Tiaras and Steel Toe Boots by Tusk

And, as I promised, here is yesterday's post continued by Tusk:

Typically, I am very good at profiling people.  Being type person that assumes everyone is honest and truthful has allowed me to be taken advantage of most of my life, therefore, as a defense mechanism, I have deliberately honed my skills in profiling individuals.  I look for patterns such as mannerisms, quirks, facial expressions, reactions and reaction times (among other things), compare them against my existing database and then assimilate a profile.  Over the last decade it has become refined and uncannily accurate.  My profiling of the Merekat was a snap.

She grew up privileged, drove a “luxury” vehicle, did the sorority thing and felt entitled. However, the one thing I did not anticipate was her level of self-awareness. While an uncommon trait among the populous as a whole, self-awareness is almost non-existent in today’s youth, especially within the “upper crust”, sub 30 crowd.  My interpersonal exchanges with Merekat lead me to believe she is very self-aware.  It’s almost like she has a split personality, yet is simultaneously engaged with both.

Tiara and debutant ball… check. 


The Merekat at work

Shots of whiskey with the boys… she’s got you covered.

Driving a truck errrr…  “SUV” that costs more than my H D Thoreau Survival Cabin…  Yup.

Wiggin’ out about boys texting/calling too often (or not enough)… bingo

Cussin’…. Fuck yeah.



Trust in Tusk.


SO that's all he wanted me to post today. I'm guessing there will be more to follow...

Honey Get's a Job by Tusk

My coworker (who insists that he is my boss daily) has requested that I grant him the position of guest blogger. It probably isn't in my best interest, but I've decided to allow it.

This was posted all over the office

So that you'll maybe, possibly understand a little of what I deal with at work on the construction site and what in the world he is talking about in his posts, I will try and accurately describe him. Tusk, which is a self-proclaimed nickname, is the most interesting, strange, crazy individual that I have ever and will ever come across in my life. The nickname Tusk comes from being a huge Alabama football fan...he has even created his own holiday, "Tuskmas." And speaking of nicknames, he has dubbed me as "Merekat." Tusk is deathly afraid of crossing the street, obsessed with the Illuminati, and convinced that the government and black helicopters are watching his every move. He thinks in binary code (sees ones and zeros for those friends of mine that aren't the smartest cats in the world), is a former marine and excel guru, and is currently building a house BY HIMSELF out in the woods. Oh, and he says things like, "Stand Fast," "Cocksucker," "Improvise, Adapt, and Overcome (it's a marine thing)," and "There is no such thing as being bisexual. You either suck cock or you don't."

ENJOY.

I hired Merekat to fill an admin role with our organization in late 2011. Our industry is male dominated with the majority labor-skilled but mostly uncouth and lacking in formal education and “social refinement”. Needless to say, hiring a female to work in such an environment can be a tricky proposition.


We interviewed four women over two days.  Two were in their mid to late 40s and in all likelihood, overqualified.  The third was a lawsuit in high heels. Merekat was the fourth candidate and while not the most qualified, she was certainly the most personable and potentially trainable. We chose Merekat.




Merekats

After the awkward “settling in” period where one is concerned what one can and can’t say in the framework of a new, professional relationship, I quickly realized my direct and I had made not only the best hire, but the ONLY hire that would have worked for us.  She was “cool”.

To be continued.....you can't rush creative genius, my friend.

Trust in Tusk.

The Tropics

The Tropics (noun) def. that part of the earth's surface between the tropics of Cancer and Capricorn; the Torrid Zone. Including the Bahamas, Cayman Islands, BVI's, Costa Rica, Fiji, St. Lucia, etc. Or as we like to call it, C-Baby's parent's house in Collierville, TN.

C-Baby, Felix, and I have been planning our trip to the Tropics for two weeks now, but after two nights of heavily boozing, smoking, and dancing at Kathleen and Brian's wedding in Jackson, I didn't think that I was going to make it. Somehow, I pulled through, made it to the tropics, and jump started my drunk again with half a beer. Let me start off by saying that C-Baby's house is more like a chateau or a villa. It's absolutely beautiful...and huge...and has the most amazing pool and hot tub...not to mention surrounded by palm trees (hence The Tropics).

