Weekend Winks – Luck of the Irish My Ass

My St. Patty’s Day weekend proved I’ve become a leprechaun in reverse with no overflowing gold in my pot.

Who's got my pot of gold?

No gold? No problem. Let’s party!

Ever have multiple seconds turn into minutes that roll into hours and then days that make you wanna pull your hair out strand by strand?

Friday morning started with this lovely event…


All aired out in less than two minutes flat.

A second punctured tire in the last three months requiring me to purchase yet another brand new fucking piece of rubber. Thank you streets of Nashville.

Luck of the Irish my ass

Luck of the Irish my ass.

While I was quite the damsel in distress (let’s remember my nails are “jewels not tools” so no I don’t know, nor care to know how to change a flat tire), I luckily work in a warehouse full of knights in shining armor.

My hero.

My hero to the rescue!

Adding to my mounting car frustration was the fact that I just spent $1000 on brakes last weekend. So between dropping a cool thou enabling my car to halt and throwing another $250 into the wind for a new tire I thought about to pushing my car into oncoming traffic.

Then I remembered I’m not done paying for it.

And I need transportation to and from work in order to pay for my piece of shit vehicle.

Knowing I just drained my entire year’s worth of spending money in two weeks on a hunk of metal about sent me over the edge…all before noon on a Friday. But the fellas at the warehouse know how to take care of an edgy gal – with endless compliments (your day sucks but you look really nice!) and a cigarette (if I’m smoking, it’s bad as I smoke one cigarette every 1,789 days).

Yep. I needed a cig.

Thankful for nicotine, my resident tire expert and the coat he let me borrow.

In order to get my heart rate, blood pressure and sanity back in order, I drove across town to visit Ted, the little fur ball love of my life.

Little lovin'

Just what the doctor ordered.

Why is my beloved on vacation from yours truly?  Because New Cat, the stray we opened our home to in January is sick (and pretty pathetic looking in his cone).

SIck cone head.

Wallowing in the window pane.

Saturday fun was all about New Cat visiting the vet where we found out his eye is not only worse, he’s somehow developed an ear infection, which means another week away from my precious Ted and $100 less grocery money for moi. I feel like the appropriate name for New Cat is now Money Pit.

Pink eye

Poor, pitiful, pink-eyed pussy.

Finding out that my nephew is a mini LeBron James lifted my saggy Saturday spirits.

Palm It!

Palming it in Iowa.

Michael Jordan

Seriously. Check out his biceps with an easy slam dunk.

What made me want to do happy cartwheels around my mini manse? Seeing a photo of my niece, a budding shoe hoarder….

Yep. My niece for sure.

Yep. My niece for sure.

The final act in turning my frown upside down included the main squeeze in my liquor loving life. Captain Morgan.

Taking the edge off

Doing an Irish jig for my Skinny Pirates.

Luck of the Irish my ass.

Who needs rainbows and leprechauns when you have rum?

Turning my pissy pants into party pants was complete with my concoction of green holiday treats.

Happy St. Patty's Day to me!

Filling my pot with Jell-O shots, naturally.

With a little hitch in my kick, I’m happy to say this Nashville gal has the leprechaun spirit in overabundance today.

Who needs a pot of gold?

Luck ‘o the Irish breakfast…and lunch…and dinner.

Here’s hoping some Irish luck finds you, making this a very happy St. Patrick’s Day!



Weekend Winks

Alcohol, tattoos and Kid Rock can always turn things around, right?

Does this Jim Beam tattoo make me look like an alchoholic?

Does this Jim Beam tattoo add to my full on classiness?

I was pretty sure my weekend was in the pisser with a flat tire, a nasty cold and a forgotten concert outfit at home Friday morning.

Weekend off to a flat start

Off to a flat start…

But fabulous friends whiplashed me back into my maniacal state about my hot date with Kid Rock and his 15,000 closest Nashville fans.

All aboard for the Kid Train!

All aboard for the Kid train!

Pumped about my 10th (yes 10th!) row seats, I had to run in and check them out in between Jim Beam cocktails.

A perfect 10

A perfect 10.

But how in the world was I going to be the apple of Kid Rock’s eye? By inking myself up, of course.


Is this going to hurt?


Somebody hold my hand, damn it!

Did I mention that this was a henna tattoo?

Totally classy

All fun and no permanency for this commitment phobe.

But I did feel like quite the bad ass with my kickin’ eagle tattoo.


After all of my classy arm primping, I still didn’t catch Mr. Rock’s attention.


Hello! Over here with the arm tat!

But I scored something even better than a glimpse from Kid … maneuvering up to the front row…..!


Holy Shit!

Where I proceeded to lose my f’ing mind, driver’s license and check card (come to find out as I was trying to get into a bar after the show – but don’t worry a nice doorman let me in to party even though I don’t look a day over 20) as I raised the roof (like the whitest chick in the world) with my favorite rocker.

I pledge allegiance to the kid

I pledge allegiance to The Kid.

As usual, Teddy sensed my pain on Saturday and selfishly insisted I spend the rest of the weekend with him.

Feeling my pain

Feeling my discomfort. Smart cat.

After a bag full of favorite food from my own personal Cheers (it’s heaven – they deliver!), Ted and I mustered enough energy to sit up on the couch.

thanks you

My stomach rejoiced in grease.

Even though our necks still hurt from headbanging…

Rocked out...

Rocked out.

And while I still require a hand on my chin to alleviate my sore neck, I’m tattoo free and fully re-hydrated today.

Until next weekend…