"There's a Snake in my Boot!"

It's always nice to get all dolled up and go out to dinner and drinks with your boyfriend, so when you don't have a boyfriend, why should one be pried of this luxury? You shouldn't.

I recently won one hundred big ones from a beer selling contest at work and my good friend Keith was forced into drinking said beers for one whole month (instead of the comfort of his usual Miller Lite), so I decided to take him out to dinner and show my appreciation for his friendship.

Right before he came to pick me up, a passing lawn maintenance man knocked on the door and asked roomie if he could mow the lawn (my job), to which she replies no thanks. On his way off, he says, "Oh by the way, there's a black snake in your yard."

Roomie seems to show no kind of emotion toward this conversation and goes on to her room where she shouts "Bye, have fun! There's a snake in the yard!"

Me: "Pardon me?"

Big black snake, to me, means chicken snake. Not okay. But why on earth would there be a chicken snake in my jungle yard? Are there chickens nearby? I have no idea. People have been starting their own coops in town, it's been a big issue in the paper, so perhaps it could be a chicken snake. What if it's a black mamba? Just kidding, but for real. I don't like where this is going. I've had a few encounters with snakes before, namely large black ones, and I hate to see history repeat itself.

Roomie (from Michigan, I might add): "What's the big deal? This is Texas. There are snakes in Texas."

Me: "Yes, but not in my yard."

I go out and grab a shovel. This sonofabitch is going to die. Dangerous or not, no snakes allowed in MY yard. Poor Keith pulls up to my house to find me, baby doll dress on, yielding a shovel and standing perched on the porch overlooking the yard in hopes to find this self-entitled bastard of a snake and chop its stinking head off. It's a good thing this wasn't a blind date.

So we went on to wine and dine, (the snake never showed his lousy neck) downtown at Sullivan's and Perla's on South Congress. Oysters, calamari, vodka, crab cakes, and steak later, we called up our pals to meet us at the saloon and overall had a rip-roaring time.

At the end of the night, my Michigan roommate beat your very own country girl in a thrilling game of arm wrestle, I am ashamed to admit. Let's blame it on the booze.

A chicken snake. Bastard.

Bar Tales from the Crypt

Per my Roommate #2's request, I am going to start relaying hilarious bar stories. The people that hang out at my bar are a bunch of characters. So why not write about and take advantage of their unfortunate lives?

To begin, or really just as a sneak peak, Brad and Eric and I were discussing ideal ways to die. There's the ever popular death in your sleep of course (too good to be true), drowning; peaceful as well, but how do we really know this, it's not like anyone can vouch for it... and then there's stabbing, shooting, burning alive, and the less popular, death by Marky Mark.

?

I have no idea.

And have no idea how any of these conversations get started. Much of them: "remember that time we took acid in Arizona and stopped at that bar..." I hear a lot. And now, I'm going to share those much coveted stories. Aren't you excited? More to come.

Also, you think Mark Wahlberg conveniently forgot he used to drop his pants at every concert, not to mention, rap?

Grazing: Good for Cattle, Bad for Bartenders

Before I begin, its important to know a couple of things about me (which if you know me, you already know very well).

One, I like to eat. Anything and everything. I get pretty excited about food.

Two, I am not a huge fan of the marijuana. I've done the whole college thing; been there, done that, not a fan. That's not to say I hate pot, it's just not my thing. Smoke your heart out, I'll drink a beer or two with you. Pick your poison.

So this weekend I had a lot going on: friends and sister in town, Willie Nelson's Fourth of July Picnic on Sunday, sun poisoning, dehydration, etc, etc. And Monday, I had to get up and go to work at what felt like 4:00 AM (actual time, 10 AM). My shift turns out to be pretty dull, not a lot going on, so I start cleaning wildly; throwing away things that I think have been at the bar too long, finding lost bar tools... a veritable cleaning frenzy. Along the way I find a perfectly cut, rectangular, homemade fudge brownie. I become elated.

Me, by myself, upstairs at the bar: "Hell yes! Some dumbass left their freaking brownie up here and I am going to eat the crap out of it! Allllriiiiigghhhhhtttt."

Ask around, "Does anyone know whose brownie this is, cause I'm gonna EAT it."

No one seems to give a rat's ass about the brownie, so I dig in. It's delicious. About half-way through the best brownie I have ever eaten, I begin to hear a small voice inside my head.

Conscience: "Brynnan? What the hell are you doing? Are you suddenly the dumbest person alive? Where did you get this brownie? That's right, you FOUND it. Who eats a 'found' brownie? Put the brownie down. Dumb. Ass."

Two hours later, I fumble down the stairs to head out to a movie with ex-boyfriend, and receive a text from fellow co-worker: "You bitch, you ate my brownie!"

Not good. This can only insinuate that this brownie was some sort of "special" brownie. And here is when I go through the stages one feels after eating something one thought was harmless and turns out said food is laced with drugs.

Denial: No way that was a pot brownie. It didn't smell like anything strange. And anyway, I feel fine! Don't I feel fine? Why am I stomping the ground like this and jerking my arms around?

Anger: WHY ME?! WHO LEAVES A POT BROWNIE AT THEIR PLACE OF WORK?! WHY DID I EAT A STRANGE BROWNIE I FOUND AT THE BAR!? WHO DOES THAT?!

Bargaining: Maybe if we go back upstairs, ex-boyfriend can eat the rest of the brownie and in two hours, he will feel equally as strange as I do right now.

Depression: I just want to go home and lie down. My life is pointless right now. This movie is going to suck. I can't concentrate on anything right now. I would sooner die.

Acceptance: Screw it. This is going to be a good night.