Things have been settling down in the hood allowing Mrs. Tuna to spend a little more time with her wine drinking peeps. She forgets how they make her laugh so hard that peach sangria shoots out her nose. Sacrilege, I know. But let’s delve a little deeper into her drunken posse’s quirks and idiosyncrasies shall we?
Miss Anonymous and I go way back, pre kids, pre Bebe. Way more um…. open than me. It’s not like I’m a prude or anything but she can make me blush all the way down to my lady parts. Not an easy task considering how smutty I can be with my VinoSlut and Vagina Aisle posts. She and the Big Tuna used to work together and many a fine work happy hour we spent drinking cheap beer and appetizers. I did make her flinch one time when I showed up at her house with Sheldon in tow for a kiddie birthday party. A week early. The look of panic at the thought of 15 little girls arriving in the next ten minutes is one I have yet been able to recreate. But I made it up to her by introducing her to the 12 year old in the Cold Dark Wine Cellar.
I met C3 at work where we hid in the bathroom, standing on the toilet seats, at Giant Engineering during the massive rounds of layoffs. Surely they wouldn’t find us in here. She recently treated herself to a long weekend in New York City for a milestone birthday. Upon her first day back at the slave market, the ex husband started frantically texting her wanting to know if she’d seen their teen son, he’d found a giant bag of pills, and couldn’t get the boy to pick up his phone. Her mind racing that her normally good kid was lying unconscious in his bedroom, she sped frantically the 50 miles home, burst through the door with ex in tow. To find him playing ear shattering video games with his buddies. As his father confronted him with the danger of drugs, swinging the offensive Ziploc, C3 felt a pang a familiarity. The dreaded bag, was marked with careful instructions, take 1 tablet with water before meals. Her handwriting, vitamins she’d bought for the kid. What drug dealer writes instruction on their heroin sales? Let’s just say her heart rate is finally back to normal 3 weeks later.
Bebe, my bestie. My sister from another mister. Bebe went through a long phase of teaching senior citizens aerobic classes. Made her feel like she made a difference and a free workout for her. But those frugal sliver sneakers always paid her in exact change, $3 a class. This results in shopping expeditions where it feels like she’s paying in stripper money. Shake it Bebe, shake it, make those tassels spin. Ahem. With a birthday of 9-1-1, bizarre things always seem to be happening to her. Recently, she and her freshly shaven man Bubba went to a small wedding reception. Upon pulling a piece of toilet paper from a nick, he began to gush blood and refused to head in because he didn’t want people “to stare at him.” After much pleading, he sulkily made the rounds, as they headed back to the car, he admitted that all in all he had a pretty good time. She suggested that next time he didn’t want people to stare at him he should pull up his zipper.
A new friend. Pippa is adorable, tiny perky, witty. We want to hate her but are powerless to resist. Met her at Miss Anonymous’ 50th birthday bash. Started comparing dating tips. Told her the success is dating someone with whom you have nothing in common. Her response, maybe she should date her Brother-Husband. Snort, funny girl. I’m sure she will merit her own post in the very near future.
Since it’s all about us girls, I picked a recipe from a previous Ladies Potluck bash.
Hot Crabmeat Appetizer
8 ounces cream cheese
1 ½ cup crabmeat, flaked
2 tablespoons minced onion
2 tablespoons milk
½ teaspoon horseradish
1/3 cup sliced almonds
Mix all but almonds, spoon into 9” pie plate. Sprinkle with nuts. Bake at 375 degrees for 20 minutes.