain climbing would be the next logical step. Everest, anyone?

Every year, I just make Christmas my bitch!

I am sure you all know the type. Christmas shopping done by December 1^st. Gifts, wrapped. Cards? Sent. With personalized notes and a photo of the whole family, plus the dog, in front of a roaring fire. Cookies? Baked. With a few extra dozen, ‘just in case’.  Everything is ready to go, with weeks to spare!

I, however, am not that person.

Every year I have this vision of myself as a cross between Martha Stewart and Betty Crocker, but younger, and way better looking. In this vision, I always have a perfectly decorated house. I have mailed out homemade Christmas cards with a four page newsletter, highlighting our familial achievements. I have purchased and am ready to prepare a locally-sourced and fully organic Christmas Dinner to serve to my friends and family, and I have perfectly thought out, sentimental, practical gifts for everyone, wrapped and nestled under the tree.

That’s the vision. Here is the reality:

I have three presents purchased, out of the approximately 40 on my list.

I tried to take pictures of the kids to put on cards to send out to people, but they were both being little shits, so all of the pictures turned out like this:

Oh, look, there's mom with a camera. Look down. And don't look up. Ever.

So then I got upset, went out and bought the big bottle of wine and some regular cards, sat down and painstakingly hand wrote each card. It took so long I got drunk, so the last couple of cards look like the baby wrote them, but I was so upset I mailed them anyway.  So, sorry if one of those was yours.

Of the three presents I have purchased, exactly none of them are wrapped. I fucking hate wrapping presents. I pretend like I enjoy it, and I try to fake myself out. I put on holiday music and pour some wine and hum along to Jingle Bells, but after one or two gifts, I’m like screw this, and I start tossing stuff in gift bags.

My house looks like I have two kids, a dog, and a full time job.  Because oh wait, I do. BUT! In less than four days, I’m going to have a gaggle of out of town family coming in to stay, so, in between gift shopping , present wrapping, wine drinking, nervous breakdowning and replacing the goddamn outdoor lights that shorted out, I have to make my house look like I give at least a half a shit.

It’s enough to stress out even the most heavily medicated. I figure I cannot be alone in feeling this way. I cannot be the only Christmas procrastinator. So, to help myself, and others like me, I’ve come up with a list of last minute gifts for all of the people on your list! You’re welcome.

Booze . I know, some of you may say but what about underage people or people who don’t drink? To which I say, even better. You made the effort. You got them something. And then, when they open it and say, “But I don’t drink/can’t drink/am pregnant/am 7’, you say, “Oh, so you are! My bad! Let me take that for you then.” Win/win.

Gift Card for Plastic Surgery/Skin Type of Procedure from The Skin Care Center in Pittsburgh, ask for Nellie. And NO, I’m not just putting this on here so that if and when you DO call, and tell them I sent you, that I might maybe get some free Botox. That is not very Christamassy now, IS IT? I just know that several people on your list would like and benefit from face fillers/hair removal/chemical peels.

In the spirit of stuff I’m not trying to get for free just by sending them some biznass, my friend Cassie from the blog Sisters from Different Misters has her own Esty site, Steel City Portraits, where she sells pencil drawings that she draws her very own self. And she is amazing. There won’t be time to get the drawings done BY Christmas, but she can do gift cards! Again, I am NOT doing this in the hopes that a few of you will send business her way, thereby forcing her to feel like she has to draw my kids for free. NOT AT ALL.

Here are some last minute gifts you can send me if you like, as left on my Facebook page by my friends, who may have just been telling me that I have a problem (you will notice a theme):

RedNek Wineglasses

Wine Gum

Wine Sack

Canned Wine

Also, you can never go wrong with merchandise from your favorite blog!

