Do you know how to tell if you’re crafty?  Ask yourself one question.  Do I decide upon and intricately plan my Halloween costume weeks - or even months in advance?  If you answered ”yes”…you’re one hot, crafty momma (or poppa…everyone is welcome in the slick aisles of Hobby Lobby).

Although I’ve made a semi-legitimate profession out of writing, and may be considered by some to be a “creative” individual…I am as craft-challenged as they come.  Believe me when I tell you this.  Because I know it in my soul to be true…creativity does not always translate to crafty.  I am living proof of that.  But I don’t want to knock myself about too much.  I do come by this affliction honestly.  My mother is even less comfortable than I traversing the knick-knack laden, scrapbook-filled halls of Michaels.  In fact, years ago, in a sad moment of complete denial, we decided to attempt the seemingly simple and straightforward art of silk flower arrangements.  After several glasses of wine and no clear plan, we broke into gut-busting fits of laughter.  Because the atrocity before us can only be described as the devil’s garden.  Random cattails jutting at odd angles, pockets of nothingness next to packed flowers…and overall, no apparent rhyme or reason.  It was so awful that we decided to keep it as a reminder that we should never, under any circumstance, attempt such a project again.

The point is, I did not spend weeks or even days planning my Halloween costume.  In fact, it could more accurately be measured in hours.  Most of which were spent combing stores alongside other procrastinating, slightly testy, non-crafties. 

For my costume, I’d decided on the late 50’s / early 60’s era gal…based mainly on my obsession with the “Mad Men” TV series (if you haven’t seen it, check it out).  And, to be honest, it was a decision based also on my (inaccurate) assumption that a pencil skirt and sweater would be an easy find.  Twenty stores and two very sore feet later, I had what I felt would be a passable imitation of the outwardly sexy (yet inwardly downtrodden) ad-industry secretary.

Because the hype around Halloween is often on par with New Year’s Eve or Valentine’s Day (and therefore built-up expectations are often squashed by a squabbling couple or botched fireworks), our crew decided to play it safe and guarantee at least amazing people-watching.  In other words, we went to a locally famous gay bar where crafty costumes would be an understatement.  And it didn’t disappoint, people.  The costumes?  Unbelievable.  And to be honest, some were a little, well…let’s not go there.  Just use your imagination, and then double the “What the…” factor.  It was beautiful.  And highly entertaining.  Susan and I eventually moved on to other locations, to enjoy the company of men a bit more interested in slightly enhanced bosoms (courtesy of the old standby Charmin toilet paper).  But one of our earlier companions, Susan’s good friend and coworker, Lealon, later won a costume competition for his incredible Boy George get-up. If we can’t be crafty, at least we can hang with others who are.

Here are a few photos for your viewing pleasure (or for a good midday laugh).  And don’t forget to vote tomorrow.  It’s not just a right, it’s a privilege! (And you can legitimately attend that rockin’ “Results Viewing” party)

P.S. It appears the feature to upload pictures into blog posts is on the fritz.  In the meantime, I’ve posted some of the Halloween pics in my ‘Paparazzi’ (Flickr) section to the right.  Enjoy!

There are so many positive things that come with getting older. We grow in confidence. We become more comfortable in our own skin. Great friendships become deeper, and the toxic ones have a way of falling by the wayside. In short, it’s easier to hone in on what’s truly important. Life just becomes more, well…more genuinely fun. One drawback however, is the toll that fun can have on a slightly more mature body.  Take, for example, the socially-packed weekend.

To a twenty-something, a weekend full of activities is an expectation. Missing even the most ridiculous of events is unacceptable, because responsibilities and recovery time are fairly nonexistent.  But to the thirty-something, a weekend full of social commitments - although just as entertaining as always - can wreak havoc on the body and the early week’s productivity.

I just had one of those weekends. Don’t get me wrong, it was a blast…more fun and interesting than most of my recent social outings. But boy am I paying for it now. Yes, I am still paying for it.  Can I get a “hell yeah” from my fellow gal pals!

