There’s nothing Diva digs more than a fiesta. Well, unless beer is involved. And what would ya know… I got both over the weekend. My bestest friends Holly, Mario and Tausha heard through the rumor mill that I was making enchiladas and such for dinner Saturday night and that was enough for them. Holly said she’d bring some good stuff and we’d have a fiesta. Complete with rice, beans, salsa and chips…. and BEER. Yay! Come on over boys and girls. There were all us adult types, 6 teenager and 2 munchkins. So, I was cooking my ass off listening to the VOLS get spanked. (Sorry drifting off, a little annoyed it didn’t go any better than it did… interception throwin mama’s boys)… Anyhoo…I made Chicken enchiladas and homemade red sauce (mmmmm):

And beef enchilada casserole:

Rice n Beans (refried beans just aren’t pretty, so there’s no pic).

And Holly’s grub-ass homemade, garlic filled, spicy as hell salsa:

We were playing kamakazi karaoke in the lair when “Just a Gigalo” came on. This is the point where Lil T (the 2year old grandson) informs me that he is, in fact, a gigalo. Big T confirmed to Lil T, that it’s ok to be a gigalo.

I tried to explain to him “You should be a pimp, it pays better. Say pimp.”

“No! Gigalo!” He screams and runs off.

It’s true. If ya have a choice, for goodness sake, be a pimp. Look, he could pimp his auntie and her friends out. He’s got every one of those girls wrapped around his pinkie finger…

And its official. I crowned my BFF (Holly) my beeeeyach. She’s a skank and I love her more than a squirrel loves a nut.

She is now in charge of kitchen clean up every time we drunk at the house. She is quite good at it. Reckon if she would have known I was gonna blog her ass and slap her picture up on the internets that she would have stayed in her PJs? Heh. Again, I say, you are a skank, but you are a damn fine kitchen cleaner upper.

You perverts!! I know you thought to yourself… “Ohhhh, Diva’s done been rollin’ in the woods again.”

No. I’m a good Christian girl and I don’t roll in the woods or anything of that nature. Not anymore anyway, I got married 2 months ago.

Oh, speaking of pervi-ness. It has come to my attention that I am NOT the only one around this place who had no clue what Half Nekkid Thursday was! Go me! Still doesn’t mean I’m gonna tack my rack on my page. (Although it is more of a ragin’ thing that I thought).

Anyhoo… the cherry I refer to is the Christmas song cherry. I am a complete and total karaoke junkie. Why, I dunno. It’s not that I’m any good at it. I think it’s the fact that I can go get hammered and make an ass out of myself and it not bother me.

So, I made the rounds over the long weekend to my favorite waterin’ holes to partake in cold beer and greasy food whilst listening to all the other drunk monkies attempting to sing their own renditions of many-a-song. Sometimes can be scary, sometimes can be totally awesome, sometimes I need earplugs to keep from bleeding out my ears.

It’s after Thanksgiving and not a single holiday ditty had been krooned. WTF? It’s time to get in the spirit and make people accept the fact that they are going to spend more money than Hugh Hefner does on his playmates.

At both Ronnie’s and Coyote Joe’s, I popped the cherry on the beloved Christmas tune, by belting out Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas. Actually, I only sang it because I felt the need to pull the Grinch out of my ass. I’m not sure if it worked yet.

Me and Big T called a truce on the fart war as he was getting way too serious and thinking of ways to smoke me out. I waved the red flag sometime on Saturday night when he was kicking my ass by close to 10 farts, er points.
Besides it was costing me too much in candles and air freshner to keep the house smelling fresh with that much shit flying.

I have been a really good girl the past couple of days. And Big T has been very cooperative! He’s even trying to cut back and eat healthier with me as a show of support. Not sure how long he’ll last before he caves and sneaks to Burger King for a grease bomb, but he’s got my undying gratitude for not doing it in front of me.

I have sucked down ungodly amounts of water rather than Diet Dew and Diet Coke. I have kicked Taco Hell to the curb as last I heard, they had hired high rated bankruptcy lawyers as they’re about to file bankruptcy. The fridge is filled with healthy crap like you’d find at a fat farm and we’re actually eating it. My ass has even managed to hoof out 3+ miles a day on the treadmill at increasingly increasing speeds. Go me.

Swear to God, there is no way my ass is buying new fat clothes after I gave all the old ones away and done went out and bought all new smaller clothes last year. Not gonna do it.