And finally, the one gift that you can give anytime, anywhere, for anyone. The gift of charity. Don’t know what to get the person who has everything? How about a $50 dollar donation in their name to a charity that’s near and dear to their hearts? Run out of time to get to a store, but still need to get Aunt Glynnis something? $25 online donation to her favorite cause. Done and done. It doesn’t need wrapped, and it can’t be regifted .

I could probably add a few more, but seriously, I need to get stuff done. I know this Christmas won’t be perfect in the Martha Stewart-sense, but I know in my heart it will be filled with love, laughter, and lots of prezzies. They may not be wrapped, and I may be drunk for most of it, but dammit, I’m going to make this the best damn Christmas ever.

Yours in festivities,

MB-

Okay. Who gave the dog eggnog? THAT WAY MY GODDAMN EGGNOG AND NOW IT'S GONE!

I am proud to say that at 36, I am in the best shape of my life. Running has helped a lot, as has getting my boobies done. I think some of it is being in your 30s, too. Back in the day, the mere sight of a stretch mark had me screeching down the hallway like my ass was on fire.

Now, I just give a worldly shrug, sip my wine, and make my next Botox appointment. It’s amazing how getting older really helps you get comfortable in your own chemically enhanced, surgically altered skin. But I digress.

This is about how to handle those pesky holiday pounds that manage to creep up on all of us. It starts by sneaking the Halloween candy. You think that making yourself get up to walk around the office five times before you succumb to that snack sized Kit Kat is going to save your ass. It’s not.

Then it’s Thanksgiving. Now you’re stuffing your face with mashed potatoes, gravy, turkey, rolls, cranberry sauce, two different kinds of stuffing, red wine, white wine, shots of whiskey, mixed drinks, and the annual Thanksgiving joint that you scored from your crazy Uncle Ed, the Vietnam vet.

You think that running that five mile Turkey Trot in the morning is going to save your ass. It isn’t. By now, you’re up four pounds, and it’s getting darker earlier, and your previous desire to work out is slowly being replaced by a desire to sit on your couch, get caught up on Mad Men, start blogging again, and drink your local liquor store out of red wine and champagne.

Then it’s dreaded Christmas Cookie season. It has been my experience that you don’t mess with a woman and her Christmas Cookie Party. I, who love all parties, have come to find that this is one party where the goal is to not get drunk and have fun, nay, it is to make 7,623 batches of calories laden, chocolate dripping, be-sprinkled cookies. So instead of getting drunk and rifling through your hostesses medicine cabinet like you would normally do, you make it your personal goal to eat one of each type of cookie. On a straight up sugar high, you decide fuck it, you’re eating two.

You’re up seven pounds. You are also on week three of Excuses On Why You Can’t Work Out and you are so far down the list that yes, you did just bust out “Well if I gain a few more pounds it will actually be easier to take it off because the more weight you have to lose, the quicker it comes off.” And your boyfriend just looks at you with pity and wipes the crumbs off your sweater.

And then here comes Holiday Party Season.  Good luck trying to lose weight when weekend after weekend is spent at a friend or family member’s, eating pigs in the blanket, cocktail meatballs, some sort of festive holiday Jello mold, spiked eggnog and the big jug of Lambrusco your mother insists on buying each year, even though she drinks less than one glass, forcing you to finish it off.

Now you’re up ten pounds, and the Christmas gifts from your vendors are coming in, fast and furious. You can’t even polish off one bag of dark chocolate covered pretzels before the next one arrives. And when your coworkers, the ones who DON’T deal with vendors, come sniffing around, looking for a free peanut butter meltaway, you tell them, through a mouthful of sugar cookie, to go fuck themselves.

CHRISTMAS DAY IS HERE! SANTA CAME! And you left out cookies for Santa, didn’t you? Yes. But Santa didn’t eat them, did he? No. You did. You ate those cookies and polished off a bottle and a half of Shiraz while you wrapped the kids Christmas presents. And do you know how I know this? Because the first ones you wrapped look perfect, with ribbons, bows, and neatly folded ends. The last few are just covered in tape and cat hair, and you don’t even have a cat. So explain that.