Let’s break this down. Friday night was meant to be quite tame, and by all accounts it was just that. Susan hosted our 3rd Girl’s Night Out…a low-key eating/sipping soiree at her seemingly professionally decorated apartment. We each brought our own little dish (so very mature of us) and settled in for a night of chatting and Olympic viewing. We did both, of course, but before I knew it, the intended “early night” had turned into not so early, and with big plans looming for Saturday, I finally peeled myself away and attempted to turn in before late night became early morning.

Saturday was a different story. Susan and I had been invited to a “Party Like A Rockstar” event held at Warehouse Live - a music venue just across the freeway from Minute Maid Park.  After getting lost and arriving an hour or so later than expected, we dragged our slightly tired (and costumed) bodies into the crowded building full of Jim Morrisons, Gwen Stefanis, Sono Bonos, and (my personal favorite) Bret Michaels (I’m posting one of those pics just for you, Dawn). 80s Madonna (Susan) and Sheryl Crow (me) weaved through the crowd and bellied up to the bar for a “free” Coors Light. An hour or so into the festivities, as we continued to critique costumes, Susan turned to me and said:

 ”Are you bored?”

“A little bit, yeah. But let’s stick it out.”

Well, we certainly did that. Moments later, we met up with a crew of interesting and fun folks (shout out to my new reader, Ramesh, and his buddy Omar)…and, as often is the case, things took off from there. Before I knew it we were illegally shuttled into the private after party, full of interesting characters and the third band of the night. We literally partied like rockstars…with rockstars. That, of course, was not enough, we had to leave and continue the party. When we finally took our leave for the night - tired and ready to crawl into our respective beds, Susan gasped.

“What? What is it!” I said, fearing something had gone terribly wrong with her car.

“Nikki!  It is 5 a.m.!”

“It can’t be!” I shrieked.

Susan pointed at the dashboard clock.  And that’s when I knew. I knew I was going to be in hell for the next two days. So, here I am on Monday night, still fairly listless, and dreaming of tomorrow. Because, I know, as I’m sure you do my darling thirty-somethings, that one full night of sleep does not a recovery make. These days, we need a full forty-eight hours to return back to our fully-functioning human form.  As the classic Broadway songstress, Annie, croons: “The sun’ll come out tomorrow.” I, for one, can’t wait. I need my wits about me to start planning for the upcoming weekend. A girl must have her priorities.

Let’s be honest.  Those of us of the female persuasion are known well for our internal TKOs.  Even the most confident can be masters of self-destruction…builders of impenetrable brick walls…our own worst critics.  But an unexpected compliment can, for a time at least, kick our chins back up and push our shoulders back.

Friday Night (pre-compliment):  James is involved.  He is on the move.  He has more energy than a fully-loaded and cocked (hehe) Fourth of July bottle rocket.  He’s invited a large group (including Susan and I) to a farewell party for one of Houston’s oldest steak houses and creepy old-man, dark bar hangouts.  Why?  Because James, using just the steam of his overflowing reserve, has created an organization called Amnesia Houston (www.amnesiahouston.org) - dedicated to preserving and protecting Houston’s waning architectural history.  In a city obsessed with new! and Bigger! and EVEN NEWER! this is a worthy endeavor, indeed.  And we support him wholeheartedly.  Even if it means showing up in the bar of an old-school restaurant we’ve never laid eyes on.  Now that’s dedication.  And also two girls who desperately need a night out.

I know what you’re thinking.  That’s where the compliment was tossed out - from one of the elderly, bleary-eyed alcoholics rolling about in their caster-wheeled, round-backed chairs.  They probably bent their thick, red necks back and slurred something like “well, you sure are a couple of fine-lookin’ young fillies” or “take a look at these sweet little tarts” (it is Texas).  But you would be wrong.  Those ole boys didn’t bat a single, blood-shot eye our way…they had more important things to worry about - like their favorite bar biting the dust.

After consuming a vodka tonic and some goulash from a hot plate, Susan and I decided to skip James’ next stop (a 70s prom-themed party with his favorite retro disco band) and headed to the newly refurbished nightspot - The Social - a hit or miss hangout located in the up-and-coming Washington Avenue / Heights area.  We parked in the abandoned bank parking lot across the street and strolled into the large patio with high hopes for an atypical Houston night. 

