At Least They're Committed

It’s Saturday night and I’m totally rocking it! Soloing it on the front porch, shutting out the yappy-ass dog down the street, taking my first sip of cheap rum on ice in belated honor of National Rum Day and taking a break from the bad novel that I swore I wouldn’t read until I’d done some of my own weak research and bad writing. Christ! This one has the ghost of Humphrey Bogart in it! Really? No matter, I’m chatting it up with the fading Black-Eyed Susan’s and the rising wildflowers and the dad next door while Cesario’s music from Mexico hums from his garage in the background. I take a make-up break after using the little girl’s room and notice how matronly I look even in my skin-tight Buffs T-shirt and it occurs to me — again — that I’m even more weird when I’m sober. (See photo above.)

Carson once said to Darian and Dante that my children got more like me as we went along. Lily (your mom, Dezmond) is normal, like her dad, Darian is quirky, more like me and Dante is a fucking freak — even more like me. Tanner piped up, “Thank God they stopped at Dante!” I’m so proud!

Good ol’ rock ‘n’ roll . . . Saturday niiiiiiight! Listening to this after about 35 years it hit me, “Oh, shit, they’re Scottish!” I’d never heard that they were, but I could tell it in their accent! Looked it up. Yup. Hmmmm. When is it National Scotch Day? Then we’d be talking.

 

Was wondering if I could make my lips disappear with concealer, but it was too light. Still kinda cool.