You coffee-blast your hangover away and get ready for the onslaught of friends and family coming your way, because you, yes you, volunteered to host Christmas.

By 4 in the afternoon there is not a flat space in your house that isn’t covered with food and drink. Someone actually moved your TV to make room for a veggie tray. The caloric count of your house is now equal to the GDP of a large, industrialized nation. You look around for the fudge, only to remember that it’s not there because you ate all it while you were getting ready. Oops.

You take stock of your house. The kids are laughing and playing in a slightly sugar-induced maniacal fashion. Your family is gathered around the table in a friendly game of Scrabble. Your friends and neighbors are laughing in the kitchen, remembering that Steeler party where one of them had one too many and had to be carried across the street home. The carols are on in the background. The lights on the tree and outside look so goddamn pretty it brings a tear to your eye. You recognize that feeling in your newly formed gut? Ya. That’s happiness.

So my advice for handling those pesky holiday pounds is this – the more weight you gain, the easier it is to lose. Everyone knows that the more you have to lose, the quicker they come off.  And besides, that what New Year’s resolutions are for!

Eat, drink, and Merry Christmas!

Yours in the most epicurean way,

MB-

Wouldn't it be nice if life came with this warning? Or, conversely, if your computer came with a Breathalyzer? If you blew over, no typey for you! I should invent that shit.

Ok. So some of you may know that me and Mavrick had An Incident. I am not going to get into the Details of the Incident, but I will say that I’m glad I resisted my original impulse to blog all about it and smear his name all over the interwebz in a most public fashion (well, anymore than I already did). Because we have Overcome. We did The Therapy. We are now Stronger. Our relationship is Better, and I am Happier and Have Received Many Presents and Flowers and also Cards.

And let’s leave it at that, shall we? Moving on…

Wait. What? You want to know MORE? You people are really insatiable, you know that, right? I know that I live large chunks of my entire life online, but there is a limit. For instance, I didn’t post my naked pregnancy photos. So HA! Hmmm? I posted a video of my pelvic exam? Okay, I guess you have me there.

See, the problem with being online is that sometimes it’s too easy to let an angry moment get out of control. If you add in the fact that I have a terrible temper and I drink too much, well, let’s just say I’m surprised I don’t have more content out there to regret terribly.

Being an online presence and living online can be fun, exciting, dangerous, potentially embarrassing, and bad for your future employment prospects. But it’s also incredibly gratifying for me as a writer. I will most likely never have a book, or a movie made about a life, but I have you. And if I make you laugh, or brighten your day, then that makes me feel really, really good. So how do you find the balance to write and not get fired or alienate your family? Maybe you don’t.

I would like to think at the ripe age of 3coughcoughcough that I’ve found the secret sauce that lets me be edgy, fun, funny, entertaining, relevant, and not have my children taken away by CYF, but alas, I have not. Over the holidays one of Mavrick’s family members asked me why I haven’t blogged lately. And I didn’t want to tell them, well, it was sort of because of them.

Guys, it’s sort of because of you. Too many people I know started reading this. Work people, family, people, people that make me uncomfortable posting some of my previous content. Or, people who I would normally blog ABOUT, but now can’t, or I am seriously down a Christmas present.

There are things I want to be brutally honest about, funny stories, and heartbreaking stories, that I want to tell, that I’m ACHING to tell, but I’m afraid of hurting people, or of people’s judgment. And let me tell you, people can be PLENTY judgy.

This whole Incident has made me reevaluate what I put out there (too late for the stuff I already have. Hate on, haters. That was some funny, funny shit). I can’t regret what I’ve already done. That’s what the wine is for. I physically can’t remember it to regret it. All I can do is learn and move on. (My therapist, who also reads this blog, is probably pretty damn proud of herself right now). I don’t have to tell EVERYTHING, but I can tell a lot. I mean guys, my life is pretty fucking sweet and hilarious. I honestly don’t know how I’m not famous.