“Patio looks fairly similar,” I said, pondering the reason for the three-month shut-down.

“Yes, I’m confused,” Susan replied.

We walked inside.  Uh huh.  Nice.  New, high-backed red booths, fancy hanging pin lights…maybe some new tables?

“Looks good,” I said, determined to stay positive…the night depended on it.

“Uh huh,” was all I got from Susan.  “Wanna go sit outside?”

“Uh huh.”

 We grabbed a couple of beers and sat at one of the few unoccupied (new?) patio tables…directly across from a makeshift BBQ area, serving $5 hamburger/chip plates and manned by three 20-something man-boys.  Smart move, right?  Would have been if the barely legals hadn’t been obnoxiously hammered and pushing burgers on us like street corner crack-peddlers.  We declined…approximately twelve times.  At which point they offered to melt pre-packaged American cheese slices and whip us up some “delicious” queso.  We politely declined again, causing one of the charming young souls to deem us “ungrateful bitches”.

Hmmmmm.  I’m not sure I enjoy The Social’s redesign. 

But, troopers that we are, we turned our heads, tuned them out and proceeded to do the one thing that our married girlfriends often chastise us for…we dove into deep conversation about “that awful Oprah episode” and cried some tears for the latest, tragic news story and essentially built a wall around us that no single man is willing to chip through.  Except for one…

“Oh, Lord,” I said under my breath.  “We got a doozie coming over.”

Cut to disheveled man, weaving toward our table.  Susan quickly looks over and back.  “This can’t be good.”

“WELL, HELJO YADIES!”

“Um, hi,” we respond.  The man is not sober, not even close.  And, let’s face it, his hair could use a good washing.  But a proper Southern upbringing mixed with a healthy dose of guilt disallows us from immediately casting him aside.  Which wasn’t such a bad thing…because, drunk as Cooter Brown or not, his next words were, well…needed.

“I don’t mean ta bodder you yadies, but I gotta say…yur the most bewtful women I ever seen…the most bewtful women in the world!”

Well, maybe he isn’t THAT drunk.

“In the world?  Wow,” I say with a hint of sarcasm.  “That’s a pretty bold statement.”

“I mean you got Angelina Jolie…Grace Kelly,” Susan adds.

“I mean it,” he continued.  “And…don’t laugh…”

“I don’t think you see us laughing,” we say in unison.

He looked directly at me and (weaving a bit) said, “You know why?  D’you know why I sink ure so bewtful?”

“Oh, no, don’t say it,” I’m thinking.  “You’ll ruin the purity of the first line.  You may be drunk, but we can take ‘you’re the most beautiful women in the world’, tuck it in our back pockets and pull it out on zit-faced, bloated, boy-didn’t-call days.  Stop there!  Please stop there!”

But he didn’t.

“You know why?  D’you know why I sink ure so bewtful,” he repeated.

I shook my head.

“Jur eyebrows.  So dark and bewtful.”

A frightening thought came rushing through my brain…what if he has a hidden camera…what if he’s taking a shot of my eyebrows right now and when he goes home tonight, he’ll download the shot, and post it on some creepy site called “Gettin’ off On Brows” or “Brows, Boobs and Babes”.  Shiver.

I gag a little and turn my attention back to the “brow pervert”.  My southern gentile-ness has subsided.  I want him to leave.  He stands there…staring at my brows…swaying.  We say nothing.

“O-kay,” Susan finally says.  “Thanks for the compliment…but we’re going to get back to our conversation. Have a nice night.”

He lingers, and several uncomfortable moments later, finally takes his leave.  Only to sit several tables away (with his even more disheveled - and presumed fellow brow pervert friend)…both of them staring over like a couple of rabid wolves in heat.

“Can we just remember his opening line,” I ask Susan.

“Uh huh,” she replies.  “And as I shall recall it in the days and months to come, he was a hot, confident yet respectful clone of Patrick Dempsey…and he was a doctor.”

“Yes, indeed,” I say.  “Can I use that version the next time my ex-boyfriend calls?”

“Why wouldn’t you?  It’s the truth.”

“Yes…that it is.  That it is.”