So what do we do? Pound beers and smoke cigs, of course. After splashing around in the pool for a couple hours and finishing off two cases of beer, C-Baby decides that she's a member of the Olympic swim team.

Back Flip Champion

"Oooookkkkkkkk!!!! Front flip or back flip? You know, I was a champion swimmer in high school. I was on the swim team." -C-Baby

Felix and I were cheering her on as her brother and friends looked on in disgust. I'm sorry I'm not sorry that we don't have sticks up our asses and like to have a damn good time. In retrospect, we probably shouldn't have let her do these back flips...she hit the water face-first several times, but immediately shouted for approval,

"Was that a good one? You promise?" -C-Baby

Actually, her back flips were pretty bad ass. No way in hell I would be able to make a complete rotation front flip or back flip off of a diving board...probably not even flipping on the floor. But then, the most hilarious thing of the entire weekend occurred. As C-Baby yelled at us to watch and pick front or back flip, she lost her footing, stumbled down a few steps, ricocheted off of the brick wall, and catapulted into the bushes. Felix and I fucking lost it. Beer went shooting out of my nose, Felix was laughing so hard his face turned purple, and believe it or not, after about a minute of wallering around in the mulched flower bed, C-Baby arose laughing hysterically. I'm surprised she didn't ask, "Was that a good one?"

After we all recovered from "C-Baby Takes a Tumble," we (as in I, Chef Honey) made fish tacos, guac, crab dip, etc.  I don't think anyone else could have been trusted with a knife at this point. So yummy, and so much for the diet I had been on for the past week. We ended the night with margaritas and gossip in the hot tub.

The next morning, we loaded up and headed to Ihop before hitting the pool again. Nothing too exciting happened at the pool later that day...sunburns, beer, and good tunes, but we did have some excellent quotes on the way to Ihop.

"Do Russians celebrate Memorial Day?" -C-baby (She's really pretty.)

"There is nothing more American than Ihop." -Honey (Murica)


The Tropics. So wonderful. So relaxing. Ya'll should really try and make a trip sometime soon. But, obviously, not everyone can make as much money and afford these trips like I can...the construction industry really pays good. NOT. And for this weekend? Oh, I'm jetting off to the Caribbean....aka Pickwick.

XOXO,

Sunburned Honey

Millsaps Marriage Madness

Now that I am trying to write about Brian and Kathleen's wedding weekend, I realize that it's impossible for me to describe every beautiful, crazy, drunken detail. But, I'm going to do the best that I can.

Millsaps College students and graduates are like no other people I have ever met nor will ever meet in the future. They are all a little...different. They're all fucking brilliant in their own ways...whether they're studying journalism (like the bride), pursuing a career in the medical field (like the groom and best man), or theatre, art, philosophy, etc. These people function and think on a different level than us public university people. Not more intelligent, but different...as in 99% of my friends that I graduated college with will never be chemists and 99% of these Millsapians will never work in agriculture. Millsaps is also like the most tight nit family you can imagine. They do everything together and only with each other. No outsiders aloud. Period. Or at least that's what it feels like.

The bride and I in the Corinth High School Beauty Revue

Fortunately for me, I knew several people from high school that went to Millsaps and somehow, fit in quite well. It definitely wasn't due to the size of my brain. But we do have something in common: we all know how to fucking party. And this Millsaps marriage madness weekend was no different.

Dessert Reception Friday night. River Hills Country Club in Jackson, MS. Wine and macaroons. Too much wine. A few toasts and tears...yadda yadda. Ok, so bypass all of that and now on to the wedding day.

The wedding was held outside at the Mississippi Museum of Art in downtown Jackson. I had been dreading this day for months...an outside wedding, in Jackson, at the end of May. The forecast was calling for 98 degree weather--no breeze. Fuck my life. If there is one thing that I hate, it's being hot and sweaty. My bangs get all sweaty and curl up and make me look like white trash, and I get a killer sweat stash on my upper lip. Well, as I suspected, this was happening while I was furiously fanning myself (Thank the good Lord in Heaven that the bride was thoughtful enough to provide fans)and waiting on the ceremony to start. But I wasn't the only one...the brother and boyfriend of the best man were soaked in sweat. It was beyond gross.