So that’s it. No more lines. I’m going to write about what I’m going to write about, and I’m going to make every effort to not hurt people, and I’m going to think before I type, but dammit, I’m going to write. I’m going to bear in mind that people are watching and reading and that my kids will one say see this, if they haven’t already (well, not so worried about the baby. He can’t read. Yet. That little fucker is SMART!). I will be thoughtful and compassionate, but I beg of all of you who know me, consider this before you do something in front of me: Would you want this online? YOU HAVE ALL BEEN WARNED.

In the spirit of erasing lines.. Hello. My name is Bethany. Some of you may know me as mindbling, and I will always answer to that. I have two kids, a very loving (and Lucky) boyfriend, a bulldog, a job I love, a Jeep, a house, and a wine addiction. I love to write, and I hope you like to read it. Even when it’s about you. Just know, it’s all in the spirit of fun, and I love each and every one of you.

Well. Except, maybe, you.

Talk soon,

B-

Believe it or not today, October 10, 2011 is mine and Chilla’s 1 month wedding anniversary and 2 year-since-the-day-we-met anniversary.  Wow how time can fly by!

Our wedding was truly the most spectacular day of our lives and we have our fantastic friends and wonderful family to thank for making it such a fabulous day.  Everything went smoothly and without drama.  We did have a 20 minute rain spurt right after the ceremony, but I’m looking at that as unicorns throwing good luck fairy dust on us.

Highlights of the day: Lots and lots of champers, Chilla clanking his ring on the champers bottle in the limo, Mindbling bringing the house down with her Maid of Honor speech, conga line, fireworks night, being told I look like Ava Gardner, our friend BoomBoom becoming a wedding crasher, the after party at Bar Louie, Hot Mama taking my eyelashes and making a smiley face with them on a plate when I was sad about my Dad not being there, and lots and lots of drunk party members by the end of the night.

Instead of trying to explain the love, the fun and the hilarity of the day, I’ve just decided to create a video montage of my favorite moments.  I cry each time I watch it.

Cheers to Love!

Do not want.

CC had a few requests for her bachelorette party – no strippers, and no penises of any kind, be it a penis straw, a penis necklace, an actual penis … she wanted none of it. She said she was too damn old to be running around bedecked in penises, and male strippers are totally gross and not even ironically funny.

I, being that Maid of Mother Fucking Honor, or MOMFH for short, agreed. No peens for the party. Hot Mama agreed, and Smitty Kitty agreed, and so it was writ, we were going to plan a totally peen free bachelorette party.

We had to have a theme, though. And that theme, to be consistent with making this all about CC, was animal print. CC has an animal print addiction. It’s very probable that Chilla is going to come home one day and find that CC has upholstered their entire house and most of the cats in animal print.

This meant that everyone had to have on at least one item, be it clothes or accessory, that included animal print. We took all of the stuffed monkeys from the shower, because they looked like they wanted to party, and who doesn’t love a stuffed monkey? This also meant that I, being the MOMFH, had to secure an animal print party bus that CC had seen in the South Side one night. Armed with nothing but Google, I found it.

So much hotness, the street melted.

So there we were. 26 women, decked out in our finest jungle attire, with a bunch of stuffed monkeys, in a zebra print bus, with a fully stocked bar. What could possibly go wrong? *blinkblink*

We decided to start out by driving around a little bit, enjoy some free booze, and some pretty pictures from Mt. Washington.

I love this picture. It includes some of my most favorite things. My best friend, a gorgeous view of the city, and my new tits.

Since it was CC’s party, we went were CC wanted to go. And that was the casino. As the MOMFH, I felt like I had be in charge of making sure everyone made it out alive. This meant that as much as I hated it, I had to curb my drinking so I could be responsible. This would end up being the best decision I have made in a long, long time.

