Wednesday, November 3, 2010


There comes a moment in every young woman's life where she sees that it might be time to be a grown-up.

Like when you're hanging out at 4 in the morning with a young musician in drag that you met in a bar after a wedding and his young musician friends in a one bedroom house that seven people are living in who all trip over drum sets and sequester weed away in very odd places. And as you sat there, still gussed up to the nines from a fancy plantation marriage in contrast to all the hemp clothing surrounding you, you think "there was really a point when living with other people really stopped being all that cool. Even if they are very talented and have a CD to prove it, it's annoying to have a line to the bathroom in one's own abode."

Or you sit on French Quarter stoops with a long-lost friend with a hand grenade that has a smiley face on it, and you start talking about other things that should have smiley faces on them for really inappropriate reasons and one thing leads to another and you are more than ready to have her take a snapshot of you giving a "hand grenade-job."

Or everything starts going double at 4pm due to said hand grenade and several maker's and gingers and you calmly tell said friend that you're going to puke, do so and then calmly come back and order another drink.

Or you start telling large handsome black men that they have the majestic faces of a tribal chief, and when they say they are only from Baton Rouge-via Beaumont-via Houston wave your hand dismissively and say "I'm sure there are Masai warriors that would claim you as one of their own."

That's right. There are times in a young woman's life that should convince her it might be the moment to grow up.

I'm sure it's coming any day now.

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