My bitching suddenly stopped as the ceremony began and I became overwhelmed with tears and happiness for my two friends tying the knot. It was one of the most personal, beautiful weddings I've ever attended. We were surrounded by vibrant flowers that matched the bridesmaids dresses and ribbons hanging from the trees and serenaded by a trio of stringed instruments. The groom's grandfather served as the preacher and had a way with words like no other wedding official. He made everything so personal and special and brought everyone together--not just the bride and groom. He spoke of all of the different kinds of love and how love is often misused in the English language...instead of just loving your husband with all of your heart, you also love bacon. He didn't say that, but that's how I interpreted it at least. Kathleen and Brian also wrote their own vows which made me just about lose it. Kathleen's were written so eloquently. I mean, she is a the feature editor of The Jackson Free Press. She cried and choked out her vows which of course made me a complete wreck. It was all I could do not to ruin my makeup along with my sweat drenched bangs.

Photo booth

Immediately following the wedding, we headed in to the art museum to celebrate the marriage of two wonderful, dear friends. The reception was surprisingly tame. There was the usual bad dancing, lots of free wine and beer, great appetizers, and expected "So, what are you doing with your life?" conversations.

Fast forward to 9:00 Sunday morning. Worst hangover I've experienced in my adult drinking life. I haven't felt like that since I drank 6 Smirnoff Green Apples and had to be carried from the car in to my mother's house my sophomore year oh high school. The rest of the night is kind of a blur. My shoe fell apart. Doesn't that always happen at weddings? Fucking F Jones does it every time. And the wine glass full of vodka and full throttle energy drink at the hotel bar probably didn't help my cause either...or the wine, beer, red bull and vodka, and shots. I left Memphis Friday afternoon with $250 and made it back with $12. No debit card, remember? Which is probably the best thing that has ever happened to me in retrospect. There's no telling how much money I would have blown after the wedding.

Here are some of the texts I received from various wedding goers on my absolutely miserable, pukey drive back to Memphis. This should sum up the shit show of a night.


"I'm pretty sure all I lost last night was sixty bucks worth of weed...and all traces of dignity."

"Hey girl. Who was that cougar that hollered at me at the wedding?"

"You should go get a filet-o-fish. Just changed my life. I don't know how you drove this morning."

"Poppin bottles."

XOXO,

Honey


http://www.fjonescorner.com/
ttp://www.msmuseumart.org/

Wedding Season Kick Off

Wedding season...my most favorite, dreaded time of year. I'm creepily obsessed with weddings, and if you follow my wedding board on Pinterest, you are probably already aware of this. I love everything from picking out bridesmaids dresses, crying during the ceremony, and bad dance moves to the horrible hangover the following Sunday morning and scary Facebook notices warning you that "So-in-so has added 14 pictures of you." What I don't love...having to attend a wedding or two every weekend of the summer and securing a date.

Last year I had 17 weddings. SEVENTEEN. Not only did I have my friends' weddings, but also had to throw my (at the time) boyfriend's friends in the mix. It was a fucking nightmare. So many of the weddings fell on the same weekends and we argued about which ones to attend until I finally gave in. My entire fridge was littered with Save-The-Dates, engagement parties invitations, wedding invitations, rehearsal dinners, bachelorette party invitations...you name it. I helped host half of them, sent presents to a all of them, and attended about 10 of them. BROKE. I'm talking about spending more on weddings last year than food kind of broke.

Da Bride and I in NY

Well, fortunately, this year is, well, less busy I guess. I've already gone to two bachelorette parties and three engagement parties...but I still have 7 weddings, 2 bachelorette parties, 3 rehearsal dinners, and 6 engagement parties to go. Whew. Send up a little prayer, wontcha?

Tonight kicks off my friends Kathleen and Brian's wedding weekend shit storm in Jackson, MS. I don't want to give too much away, but it's going to be two days full of Millsaps graduates, gays, lesbians, and deathly amounts of booze. I've been mentally preparing myself since Kathleen's Bachelorette Extravaganza in New York this spring. Tune in Tuesday morning for a play by play of what I can remember from the weekend.

XOXO,

Honey (terminally single and no wedding in sight)

Random Text Banter from Felix

Text messages I receive through out the day from Felix. Enjoy.

May 24th 8:07 am
Felix:
I'm wearing Vineyard Vines today. That means I know how to party and control myself.