I made the announcement that we were all splitting up at the casino, since 26 incredibly hot women hovering around one slot machine is just ridiculous. I did ask that when anyone came across anyone else from the party, they throw up their hands and go “WOOOOO”. I also, jokingly, said that the first lady to get a picture of a live male penis with a stuffed monkey wrapped around it would win a special prize.

I had no special prize. I was JOKING. But I forgot about Krazy K. Krazy is Chilla’s mom’s best friend. She is also Mavrick’s dart league partner, a close friend of ours, and completely out of her mind. In a good way. If you want to have fun, you go out with Krazy K. She also has this uncanny ability to get men to send her pictures of their penis. We weren’t in the casino for more than 15 minutes and I had a picture text come through. I was like, oh hell no, she did NOT already get a picture of a strange man’s penis with a monkey wrapped around it. Yes. Yes she actually did. That’s Krazy K for you.

The “WOOOOO” was a huge hit. For an hour and a half, all you could hear throughout the casino was “WOOOOO”, about every ten minutes or so. It was like a drunk girl mating call, only instead of mating, we were just happy to be out without boyfriends, husbands or children on a Saturday night. WOOOOO, indeed.

I was able to corral all 26 attendees, who by now were feeling pretty darn good, and get them back on the bus and to our next stop, McFadden’s.

McFadden’s wasn’t what you call hopping when we got there. But it sure as shit was once we arrived. We were now ready to get down to some serious partying. And also dancing. Dear lord the dancing.

The DJ quickly caught on that we were a bachelorette party, and it so happened that there was ANOTHER bachelorette party there, so the only logical thing to do in this situation is a Bride to Be Dance Off.

It was SUPPOSED to be a Bride to Be Dance Off, but someone forgot to tell the drunk guy, who had somehow gotten his hands on one of our monkeys, stuffed it down his pants, and ran out to be the cream in a Bride to Be cookie sandwich. Then all hell broke loose. Everyone flooded the dance floor, and shit was getting DOWN.

CC soon realized there was a raised platform, about two feet across and four feet off the ground, that would be PERFECT for drunk women in high heels to dance on. She got herself up there and remained there for the better part of the night. She came down only to smoke and pee. During one of her smoke breaks, she dropped her drink, as one tends to do when they’ve had 37 of them. There was a lovely bouncer standing there, and she spent a good, oh, I don’t know, ten minutes, apologizing. Because bar bouncers never see that sort of thing.

Then it was BACK TO THE PLATFORM FOR MORE DANCING. She was joined by one of our party goers, who had already shown a large portion of the bar her underpants. Let’s call her Flasher. They were shaking their groove things to Cotton Eyed Joe when it happened.

Where do you come from, where do you go, where do you come from Cotton Eyed Joe.. THUNK

Flasher took a header right off the platform, hit the ground, and made sure that the remaining bar patrons also saw her panties. It was fucking awesome.

The plan had always been to hit many bars, but CC was having so much fun on that goddamn platform that we never left McFadden’s. The party bus driver texted me. It was time to go. I was going to have to get CC off the platform. This was going to get ugly.

Me: “CC. Come on. The bus is here. We have to go.”

CC: “I donwannago”

Me: “We have to. The bus is here and it will leave you here if you don’t get off that platform and into the bus right now.”

CC: “This ish MY PARTY. This ish MY NIGHT. Imma dance more.”

Me: *lightbulb* “Want to smoke real fast?”

CC: “Shhhhhhhure!”

Victory! Or so I thought. Much like the saying you can take a horse to water but you can’t make him drink, you can take a drunken bachelorette outside but you can’t make her get on the bus. She took one look at that bus and ran around the corner, sobbing.

CC: “I DON’T WANT IT TO BE OVER. I don’t want my night to be over. It’s all over.”

Me: “It’s not over, love. You still have the biggest day of your life ahead of you! This was just practice. Come on, let’s get on the bus.”

