Walk in the front door with your head up, head back. Place one pointy-toed stiletto in front of the other and throw each shoulder with every stride. At the first sight of the others toss your hair. Your lipgloss is mirror slick.

Air kisses for the lady. She is wearing brown cords and brown boots. Her hair is curly and pulled up with a barette. Rest assured in the knowledge that you outshine your dinner companion ten fold. Make no eye contact with her boyfriend until she excuses herself to the bathroom. Then make sure you whisper something about how he smells in his ear and slyly show a bit of tongue. Sneak peeks at him later while she’s eating. Bite your bottom lip once, not twice.

It’s your birthday and you are wearing your red off-the-shoulder dress that accentuates the slope of your tiny waist to the dramatic arc of your hips. Your hair is shiny black from the $30 blow out.

Your nipples harden beneath the thin material of the dress. With every sip of wine you grow wetter.

Your fuzzy haired dinner companion is slurring. She indulges in alcohol since she found out she can’t have any children. She’s on drink number four, which for her tiny, curveless frame is more than plenty. Notice her face looks sadder and sadder with every sip.

He’s only nursing beer. He allows his wife the luxury of a few hours drunk. They’d been trying for over two years before she learned she was barren. He wasn’t as devestated as she was about it. You notice when he reaches for his wife’s hand her eyes begin to tear up. She excuses herself to the ladies’ room.

While she’s gone slide the palm of your hand up the length of his thigh. Feel him harden beneath your hand before he grabs your wrist hard and pushes you away forcefully. He looks you in the face and says he’d love to fuck you. But he loves his wife far more than that.

When she emerges from the bathroom, mascara matting her lashes, he drops a $100 bill on the table and escorts her out of the bar. He will tell her he was too concerned about her to stay even a minute longer, never mentioning your encounter.

Take a cab home and finish the tequila your sister bought for your birthday. Cry later when you masturbate.

-Mom made us Easter baskets. Snickers eggs and new coffee mug and stuffed animals. Rock!

-Bocce ball in the backyard. My sister calling it “Hibatchi ball.”

-My mother drunk on boxed wine, referee-ing Hibatchi ball while screaming out the play-by-play to everyone, including the neighbors.

-Seeing my sister in love with a really nice guy. Finally.

-Watching the video of my mother’s February wedding in Hawaii.

-Laughing hysterically as the wedding official continually makes dumb jokes with the camera man.

-Seeing Mom’s new beach room mobile that hangs a mere 4 inches from the bed. Martha Stewart she is not.

-The VCB was there.

A lot of my old photo albums that were hosted at another site are now offline. Starting now I am slowly moving them over to this here TypePad server.

The first one to be resurrected is Vegas. You’ve probably seen these before. Now they are available in a handy thumbnail gallery. Typepad kicks much ass.

(Oh, and by request: the video of me dancing and drunk on Fremont St. The girl at the end is my sister, who was also drunk.)

UPDATE:
Now available for your perusal: Los Angeles