May 23rd 3:00 pm
Felix:
Just found where the Memphis Quakers meet. Should we go sometime?

May 23rd 8:47 am
Felix:
It smells like funnel cakes outside. Does this mean the carnies are getting ready to attack?

May 17th 1:32 pm
Felix:
In case you're wondering, I just passed the ice cream man and they have openings for van drivers.

May 16th 9:04 am
Felix:
Well Mack has peed and taken a shit. And Asher has had his morning work out with the laser.

May 15th 8:47 am
Felix:
Time to slay that pussy.

May 14th 4:37 pm
Felix:
Did it like white trash. Stuck that bitch in there and strapped it down.

May 10th 11:48 am
Felix:
They aren't used to seeing the merecat outside of her natural habitat.

May 10th 11:24 am
Felix:
I'm on my way to KFC to get a bucket of chicken.
Honey:
I don't know what I want for lunch.
Felix:
Do the colonel.

May 9th 3:02 pm
Honey:
Gotta go get my prescriptions.
Felix:
Woohoo drugs!!!

May 7th 10:39 am
Felix:
Oh god, the person next to me is talking to his invisible wife. What the fuck.
Honey:
Talk back to him.
Felix:
I'm scared. I don't think I want to make friends with crazy people that aren't you.

You're welcome.

XOXO,

Honey

Typical Tuesday

I know better than to let dinner and drinks turn in to a night of hard core boozing. Working a 10 hour day with a hangover is the definition of miz. Makes me want to cheat on my diet and trade my work out for a nap after work. But once I start drinking, there's not much that can stop me. I call it Typical Tuesday.

Over the past couple of weeks, my long lost friend C-Baby and I have been rekindling our friendship via social networks. It started with a few casual tweets, then liking each other's pictures on Instagram, then emailing each other, and now we g-chat nonstop during work hours. As she likes to say, we're pretty much "gay for each other."

If you live in Memphis and you have never eaten at Bari, you have sinned in my book. It's a small, Northern Italian restaurant in Midtown that specializes in absolutely amazing cheeses and pastas. Even though those bitches took my favorite dish off the menu (Cavatelli with mussels and baby squids in tomato broth), I still love that place dearly. I feel like I'm writing a review on Yelp.

So photogenic

C-Baby and I went on a date to Bari last night. I think the hostess literally thought we were on a date...we were placed at a two-top table that was secluded from all other diners. Probably a good thing since we both have foul mouths and get louder with every glass of wine. We completely bypassed ordering a glass of wine and went for the bottle. The wine flowed, the cheeses stunk (try the Clarissa cheese), and the pasta soaked up little alcohol as we dove into deep conversation about how we got to this point in our lives--two single, 24 year old girls living in Memphis with no potential lovers. Instead of blaming ourselves, we threw the guilt on ruined relationships, antidepressants, and weight gain. Typical. Over the next two hours, we bitched and laughed as the wine quickly ran out and we resorted to ordering glasses of some cheap, $5 Pinot Grigio by the glass.

Trivia Team Name

After dinner, we met up with Felix at The Cove for a few cold PBRs and were surprised with Trivia Night. I fucking love trivia. Felix and C-Baby fucking love trivia. Awesome. Our team name? Merekat Manor. We're drunk and ready to kick some hipster, grungy looking bar patrons' asses. And for those of you who have never been to The Cove...it's a must see. It's a pirate ship themed dive bar on Broad right off Sam Cooper. Definitely check it out. Thanks to Felix's random, useless knowledge and C-Baby's cheating, quick fingers on her phone under the table, we didn't do too bad. 6th place for three, non-nerdy newcomers...not too shabby. And it probably helped that we shouted out the wrong answers so teams around us would second guess their submissions. We got tactics.

By midnight, C-Baby and I were both red-eyed and knew it was time to go if we were going to make it to work on time this morning. We stop at a gas station for snacks (Felix's fave) and gas. An old, white Caddy with a kid in the back pulls up and screams to C-Baby, "You married? You fine!" Yea, great pick up line. Works every time on drunk white girls. Felix comes out with the most awesome of awesome snacks...cheese puffs. And a "Just Busted" paper. Well, there goes the diet. I ate half the damn bag on the ride home.

