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Shower Beer

Dude, my blog was kind of an ass last week huh? I finally gained some sort of control. It was actually quite simple to distract my blog so that I could post as me again. I simply opened a movie containing a lot of nudity on Netflix in one tab while I wrote this post in another. Apparently my blog has a problem with the ways in which I unwind in the privacy of my own home, so in spite of my blog hijacking last week, I am going to continue my lush activities. One being the shower beer.

Shower beer

Beaver says… even Michelob Ultra makes a good shower beer.

My coozie says beaver on it. It’s okay to laugh. I know that beavers are totally funny animals in general and really have nothing to do with naked girls taking showers, so I understand how hilarious it is. Beaver.

Now, if you notice in the left photo, I have made sure to censor my entire shoulder and not show any of my armpit either. That would have just been a tease. Plus, I know better than to expose myself like that on the internet. The plus side is that you can still say you have technically seen Becca in the shower. No one will know it was only from my shower beer up.

What is a shower beer you ask? The answer to all of your problems. That’s what. Had a bad day at work? Wash it away while you wash down your favorite lager. Just broke up with your boyfriend/girlfriend? Good, more beer for you and your shower. Didn’t make it to the gym today? Sweat it out under the scalding water with a Bud Select 55 and call it a day.

It isn’t just comforting in times of distress either. You can also resort to a shower beer in times of celebration. Someone bought you a free six-pack? It’s probably because you are charming and worthy, so have that first ice-cold brew under the cascades of your home-made waterfall. Had a sexy day? Make it even sexier with a shower beer. Finally quit your awful day job? Stay in the bathroom until all of the hot water is gone and down as many bottles as you can. You don’t have to wake up tomorrow!

Are you getting the point here? There is never a bad time for this ritual. This is the ultimate indulgence, and the best part is that no one is judging. Your shower head and shampoo bottle will never give you a hard time about downing that pomegranate raspberry Michelob while you scrub your guns and pecs with a pink loofah. You can even enjoy a bath beer in substitution for the shower beer without guilt. It still counts.

If you don’t drink, start drinking. Or as another alternative, grab an O’douls or maybe even a root beer and get naked. Either way, you deserve it.

ADDENDUM: This Thursday is Valentine’s Day. I am sure you are overly aware. The good news is that instead of posting some bitch-fest post, or gushing about a boyfriend, I did something much cooler and way less annoying. I got together with Adam over at My Right to Bitch headquarters, and we came up with a new tradition for the holiday. Be sure to tune in Thursday for our insane collaboration! 

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Kill You With A Smile

hitman

Yes, I am just happy to see you. [You can thank Le Clown for Photoshopping this].

So, I have learned something. I would be a horrible riddle book writer. Apparently, not only was my post yesterday thrown together too late, but my clues were too easy, and that asshole Aneroidocean ruined the what I thought would be fun little guessing game for everyone (by the way, can you please stop being an asshole and write an about me page already?).

To everyone else, please accept my new look and bulging crotch as an apology. Sorry Rich. Am I ruining your session?

None of this matters of course, because I am still basking in the glow of my own little session. The past two nights have been an ongoing threesome between me, my TV, and my PS3. All of my buttons were pushed (literally) and all parties reached their checkpoints, if you know what I mean. All I know is that I am glad it is finally the weekend, because these late nights aren’t doing anything for my complexion (as you can see above).

On another less weird note, Jillian Levi is at it again. She won a bunch of those awards and mentioned me as a nominee for this thing:

Blog of the Year Award banne

When I should really be winning creepiest post title of the year.

Like with the last award someone tossed down to me, I won’t participate in paying this forward, because… it takes too much time. I am just being honest here. Plus, I wouldn’t want people thinking I am actually a decent blogger who helps encourage others. I am a hitman now god dammit. Read the rest of this entry

Planning to Stop Planning

I’d hoped to soon post some brag pictures of myself casually looking off into the distance, wind in my hair, and with nothing but clouds in the background. Or, maybe me and Ryan Gosling embraced in a contrived but nonsensical pose as we ascended up and away. Unfortunately, my plans to ride in a hot air balloon for the 4th of July block party on Tuesday night crashed straight into a power line (not literally). Ryan stood me up too. Jerk. The weather decided to act a fool the afternoon festivities were to commence, and upon arriving home from work and seeing no over sized inverted tear drop shaped balloons in sight, I assumed it was a no go. So, I went to a bar to meet some friends  as consolation. Well, you know what annoyingly corny people say about assuming…

sugar mill pond 4th of july
[Apparently the balloon did manifest itself at some point in the hour that I was away from the party. There were also reports that Ryan actually showed up as well and did a nude swan dive into the pond. Bastards. ]