Okay, folks…this one’s a doozie.  So, plop down in a comfy chair, put your reading glasses on and leave your judgments at the door.  I’ve returned from Vegas and boy did we do it up right.  I’ve grappled with how best to communicate my debaucherous weekend, and have decided to continue in the same rambling manner that was Nikki in Sin City.  Here goes:

MGM Signature hotel description:  Rooms and pools…and nothing else.  Unless you count the three-mile indoor hallway hike to the casino at the MGM Grand.  Which, we discovered, is not a terribly pleasing trek at 3:30 a.m. - or even at 5:00 a.m.

Nikki’s New Fashion Trend (for women with boobs):  I like cute summer dresses with skinny straps and no room to hide a bra.  Women with “A” cups or not-so-tiny “manufactured” shelf breasts look great in these.  I am neither an “A” nor a holder of saline.  Were I to wear such an outfit without support for my “fuller” woman mounds, I would spend the night obsessively glancing below to see if the bouncing about had caused one or both of my “friends” to wave hello to the outside world.  This would not only ruin my night, but possibly my career were picture or video evidence of said wardrobe malfunction to hit Girl’s Gone Wild (Vegas edition) or YouTube.  So, like any desperate fashion lover…I created my own solution.  It’s the bathing suit/bra top under the cute, strappy dress.  I liked it so much, I did it twice.  Green dress/black bikini top (Friday) - Pink dress/black bikini top (Saturday).  We’re planning a trip back to Vegas in three months to see if it caught on.  Or if I made the “Don’t” page of Glamour.  It’s a toss up.

Friday Night:  Stumble outside to find incredibly long cab line outside MGM Grand Casino (after hours of gambling and consumption and realization that we must - NOW - go to dance club Pure, located in Caesar’s Palace).

     Nikki:  “CAESAR’S?  ANYONE GOING TO CAESAR’S?  HELLO?  CAESAR’S?  ANYONE?”

     Apparently no one is going to Caesar’s…or we’ve frightened them with our shrieking pleas.  We give up and hop into an overpriced Town Car (it is Vegas…and money is no object…especially when you have a credit card to fall back on).  Good move.  Driver calls ahead to Pure, spouts off a couple of names to whisper to the bouncer and…

     Nikki:  “So…um…do people still, ya know, slip you cash to get into these places?”

     Bouncer:  “Uh huh.”  (Susan not-so-subtly slips $20 under rope.  He eyes it with pity)  “No need for the money, ladies…just give me a minute…you’re in.”  Sweet.

Hangover Revelation #1:  When you’ve stayed out til early morn and the last memory you have is being groped on the dance floor at a cheesey Vegas nightclub…you must spend the next day in a rented, poolside cabana, eating chopped fruit and drinking cold beer (purely for hydration purposes).  Throughout day, lay for two minutes in sun and then return to cabana for cover and fruit(y) cocktails.  Repeat.  Ten to twenty times.  When head stops pounding and the first sign of laughter appears, retreat to room, shower and head out for another night on the town.  Only this time, stay out until 5:00 a.m.  That makes it all better.

Saturday Night - Warning:  When you have a friend in Vegas and he has connections and he uses them to get you into really cool places, don’t let it go to your head.  Because, after you’ve been backstage at the Rush concert and have taken pictures by their gear and seen them perform from the side of the stage…and then you later saunter up to the podium outside the roped-off elevators to (hot, private club) Foundation Room, whisper your name and are immediately whisked up to the place with the coolest view on the Strip - you might make some decisions that are less like you and more like one of The Hill’s characters.  And by that I mean poorly scripted circular life moments (think the push/pull that is Audrina and Justin Bobby), where maybe the cute guy that starts talking to you eventually reveals that he will soon leave for pilot training in the Air Force.  And you continue to talk to him.  And (Dad, please skip this part) five hours later, when you’re having your first kiss in a dark bar, you realize that your life may be on a loop…because haven’t you dated this guy before (just with a different name and in another branch of the military).  And you might wonder - when it didn’t end well with the first one - why you have any interest in subjecting yourself to another.  But then you realize that this is Vegas and you’re twelve years older, and this guy is nine years younger, and you never have to see him again.  So you take a deep breath, smile, and think:  Momma’s still got it goin’ on!  Isn’t maturity great…

Hangover Revelation #2:  When you’ve consumed your body weight in alcohol and had a total of five hours of sleep in two days, the only cure is a dark bar and “one” beer.  And then “one more” beer.  And then again “one more”…until one has turned into ten - and eight hours have passed and you finally feel like you might keep your stomach contents in when you stand up to go to the ladies room for the 25th time.  Vegas is all about revelations.