How I feel this morning.

This morning sucks. I think I may still be drunk. Maybe it would have helped had I showered. I'm sure I smell absolutely wonderful like stale beer and cigs. I only made it to work 5 minutes late which is a Christmas Day miracle since I had to take Felix back to his car this morning at The Cove. And, I just heard from C-Baby. She's still not at work yet... currently an hour and 13 minutes late. And she threw up while brushing her teeth. Solid.


XOXO,

Hungover Honey

http://www.barimemphis.com/web/index.php
http://thecovememphis.com/

Joey's Caberet

**Disclaimer: This post is not for the faint of heart. Read with caution.

I want you to close your eyes and picture the most ridiculous, raunchy porn you have ever seen...and multiply that by 10...and imagine yourself sitting front row for the action. That's Joey's Caberet.

No Bachelorette Party (or my trip to NOLA) is complete with out going to the strip club. For a special surprise for the bride, the maid of honor booked reservations at Joey's Caberet in Harvey, LA for Saturday night. This is not just some normal strip club that you can walk in to on Bourbon. This is the only male strip club in the state of Louisiana, and we were in for a treat.

The cab pulls up to a broken down, deserted strip mall on the side of the highway with a big, shitty sign wrapped in rope lights advertising Joey's Caberet. I don't get sketched out often, but this was pushing my limit. And besides that, I didn't know if I was even going to get in. My wallet was stolen around 4 am while I was dancing on stage at Razoo's on Bourbon, so I had to use the maid of honor's passport. Brunette and 100 pounds. That's definitely me. But the woman checking our ID's was about 150 years old with no teeth. so I was golden. She had probably never even seen a passport. And I'm sure she was thrown off by our Kentucky Derby themed group.  

We're ushered to the front row less than a foot from the stage and immediately greeted by a half naked guy with a tray of shots asking for drink orders. One of the bachelorettes from a different group was asked to come to the stage and the show begins. A bald man no taller than 5'2" dressed in a rip-away white suit that we renamed Mr. Clean saunters to the stage and starts dancing on the bride. Ok, so far so good. A regular Chippendale show. The emcee give us a tip--the more we scream the more clothes he takes off. We cheer. He rips off his pants and vest and reveals his age...and his dick dangling in this zebra print thong. This man is old enough to be my dad. No lie. I'm quite certain the reason he didn't remove his sunglasses was to not show his crow's feet around his eyes. From there he went through the motions of fucking the bride in the ass, did the splits a few times, thrusted his dick in our faces, and did some push ups on stage. Ok, enough of him.

Next, a Jersey Shore looking FBI agent walks out to the Body Guard theme song and immediately spots our group. Not that anyone can miss us. We look like sweet, innocent little Southern Belles in our big hats. He completely bypasses our bride and starts singing to our maid of honor, licking her neck, and whispering naughty things in her ear. She was totally into it. Dollar bills went flying. He hops on stage, rips his clothes of and starts griding on the pole. I can't even accurately describe what he looked like. Completely ripped body, black velvet thong with white tassels lining his dick, and these ridiculous pirate boots that went up over his knees. I'm not going to even pretend that he wasn't turning us on. He was also turning himself on. He was gyrating his hips and starring at his dick longingly as Genuine's "Pony" was blaring. It wasn't long before he was hard on stage. The same bachelorette from before was back on stage, and he was basically fucking her right in front of us. I've never even seen or even heard of these positions he put her in. I swear to God there would have been a baby made on stage had she not been wearing leggings. Before his show was over he came over to me and asked if I wanted to "ride his pony." No thank you. I believe I'll pass tonight.