On the baby makin’ front, we gots a big fat strike out. No bun in the oven over here yet. I reckon since the doctor said my fat ass needs to lose a few pounds before actively pursuing baby makin. I have to admit I was sort of bummed out when I had to make my way to Walgreens for Midol, tampons and bon-bons (actually I got Diet Dew, not bon bons…).

I can only assume that I knew I wasn’t pregnant because I had a wicked mean bout with PMS this week and felt like I was going to strangle several people for relatively small and mostly harmless offenses.

GirlieGeek tagged me a while back to do this shameless meme, but I’ve been in the dark ages for a while and I’m just now getting to it.

I’m supposed to give 8 totally random facts about who Diva is.

So, here we go:

1.  Diva is a very young grandmother at the ripe old age of 36.  Tyler is a two year old -mohawk sportin – curtain crawler and is truly the love of my life! 

2.  Diva digs travel.  I found a super swell job back in 2000 and stayed here.  It affords me the luxury of travelling both the U.S. and Europe.  I’ve been everywhere I’ve ever thought I might want to go and then some.

Diva just found out today she’s going on a European hoooo-haaaaa in October with stops in Germany, Budapest, Italy and France.  I friggin love my job!

3. Diva does karaoke.   I’m a junkie.  I go to Vegas, I karaoke.  I go to NYC, I karaoke.  Everywhere I go, the camera goes with.  Why, to add to my karaoke scrapbook that was started in 1998.

4.  Diva worked her way through school as an adult.  I was a complete idiot in my younger years and didn’t figure I needed an ed-u-ma-cation cuz I was a-gettin married and he’d take care of me.  Sha, right.  In 2000, I went back to school and graduated in 2006.  Go me!

5.  Diva is on the road to freedom.  By the time I reach the big 4-0:  both of my kids will have graduated high school, I will have my MBA, I will lose a bunch more weight (fingers crossed here), and I will be footloose and fancy free.

6.  Diva loves a super cool cat named Tony.  I’m about to get hitched in September. Pretty cool, huh?

7.  Diva and her bridal party are going to trash our dresses immediately after the wedding/reception.  We haven’t quite figured out said method, but I’m sure it will include rescue scuba divers and a two story dock on Norris.   Zacque, grab your camera.  Mark, grab the scuba gear.

8.  I am an offical member of the Knoxville Zoo.  My Tyler is a lover of the camels, therefore, we venture to the zoological gardens often.  I figured out that it was going to be cheaper in the long-run to have a grandparent annual pass, so I could take the boy to see the animals anytime we want to go.

Diva chooses to tag the following kiddies:

Fracas (because she tagged me, paybacks are a bitch)

Mushy (because he drinks to everything)

And anyone else who’s bored and would like to do it.

[ Blogged in realtime, Wednesday, 20-Jun-2007, kinda like that stupid TV show 24, but without that asshat kid of Donald Sutherland’s… ]

Here we are folks.  It’s a wonderfully balmy Wednesday night at CatScratch Jane’s.  I’m sitting with a bird’s eye view of all the going’s on.  Karaoke is getting ready to kick off and it looks as if all the regular crowd (good and bad) has started peppering in.

The Twin Blow Out is starting here tomorrow, but the biker boys on their motor-scooters are plentiful.  The patio’s a-buzzing, the inside is buzzing.  We’re looking forward to an eventful night.  Bring on the singers.

A real blow-out, right?  Uh. No.  It’s another train-wreck.  That’s what I get for being all amp’d up for a party!  Thus far we have heard a not-so-right-on rendition of “Live and Let Die” (help me!).  Now we are on to the worst drunken interpretation of “You Look So Good In Love” that I’ve ever heard… whining included.

The place is packed.  Folks are piled up everywhere, inside and out with the best bike rack carriers for cars and trucks on all their vehicles.  I’m dying for a beer.  But dammit, it’s busy.  I’m going to wither up and fall in the floor from lack of alcohol.  But as I sit here, waiting for Cutie Pie (our beer wench) to surface, I think to myself “Damn, girl!  You’re hair looks gooood!”

Finally!  A hot guy is getting up to sing.  I missed his name, but he’s wearing a polo shirt and baseball cap.  He’s singing Toby!  You go, boy!  Mercy me, yes.  He sure should have been a cowboy.