That is the thing about expectations and planning. Convinced that they are both almost always self-destructive, I think I will quit making them. That whole night was the exact opposite of what I planned in my mind. It was so disappointing, that I actually wrote the most depressing draft for a post while slouched in the corner of my balcony as I watched the last and only fireworks I got to see that night pathetically sort of half explode. Must have been the left over duds arriving late to the party, just like me. It was probably the most unnecessarily dramatic thing I have ever written and certainly not appropriate for the tone of this particular blog. Although I will say, I am good at following Hemingway’s advice to, “Write drunk; edit sober”.

I deleted the pity party post the next morning when I pretty much woke up face down on my keyboard. But, to end on a lighter note, while I did not get to balloon cruise that night, I did make up for it on the actual 4th of July. A few friends, a few beers, and lawn chairs on a roof. Can’t get any more redneck better than that. I regret nothing.

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Blue Moon Saloon

Blue Moon Saloon in Lafayette LA

Last evening I ventured out to a bar which is actually in a hostel here in Lafayette. I have only been there once, about a hundred years ago. It took some coercing on my friend’s behalf to get me there, as I was being a grandma. It is the only hostel I have ever heard of in Louisiana. The Blue Moon Saloon is like being in your own dream back yard. A grooving band hit the stage shortly after we arrived. I found myself really digging the accordion playing lead singer and swaying bodies all around me.

Sometimes when you live in one place for such a long time, you forget that you haven’t seen everything your city has to offer. If you can get out of your comfort zone, there are still good times to be had.

Happy Mother’s day y’all.

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Some Firsts to Forget

My Girl movie kiss picture

Along with being behind on writing this past week, I also haven’t been able to read my favorite blogs. I finally got to catch up on some this morning in between work. Finding myself a bit troubled by my seemingly idea-less mind lately, I decided to take some inspiration from a Five Forks blog post today. It has been a decent amount of time since I thought about some of my firsts. Lets see…

First Kiss
It was the Summer between 8th and 9th grade. His name was Sal. Nah, Sal was so not his real name, but I think Sal sounds cool, his real name did start with an S, and it reminds me of one of my favorite childhood books, Blueberry’s for Sal. We had been “going out” (aka chatting on AIM) for about two weeks. Jazzy and I had convinced our parents to allow us an unsupervised gallivant  to the movie theater. Of course, we were not old enough to drive yet, so Dad had to drop us off. Super cool.

The first hour of the flick consisted of playing musical armrests, and when it was my turn, making sure to position my hand palm side up and open in order to make it easier for him to hold my hand if he would so choose. I couldn’t even begin to tell you which movie it was that we went to see, but I do know it was an action movie … ba dun tsss. Read the rest of this entry

The Out of Towners

Traveling

Yet another one of my dearest friends is moving this weekend. My oldest and best guy friend, Z, will be moving to Baton Rouge for work. I tried to hold a grudge against him for leaving me here with no one to split pitchers of beer and shoot pool with. It didn’t last too long, and I doubt he was even aware I was holding one. I am too soft some times. I agreed to let him adopt my old smokey grill. I’ve used it all of two whopping times, and I can’t grill on the balcony of my third story apartment anyhow. So, we met at the bar to have a beer and a smoke for the last time in probably a while. After I handed over the grill, he left. I decided to hang around. Half Pint’s father died unexpectedly yesterday postponing our Tampa trip. Being  restless and disappointed I needed a little distraction. Bad news never has good timing.

Almost simultaneously as Z exited the building, two gentlemen claimed the two seats to the left of me. *Cue accent that was not coon-ass* “Ello there”. I greeted them with half a grin and a hello. As conversation ensued, I was patting myself on the back for deciding to stay for a while. My new friends, Steve and Matt, were in town for business both working for the same company as submarine engineers. They coined themselves oil field trash. Hardly. Maybe it was just my swooning over their accents, but these fellas were polite, handsome, and interesting to converse with. Steve was from Scotland, 37 but looked about 31, and was kind enough to keep stocking me up on smokes all night like they were bar snacks. Matt was from Australia,  31 but looked 37, and had me imagining a romance like out of Findingravity’s series of blog posts entitled Not Another Love Story!. 

Naturally I was like a fervent puppy chatting them both up about all the places they have traveled. Where they have been, what they saw, how they got there, and a million other questions. Read the rest of this entry

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