CC: “No.”

Me: “CC. If you don’t get on that bus this instant, they are going to fine me and I am going to have to pay extra. Do you want me to pay extra? Is that what you want.”

CC: “Umm hmmm. Yesh.”

Thankfully, at this point one of our friends, Crazy Jen came over (lots of crazy folks in our group)and without words, with eye signals alone, I gave the three count, we each lifted her up be an arm, and literally carried her, screaming, onto the bus.

She hurled herself into a seat and proceeded to wail the ENTIRE RIDE HOME. Apparently, she really didn’t want the night to be over. The bus pulls up to my house, and mayhem ensues. Some people were sleeping over, some people were getting picked up, and the boys got home at the same time we did. There were roughly 46 people in front of my house, ¾ of whom were fall down drunk. And it’s 2:00 am.

I had to get CC inside. Because she clearly wasn’t doing it herself. I half dragged, half carried up to the house. She was still sobbing into my ear, “It’s over. It’s over. It’s all over…”. Smitty Kitty was tipping the bus driver and Hot Mama … where was Hot Mama during all of this you ask? Hot Mama was a Hot Mess. I lost track of her once I knew she was on the bus. I had CC to take care of.

I get CC upstairs and wrestle her into the guest bed.

CC: “Bling. You’re ma besh friend.”

Me: “I know CC. And you’re my best friend. I love you.”

CC: “Can you put my jammy pants on for me?”

So I did. I also left a puke bucket by her side of the bed. I had a feeling she would need it (nailed that one). I then went downstairs to fine 11 drunk women passed out throughout my house. INCLUDING. Including Hot Mama, who was actually passed out on my patio. There. I found her.

So I wake her up, gently shove her up the stairs, and lay her down next to CC.

HM: “Bling. Whadda fun night.”

Me: “Yes, Hot Mama. It WAS a fun night. Sleep tight!”

HM: “Can you take off my pants for me?”

So I did. Apparently being the MOMFH means you’re on pants duty for the bachelorette party.

And you would think that would be that. And you would be wrong. Fast forward to the next morning.

You know CC loves a rehash. So we decided to rehash over champers (champagne to you common folk). Mavrick and Hot Mama decide, in a moment of epic fail, to go for Caesars. Remember the bee swarm Hot Mama was telling you about? Well, the bees were still there. So we decided to take chairs out to my front yard, so we can drink. At 10:00 am. Thereby solidifying for our neighbors that we are, indeed, crazy.

Nothing like drinking champers in your front yard! At 10:00 am! On a Sunday!

I had A glass of champers and A glass of white wine, because we had to drive to Columbus to get the baby at 3. One of us had to stay sober, and after the third Caesar, I knew it wouldn’t be Mavrick. Mavrick and Hot Mama were tying one on. At one point, I was in the kitchen and Mavrick walked in to mix a drink –“Hot Mama is one drink away from not being able to walk or talk. I’m making that drink now.” And he walks out. With that drink.

I walk back outside and someone had also given Hot Mama a glass of champers. She was double fisting, tried to sit in a lawn chair, and fell over. She then decided she was just going to stay on the ground with the cupcake wrappers and cigarette butts. At this point, my neighbors decided to stop over, because previously Mavrick told them to stop over ANYTIME to see our new countertops.

Picture, if you will, Hot Mama sprawled out on my walk way, Mavrick sitting only half lucidly in a lawn chair, CC and Chilla and Hot Papa napping (passed out) in my living room, and empty champers bottles  everywhere. Do you have that picture locked into your brain? Because I do. And my neighbors do, too.

I actually left them all there while me and Mavrick went to get Mavbling. Want to see how much fun he was on the trip?

Zzzzzzz. He is tons of fun on a road trip.

So there you have it. The Hangover got nothing on us Bitches.

If only stuffed monkeys could talk...