And last, but CERTAINLY not least, comes the black cowboy. This was no cowboy I'd ever seen...Spider Man tattoo across his back, lime green thong, gold teeth (that Im sure he purchased next door at the place that sells grills), and the biggest damn penis any of us had ever seen. Ever. Biggest. And it was real. No extender. It had to have been a foot and some inches long. And you want to know how we discovered that it was real? Oh, no big deal. He grabbed one of our girl's hands and wrapped his dick around her wrists like handcuffs. I'm not kidding. Mortified. Hilarious. Disgusting. Vomit. Amazing. So many emotions. He also set his body on fire and climbed the wall like Spider Man. But wait. There's more. This blew our minds. He jumped down from stage bent a girl over, started pulling this bitch's hair and fucking (dry humping) her from behind. THEN, he grabbed another girl, flipped her on top of the other girl with one hand, continued fucking and pulling her hair, while his head was up the top girl's dress. I have never in my life seen anything like it. Nor do I ever want to see anything like it again.
All of that happened in an hour. One hour. I'm pretty sure we learned more about the world of male strippers and sex in that one hour than we have our entire lives. The guido FBI agent stripper came and talked to us as we were waiting on our cab out front. I'm pretty sure he was functioning on a second grade level. And for Mr. Clean...oh, he's a policemen. And for the black cowboy? It's safe to say that he's got thousands of kids scattered around New Orleans.

And as for my little black ballerina stripper from the previous post...well, as it turns out, she lives in Houston, TX now and went to massage therapy school. How did I find this out may you ask? One of my readers found her on Facebook. We're actually Facebook chatting at this very moment.

XOXO,

Honey

Barely Legal

The day has finally come. SK's Bachelorette Party Extravaganza in New Orleans...and strip clubs.

Hi. My name is Merekat and I love strip clubs. And this is why I love going to New Orleans. Don't get me wrong. I love the boozing and ridiculous shenanigans that ensue before you even pull into the city limits, but let's get real here. I can get just as shit faced in Memphis on Beale Street. What I can't do in Memphis is go to strip clubs. Sure, we have them here...the Pony, Platinum Plus (if it's even still open), but I'd rather not get shot by some hood rat or get aids. Plus, those bitches don't have the skillz that the strippers in New Orleans do.

A few of the girls, including the bride, going on the bachelorette trip this weekend were with me the first time I experienced a strip club. It was my junior year of college and I was giggly like a little school girl around her first crush. We all were to be quite honest. I had this preconceived notion that the titty bar was going to be nasty and grungy with disgusting girls with no teeth and saggy boobs. What I didn't expect was this tu-tu clad, teeny tiny little black girl with wild hair prancing around the stage at Barely Legal. I swear to God she was the cutest thing I had ever seen. I wanted to just scoop her up and put her in my pocket and take her home. Not to bang. I'm not a lesbian. Nor do I get turned on by strippers, but I quickly reevaluated my opinions of strip clubs. The way they climb up and down the poles with only their legs is a fucking art form. SK and I were bellied up to the stage with our ridiculously overpriced drinks cautiously sticking one's in the girls g-strings and nervously laughing and whispering to each other.

Before we knew it, we had strippers in our laps, our inhibitions were out the window, and we were invited to the VIP Lounge upstairs. The little black ballerina and I became fast friends. As she sat in my lap and played with my hair, momma-mode kicked in. With slurred speech and glazed eyes, I tried telling her how she could make something of herself and leave this fantasy world of too few dolla bills and gawking men.

Well, it didn't work...because I have her cell phone number and visit her at whichever strip joint she's working at every time I'm in NOLA. Since then, I have introduced her to Momma Hen (When she saw me she hopped off of a client's lap and gave me a huge hug. Mom has never been more proud.), my brother (who was NOT amused), all of his friends (who thought I was cool as shit), and everyone else I bring down on random trips. Unfortunately, she did not text me back this week when I announced my return to the big easy. Maybe she got a new number. Maybe she moved. Or maybe the rough life caught up with her and she took my advice. Whatever. I'm sure I'll see her this weekend as we force lap dances upon SK.

If anyone knows this stripper, tell her I'm on my way.

XOXO,

Honey

http://barelylegalnola.com/

Date Night

As a general rule, most blind dates end badly. Your friends set you up and tell you, "You're going to love HIM! Ya'll have so much in common!" when in all actuality, you find yourself asking the waiter more questions (Can I have another glass of wine, PLEASE??) than your date.

I have found myself in a slightly different situation. I have taken on the task of setting Momma Hen up with a man. This is more difficult than one may think. Meeting men her age is tricky. They either hit on me at the bar or I meet them at work.

