Mike Barfield to the Rescue

As you may have gathered, your humble bloggeteer is going through a tough time, and when a sister is a-hurtin', the last thing she needs is to sit alone at home with the felines. I accepted an invitation to hit some nightlife, and although I was feeling low, I drove home home with a smile on my face and not nearly enough to pay the taxi driver. But that's another story.

Sure, the lobsters and champers at Eddie V's helped to take me away from my troubled mind. There's nothing quite like a group of girls who know how to throw down at the hottest surf and turf joint in their jeans. Of course, it doesn't hurt to be pals with the manager, who hooks you up with bubbles and Super Tuscans and comps the holy mother out of your bill (thank you, sir!). Being classy lasses, we took the funds we saved and put them right on into the pocket of our server (if you get comps at a restaurant, I assume you're savvy enough to do this, right? Right?)

But I have to offer up thanks and praise to the gentlemen responsible for the really rockin' good time of my evening, and that's Mike Barfield and the boys, who blew my mind at the Continental Club.

I've seen Mike at my place of employment several times, but had never had the pleasure of knowing who he was. I figured he was a musician, what with the porkpie hat and all. But I had no idea, NO idea, how this man and his boys could lay down the white-hot, panty-dropping funk. And this is saying a lot, because I'm pushing forty, and I don't panty-drop for just anyone.

A few hours before, I was feeling old, feeling funkless, feeling like my best option was to rely on my wily intellect and forget about the efficacy of my ever-expanding ass. Then Mr. Barfield bade me dance. "C'mon, darling, this is your night!" he shouted, and before I could set down my vodka and tonic, I was led to the stage.

The heat, the lights, the supertight funk, and I forgot all about my woes and tribulations. Thank you, Mr. Barfield, for reminding a girl that when the going gets tough, the tough shake their ass.

Separation anxiety rant one

I wanna know what the woman next door has against me. My husband told me a while ago that she's just an odd bird, a homebound mother of two with a shriveled personality that I ought not to spend a minute worrying about. And he was right; she's dull and dowdy and bears a disturbing resemblance to Andrea Yeats, so why do I care what she thinks? Still, we used to be friendly, and our house was the first stop for the girls on their trick-or-treat route. But the little golden haired heathens didn't show up this year. What the fuck?

Jerry told me it was probably because of the weather threatening rain, and that all the kids would have wanted to go down to those new Mc Mansions they built next to our addition. But I knew I'd been snubbed. For some reason, Andrea Yeats had nixed us, and I wanted to know why.

The next day, she and her offspring were all up in my yard, as usual after the bus came. I asked Andrea Yeats: "Did the girls not go trick-or-treating this year?" and she says, "Oh, yeah, we went down to the new houses, and kinda up that way a little," like I'm not going to notice that "up that way a little" is up our street and excluded my fucking house.

So what's the deal with Mrs. Yeats? Is it my liberal leaning bumper sticker, or the fact that I have neglected to mow the lawn? It might be a cumulative effect, but there's the one thing I think that has convinced her that she must keep her little preciouses away.

It's the recycling bin. See, since the hub and I are both in the wine biz, it's usually full of wine bottles. Full to the brim. She's been looking at all those bottles and has decided we're boozehounds. Plus, since the hub has moved out, I dumped all these liquors I didn't plan on drinking, so she's processing absent husband + 5 recycled tequila bottles = neighbor is a drunken slut. That's gotta be it. She's thinking, no wonder he left you, you Godless whore.

Oh, you might be thinking, now for fuck's sake, that's just silly to trip on something like that. But I'll be damned if she's gonna whip me at the speculation game. It's a pride thing.

Here's what I'm speculating, Andrea: you plod around in your house all day, which stinks of yappy puppy and kid sweat, in the same sweatpants for days. So don't be judging me and my wine bottles. Ain't nobody wanting to trade spaces with you.

Ten Things that hurt about separation

10. There is no one to bring me my coffee, or to bitch to about the sugar level.
9. Wondering if he didn't kiss me goodbye because he wasn't sure he was allowed to.
8. Watching movies in the evening together like always, except afterwards, he leaves.
7. Not fighting about who gets what.
6. Dismantling the 'perfect couple' image we were so good at.
5. "I love you" and "Fuck off and die" occupying the same space simultaneously.
4. The lingering fear that I am too intense for anyone to handle.
3. It is impossible to stay angry at him. Why does he have to be such a goddamned nice guy?
2. His car in the parking lot of an apartment complex instead of our driveway.
1. Wanting you gone so I can miss you.