I’m still waiting on my beer.  It’s nearly 10pm.  Through the open windows I hear the clank of the triangle being busted by a gaggle of pool shooting biker boys.  Now and then a loud, orgasmic burst of noise comes when one of the bikes fire up.

Ya know, Christmas is coming up.  Harley.  Under the tree.  Big red bow.  Thanks in advance to whomever decides to make this purchase for me.  I’m obliged.

Finally, at 9:55pm, Mark drags his ass in.  “Log the time, Scotty!”  He has mercy and goes to hunt Cutie Pie for my beer.  Bless you, hon.  I was withering.

By 10 I’m thinking, “I thought this was going to be the kick off to a bad ass biker weekend party… it’s more like B-97.5 night in the local geriatric ward.”  Never has an hour seemed more like ten.  Never have I wanted someone to shoot me in the ears worse than I do right this very minute.  “Log the time, Scotty!”

10:01.  Scotty is so excited to be here that he’s taken to watching the drag queens on the t.v. above the bar.  *snicker*  You dirty boy, you.  But wait:  Here comes Nike!  He’s belting out some bad ass Lionel Ritchie love song,  The boy possesses the ability to wake up a bored and otherwise depressed drinking crowd.

Oh my, what’s this?  The heavens have opened up and some good singers with some happy ditties are now on a roll.  Joe hops up and belts out a soulful blues number (he really rocks the hell out of the blues).  Now if we can talk him into losing his “Bat Outta Hell” CD… *wink wink*  You know I love ya, Joe.

I belted out some goodies too, if I do say so myself.  I dueted with Cowboy Billy-Joe-Tom-Bob and sang “Dontcha.”  He kicks ass on the rap part.  Freestyle baby!

I then attempted to do the night justice, with Nike’s help, by belting out “At Last” … the Etta James classic.  Choice.  Very choice.

My news reporter skills are being diminished by the amount of cold beer and Jack Daniels I have consumed.  At this time, all I can really say is that everytime I get up from my corner booth, I end up grabbing this poor girls ass.  So, I end up making light of it, in my regular Diva style.  I own up to it.  I look her in the eye and tell her, “I’m sorry for grabbing your ass everytime I get walk by!”

“Log the time, Scotty!”  It’s 11:14, and I’m drunk. Food ordered. Yah!  I comment to Scotty that we are evil.  He says “No, we’re just honest.”  Good one.

Finally.  Something note-worthy.  A drunken skank finally falls out of her chair into the floor.  NEXT!  Scotty dies laughing, and notes the time is 11:23.

Food on tap.  CatScratch has the best food around.  Especially if too much alcohol has been consumed.  Cue the onion rings.

And the french fries.

Scotty is in the loo, so I’m logging the time as 11:34.

So, if tonight was any forecast of the drunken festivities that are to go on for the next several days at CatScratch… all I can say is WOW!  Good luck with that!

I maintain here and now, I’m Diva enough to stay on the porch, because I certainly can’t keep up with the big dogs.  *rolls eyes*

Woof!  Out.

I’m a karaoke junkie by nature. Started by accident really. I finished my sentence on the second shift at Rocky Top Farragut and decided I deserved a cold beer and some tasty boneless chicken wings. Across the street I go to BullFeathers… found it interesting to see and hear all the folks trying to sing a song.

It was a few weeks before I’d gathered up the nerve to eek out a song. It was hilarious. I sang Manic Monday by the Bangles. And I sucked wind big time!

So, I wondered if I could sing anything else any better. I told my daddy that I was having so much fun making a complete ass of myself, and he went out and bought me a home karaoke machine with 10 CDs. Go Daddy!

So, I tried me some country. Um, let’s just go with not. I was told I haven’t got enough ‘twang’ in my voice to sing any kind of country. Thank God!!! Diva don’t got no twang!!!!
Scratch country.

So, it’s the B97.5/coffee shop stuff I’ve found I’m pretty good at.
I can sing the devil out of Fleetwood Mac. Diva Nix over here.
Love Norah Jones and any kind of oldie but goodie.

But sometimes, I’d love to have a little more of a brazen streak. I want to belt out something that only a bad-ass-chick would do.

Janis Joplin – Bobby McGee
Joan Jett – Do Ya Wanna Touch
Heart – Magic Man

Not that I’m knocking my easy listening and soft rock talent, but…

Why can’t I be a bad-ass-chick??