I met a man at the first of the year that seemed to be perfect. My friend and I were sitting at the bar at Elfo's in Germantown one Wednesday night. Wednesday nights have been dubbed as the "Pick Up Night" at Elfo's. The crowd consists of men in their late 30's to early 60's in business suits and dried up, ex-housewives dressed like whores. It's basically a cluster fuck of desperate women trying to find a man with money. Being the green age of 24, I am a hot commodity in this arena. And it didn't hurt that my friend didn't wear her wedding ring that night. As the night progressed I had a glazed eyed man with kids older than me buy my dinner and several rounds of Patron as well as propose to me, and my friend had several unsightly suitors as well. All the while, a man seated alone across the bar stared and smiled at us. Creepy, right? After I closed my "fiance's" tab, tipped the bartender a shit ton on his expense of course, and sent him home, the creepy man approached us. We were skeptical, but played along as we do with other old men. The more we talked, the more I thought of my mom. Even though he was hitting on us, the Patron made me blurt out, "You're my mom's age. Fuck her. Not us." One thing lead to another, and I had Creep and Momma Hen set up on a date.

He seemed pretty cool after the fact...anthesiologist, drives a Harley, loves the lake...match made in Heaven, so I thought. After Momma Hen and Creep talked on the phone for a few weeks, they finally met for dinner in Memphis. The date went great...awesome conversation, opened her car door, good kisser. But he was a little sketchy. His stories didn't match up. So, I took the liberty of Googling him--something I should have done before I sent Momma Hen off with an ax murderer. And what did I find might you ask? Oh, not a doctor. Creep is in medical sales...not the owner of the company--manager. And the snotty Germantown neighborhood he claimed he lived in? Not a chance. His house is in an older neighborhood and not worth a dime. Google is the shit. You can't lie and get away with it easily anymore. Idiot.

So, obviously Momma Hen did not return his phone calls and psycho texts after my findings nor want me to set her up again.

I work on a construction site in Memphis and am surrounded by men all day long. No one of interest for me or her until Silver Fox arrived on site a few months ago. A 60 year old, successful, good looking man. He's charming, intelligent, and treats me like a daughter. After the disaster date that I had set Momma Hen up with previously, I was a little cautious when mentioning that they should meet. Actually, neither of them were too excited about the idea. The more I've gotten to know Silver Fox, the more I wanted them to meet. After talking them up to each other for 3 months, they FINALLY met last night.


Lovebirds

Felix, Bear (coworker), and I joined Momma Hen and Silver Fox for dinner and drinks at Pearl's Oyster House. It didn't take 5 minutes before the two love birds were laughing, talking, and cheersing their drinks. Felix, Bear, and I immediately became a collective third wheel. Mom ordered oysters...aren't they supposed to turn you on or something? Maybe it worked. From there we went for more drinks at South of Beale. Momma Hen proceeded to show him every fucking picture on her camera...the house, weddings she's planned, the dogs, cemeteries, etc. He seemed amused. I was bored to death. Momma Hen was starting to get to that slippery slope stage of drinking, so I quickly ended the date. There were lots of hugs and googly eyes. Gross. I guess this is what I get for attending the blind date.
The results:

"I could see him again...yea. I could." Go me!
"I want to clip his rose bushes and dig in his dirt. What do you say? That's my thing." Is that supposed to be sexual?
"I mean, he has to love dogs or he wouldn't be the person he is." Nice logic.

I haven't talked to Silver Fox today, but I think the feeling is mutual.

OK, so not as exciting as the Creep story, but at least I did a decent job this time. Hey, I say one outa two ain't bad.


XOXO,

Honey the Match Maker


http://www.elfosrestaurant.com/
http://www.pearlsoysterhouse.com/
http://www.southofbeale.com/

Bitch Fest

I thought it would be a grand idea to invite Momma Hen to go to dinner and to a Redbirds game last night in Memphis. Just a laid back night of boozing and baseball. What could go wrong? Major bitching...that's what.

Before Momma Hen arrived, being the amazing daughter that I am, I went and picked up a pregnant bottle of her favorite Chardonnay. More than half the bottle was gone before I even called the cab to take us to dinner.

The cab arrives, Felix joins us, and low and behold, we know the damn cab driver.