DOMS/DOSS:  I can’t even go here.  It’s just too mentally draining, so I’ll have to keep it an inside joke.  Suffice to say, they are acronyms for some syndrome we coined on Saturday night that we now can’t remember.  “Daily Onset Memory Syndrome” - or “Dirty Old Manic Sailor”…your guess is as good as mine.  And, so those of us trying to remember it don’t soon find ourselves in the looney bin…we will accept any and all suggestions from outside sources.  Bring it on.

Hangover Revelation #3:  When you’re still in bed at 1:00 p.m. and there’s a knock at the door from Housekeeping, don’t answer it.  I did.

     Nikki:  Crawl from bed, hair awry, open door (one eye closed):

     Housekeeping:  Gasp! (really, I think I heard her gasp) “So sorry ma’am…will go now…so sorry!”  (Was there a naked man behind me?  No.  Did I have fire shooting from my hair.  Nope.  Although I’m sure it looked a bit like out-of-control flames).

     Nikki (to roommate Susan):  “I just scared the housekeeper.”

     Susan:  Groan.  “How?”

     Nikki:  “Have you looked at me?”

     Susan (looks at me):  Gasp!

     Nikki:  “Do you think they’d call the authorities if I never left this bed?”

     (And then hungover rambling commenced - followed by uncontrollable laughter)

     Susan (playing part of MGM Signature housekeeper):  “MA’AM! MA’AM!  You haven’t left this room in five days!  MA’AM!  Are you okay!”

     Susan and Nikki:  “Thank you.”

     Nikki (also playing part of MGM Signature housekeeper):  “MA’AM! MA’AM! Are you alright!  You’re laying in your own filth!”

     Susan and Nikki:  “Thank you.”

     Susan (as housekeeper):  “MA’AM! MA’AM!  We’ve called the Hazmat Team…they’re on their way over to help you!  Hold tight!”

     Susan and Nikki:  “Thank you.”  (See - it’s appropriate this time)  Fits of laughter, followed by lingering nausea.

Hangover Revelation #4:  Warning!  Do not order hamburger plate or chicken quesadillas (a.k.a. pulled pork concoction in crusty tortilla-type substance) in MGM Studio Cafe.  It will not have the desired result.  Refer to Hangover Revelation #2 to rectify situation.

And, finally, because Vegas is all about gambling, I have a few tips to make your experience the best it can be:

     1)  Find a kind, patient Blackjack dealer, and flirt unabashedly with those that are male (Done.  I love you Jennifer and Robert)

     2)  Play by the rules (Not done).  Here’s what I learned the hard way:

          a) Cards are now dealt face down (when did this start?)  Do not turn them over prematurely…this took me awhile and several lashes from Jennifer and Robert to figure out.

          b) Slide cards forward if you are holding…scrape them across table if you’d like to hit (but try not to slide them right off the end of the table…oops).

          c) No cell phones at table - not even for text messaging - not even if the text message is from an ex-boyfriend trying to tell you where he is.  Just walk away from the table…but probably not mid-hand…oops again.

          d) Do not - under any circumstance - spill beer on table while trying to check incoming text message on phone prohibited at table…especially if it ruins a deck of cards.

          e) When dealer Robert hands you extra chips (what did I tell you about flirting????), try to accept it without shrieking with joy…it might get Robert into trouble.

          f) Last, but certainly not least, know when to walk away (like maybe before you spill that beer).

So there you have it.  My weekend away from the moral constraints of everyday life…the good, the bad, the bikini clad, and the ugly.  No need to send me pamphlets on the twelve steps of AA.  I am gladly back to the reality of responsibility and goodness and glass-of-wine-or-two weekends.  Until next time…