Nine. Nine in the hot tub. I think our previous record was six.
I promised not to post this pic if there were boobies or weenies or bacon strips a-showin', but the bubbles seem to have censored it so
That's angeliska suckin' on the bottle of Riven Rock chardonnay. And her rag-tag group of fabuloozes. (Ben and I joined later, making the record-breaking nine people.)
There were so many people, and so much water displacement, that the tub shorted out, like, six times. I had to jump out and fumble with the service panel to flip the power back on.
That's smart, to play with a 220 volt service panel, naked and dripping. I think I've seen movies about fools like me. Usually scripted by Stephen King.
Today was a Totally Angel Day. I picked up her, Pandora, Violet, et al, round about 2. We drove Uptown so I could do my post office duties, then went shopping on Magazine at Trashy Diva and Aiden Gill. I bought delicious Italian aftershave lotion. The girls got frothy underthings.
Off to Jeanne's shop so the posse could meet Lateefa's dolls in person. Most people bought one to take home. (I bought Déjà Belle at the opening last weekend a skull-faced woman in a bustled hoop skirt with a skull clapper underneath ringing a jaunty death-knell.)
Back to the Bywater, then tonight nine in a hot tub.
There are a million and twelve reasons to be resentful of Katrina, and one of the most poignant, foul reasons for me is that Angel doesn't live here any more.
I don't want her ten hours down the road. I want her in my life.
Angel, come home.
On March 6th, 2006 10:58 pm (UTC), (Anonymous) replied:
Aw, darlin', there's still plennya pritty boyz up in heah, but um...Well, you know, you've been here...They're not...Suthun. Much as I do love to shag 'em, I just can't think I will ever settle down with one of these Yankeeboys. They will never understand me; they cannot find my heart. *le sigh*