Side story: This is the same cab driver that took us to Beale Street before Music Fest two weekends ago. His favorite words are "fuck" and "god damn." We learned a lot from this cabbie. Apparently, Raiford (of Paula and Raifords Disco...a cash only Heaven on Earth from 10 pm to 4 am on Friday and Saturdays) popped a cap in a man's ass for getting rough with his wife. My kind of man. But, according to the cabbie, Raiford is also gay and has an asshole wide enough for a truck to drive through.

After Momma Hen tips her new favorite cab driver heavily, we finally make it to Local to eat dinner. This is where the bitching starts.


"I want to sit outside."  There are no tables available outside...I mean the bar is packed for Happy Hour for God's sake.
"Where's the salt, Mere? My lobster tacos have NO taste. So bland."  Yet she made a happy plate.
"Do we really have to go to the game? Let's bar hop." We agreed to go for a few innings. I was already decked out in my Redbirds shirt.


Since Felix and Momma Hen obviously didn't want to attend the game, I paid the $57 for three tickets. High roller, I know. We all grab a beer and sit down.

"Are the Redbirds even any good?"
"This is so boring. Felix, let's talk about finding me a date in Greenville." Oh boy, here we go. It's only the first inning.
"Why can't I smoke out here? And do they not sell wine?" This is a family oriented baseball stadium mind you.

It's the third inning by now. Momma Hen and Felix get up to find the smoking section and never come back. As I venture off to find them, I see she has found the wine. Thank the good Lord in Heaven that Momma Hen has found her wine.

"Mere, we're leaving. This sucks! We're going to the Peabody to have cocktails. BYE!" Ok. Kind of hurts my feelings, but fuck it. I want to stay and watch the game.


The Redbirds finally get their dicks out of the dirt and start playing a real game... 6 runs in the 5th inning. As bad as I wanted to stay for the rest of the game, I knew that if I didn't find the two drunkards I would lose them for the night.


I immediately spot them in the lobby of the Peabody and see that one of my coworkers has joined them. Oh shit. What a great night to meet the mother figure. Mom and Felix's voices are already 2 octaves above everyone else's at the bar. As soon as I sit down I receive a lovely greeting.


"YOU'RE A BITCH!" Why, thank you.
"I can see you talking about me." I haven't said more than "Hey ya'll. I would like a glass of pinot grigio."
"How was the rest of the gaaaaaaaame." You really care, don't you?


Let's wrap this evening up. Momma Hen was ready to go home. No arguing there. My coworker paid for our tab...probably so he could get away as soon as possible. We couldn't find a cab. Bitch bitch bitch bitch bitch. Found a cab. Made it home. Locked myself in my room and passed out.


Not a Momma Hen nor Felix was stirring...not even my dog or cat this morning at 6:30 when I left for work.

XOXO,

Honey

Memphis Redbirds Official Homepage
http://www.localgastropub.com/
http://www.peabodymemphis.com/

Introductions

I've never been much of a writer, but I feel like it's time to share my ridiculous life somewhere other than Facebook and Twitter.

I suppose I should start out with introductions.

Hi. I'm Meredith, but in this blog I will go by Honey or Merekat. Honey isn't a self proclaimed nickname, but a name I picked up from Felix's (my roommate) grandparents. We've decided that his grand dad doesn't even know that my name is Meredith. And my coworker/supervisor/guy who claims he's my boss had dubbed me as the Merekat. Whatever works.

I've decided at 24 years old that just because I have a big girl job doesn't mean I have to quit partying like a rockstar. I'll go ahead and state the obvious. I'm a shit show. The guys at work have even started calling me shit show. It's not something that I'm proud of, but at least I have a good time...right? I like to drink. Love to drink. Wine, beer, liquor....doesn't really matter. I have my preferences obviously....like wine. I'm a freak for Pinot Grigio. Kind of like crazy ass Ramona from the Real Housewives of New York minus the plastic surgery.

My roommate, Kevin, now goes by Felix. The name Felix comes from my mother, Momma Hen. She claims he doesn't look like a Kevin and has been calling him Felix for over a year now.

Now Felix is a little different. He tends to stick to whiskey and sprite, Bud Light, and red wine, and he won't take a shot or chug a beer to save his soul while I'm the one buying the rounds of shots.

I created this blog to document what we remember from our nights of debauchery and let our readers in on the chaos. So here goes. I hope you enjoy. If not, fuck you.


XOXO,


Honey