Yours in Animal Print,

MB

Mindbling, Smitty Kitty, and myself (Hot Mama…duh) were the lucky bridesmaids for C.C.’s wedding. We had frequent ‘bridesmaid meetings’ which mostly consisted of all of us getting together, bride included (she doesn’t want to miss anything and hates surprises, so she was involved in almost every aspect of her own shower) to drink champagne and gossip.  Since Mindbling, SM, and myself all love eachother, and have very similar ideas on what we should be doing for C.C.’s shower, it was pretty simple for us to plan. We decided that it would be easiest, and the most fun, if we had the bridal shower and the bachelorette party all in the same day. It would be epic!

We decided to go with a, you guessed it, safari theme. And by safari, we of course mean copious amounts of animal print. The chosen venue for the shower was The House o’ Bling…that way we could get totally crazy and not get kicked out.

I had arranged to pick up the balloons in the morning before the shower. I think there were about 30 of them. I did not take into account how annoying that would be, in my truck, with both of my children. By the time Hot Papa dropped me and the balloons off at Mindbling’s, I was ready to stick my head into a bees nest.

Smitty Kitty and I both arrived early to help Bling set everything up. This was the first time I had seen Bling since her boob job, so it was important for me to take a few minutes and feel her up. Then we were off in a buzz of activity. There were zebra printed cupcake papers to fill with candies, zebra printed table runners to put out, gorgeous red centerpieces to set up, and glasses of champagne for us to drink in the process.

Go ahead. Be jealous.

The cake was a cake to beat all cakes. It was so stunning that when I saw it, it actually made me tear up. Two tiers of animal printed fabulosity!!

Not only was it sexy...it also tasted a-freaking-mazing!!

Smitty Kitty had purchased a bunch of adorable little stuffed monkeys, and we put them everywhere…they sort of became our mascot for the day/evening.

I had put blood, sweat, and tears into making the favors. I sucked up all my pride and went back into the craft store. Yes. I did it. You all may remember my craft store aversion from this post. But, when you love someone the way that I love C.C., you make sacrifices. You also make the most awesome favors ever complete with zebra printed nail files and zebra printed lip glosses. And handmade zebra tags made out of scrapbooking paper. I was pretty damn proud of myself.

Smitty Kitty’s hubbers arrived with the delicious food from Hard Rock Cafe and all of his DJ equipment. That’s right. We had a DJ for the shower. That’s how we roll.

We finished setting everything up and the three of us got ready, adorned in our dressy animal print dresses. We were lookin hawt. C.C. arrived shortly thereafter, and we made her cover her eyes as we walked her to her back yard safari. She seemed to love it, so of course we were all thrilled.

Sexiest bridal party EVER!!

People started arriving and before we knew it, the back yard was filled the sounds of ladies laughing and ‘Jungle Love’ on the speakers. Honestly, the entire thing went perfectly. C.C. did not want shower games (and I don’t blame her. Who actually LIKES shower games? I can tell you. No one.) Instead we held a chinese auction to raffle off several gift baskets. We had a wine basket, a coffee basket…you get the idea. We set a timer while she was opening her gifts and every time it went off, put pulled out a raffle ticket.

We also made a hangover basket. It consisted of aspirin, Gatorade, pepto, 5-hour energy, and a pregnancy test. And guess who won it?? The ONLY pregnant girl in attendance. Oh, the bitter irony!

The shower winded down and it was just the bridesmaids, C.C., and a couple guests still left. Were were all still sitting outside, drinking the last of our glasses of champagne and basking in the glory of our successful bridal shower. All of a sudden, a bee started flying around us. Then another. Then about 1000 more appeared. I got stung in the back of the leg. I guess my wish from earlier had come true…we were, in fact, being attacked by a nest of angry bees. We moved the party inside at that point.

All in all, the party was amazing…with the exception of the bee attack. I felt honored to be a part of C.C.’s special day!

And they will live happily ever after...

Happy Buzzing!!
Hot Mama