Tag Archive | City

It’s My Party and I’ll Cry If I Want To… (Pics)

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So, it goes like this . . .

There we were getting ready for our annual holiday ornament party. Friends had up from orange County and from various parts of southern California. My parents were here helping along with a couple that come up from Long Beach to help us run the bar and make our celebration terrific. My husband has known them for many years, and they are from the same parts of Pennsylvania.

So I climb in the shower, and I’m doing all my normal things. Which one of my friends would call the PTA.

What is the PTA?

Well somebody might think that PTA means Parent Teacher Association. And, they might be right if there were from Alabama, and NOT in the shower.

Hmmm… The PTA.

And, like I said I was in the shower doing my normal things, which included the PTA…

Puss, Tits and Ass.

Well, let’s be real… everything does need to be cleaned, right?

I have to look, smell and feel absolutely divine for my guests that are coming for the annual Christmas party… so everything gets washed including the PTA.

So, I climb out of the shower and I’m towelling off…

I am calm, because downstairs I know that everything is in place.

The Bar.

The Buffet.

The vegetable crudite display and the candles in the chandeliers were lit.

24 Christmas Trees dangling beautiful ornaments from around the globe …

Yes, now the number had grown to 24 trees. I can’t help it. They just look so beautiful… I can’t stop buying them.

It looked like a gigantic Winter Wonderland inside my house…

Sans the snow…

And, of course, no mittens or galoshes…

79 degree California weather with palm trees outside.

A giant California Winter wonderland, okay?

We Californians have got to do it our own way… I just throw a little “Alabama” in on the side from time to time — with a Y’all here, and a Y’all there! But, you understand that I do have some of the California affectations absorbed by now, and so… well, I don’t really do anything “small.”

So, yeah, I’ve got 24 Christmas trees running up my electricity bill. It’s beautiful, dang it. So get over it.

Yes, now there I am. Unusally calm with the impending knowledge that very shortly my home was going to be alive with about 80 other minds… and the fact that I was going to have to be witty, charming, and beautiful… Well, hell… I should have been freaking out.

Don’t worry…

My calm didn’t last for long.

The help was busy prepping the hot food and everything was on schedule.

So, there I was… still damp, with my PTA’s still tingling.

I had just begun to shimmy into my beaded dress because I wanted to do all my makeup and hair after I finally got my dress on.

It’s a fabulous dress, but I don’t know why I always buy such complicated clothing. Once again, not a “step in” dress… an “over the head” dress with straps going this way and that.

Just a fricking pain in the butt to get this dress on.

Holy crap, what a mess.

I am standing there contemplating just wearing the stinking thing as a partial top since it was strangulating to get the dress on over my head and wet showered hair. One arm in, one breast out.

No problem. Throw on a skirt and my left tit will be the hit of the party.

Right.

So, I finally get the frigging thing on.

Slide it down over my hips.

Thank God it still fits.

I’ve been eating my weight in turkey, brownies, fudge and cheesecake for the past two weeks. So, my ass is about the size of Oklahoma right now.

Thank God for the proverbial black dress…

… that stretches….

A silent “yay” for  the creation of Spandex.

Bless this inventor, this Sultan of Elasticity. I will always display their label of honor on my expanding derriere…  

So, I finally get this beautiful, god-forsaken, beaded strappy dress over my head with final authority, and slick it down the side of me.

Finally.

I need a frigging drink just to get this dress on.

Relax. Relax.

“Honey, can you get my a green apple martini from the bar?”

Yes, relax.

Help is on the way…

No sooner to I get the dress on… zipped up… looking in the mirror I turn left, and turn right… and of course, curse the size of my butt…

When all hell breaks loose. The fire alarm starts to go off at my house. It’s a loud blaring bell that is completely destructive to all your senses.

BANG, BANG, BANG.

CLANG, CLANG, CLANG.

WTF?

Aaaaaaaah! I am running down the stairs with a trail of obscenities still stabbing the air behind me. Shoeless, and bra-less. Boobs bouncing, and wet hair flopping.

80-some people are coming to laugh and schmooze in less than an hour. WHAT THE HELL AM I GOING TO DO? TELL THEM THE NOISE IS SANTA COMING…

AND COMING…

I NEED THAT ALARM OFF. PRONTO.

“What the hell is going on?” I scream.

I then begin pounding the number buttons on the alarm pad.

Pressing. Jabbing. Cursing. Screaming. But, the alarm keeps screeching.

7 minutes of this was enough to drive me out of my f-ing mind. “We’ve gone to all this trouble for this party, I need for you (the alarm) to shut the hell up! (:?sdt% qvio4$ — More obscenities) ”

I was screaming so many bad words, that I ran out of them and had to make some new ones up.

I finally pressed a series of numbers that seem to work…

Aaaaah. Sigh of relief…

Well, it worked for 10 ten seconds, and then:

BANG, BANG, BANG.

CLANG, CLANG, CLANG.

HOLY CRAP!

I have this vision of all these firetrucks pulling up elbowing my guests, “Excuse me Ma’am, but we’ve got a fire in this house to attend to.”

“A FIRE?” And, then of course my guests run screaming for their lives.

Nice.

Yeah, that’s the type of celebration I wanted to have that night. Right.

Fun. Fun. Fun.

Right.

Another 6 minutes of ear-piercing stressing-inducing mind-numbing noise enveloped my house. What the heck am I going to do?

Where is my alarm company?

“Ding-dong.” 

BAM, BAM, BAM, BAM. Pounding on the door right next to where I was standing cursing and banging the alarm codes. I could feel the vibrations of the knocking.

I’m thinking, holy crap, the firetrucks are here and I am going to get a humongous bill from the City for a false fire alarm.

Shit.

I open the door, “Is everything alright here, ma’am? We got a signal at the station.”

It was a man from the alarm company dressed in a Kevlar vest and carrying a “piece.”

My eyes widen.

Double holy crap.

“Well, this alarm thing won’t go off, and in a matter of minutes I am going to be hosting a holiday party. I can’t have this thing going off! We’re supposed to be singing god-damn christmas carols! Help! I need help, man! I need this thing to stop to improve my stinking mood. I’m supposed to having fun, and I am NOT having any fun here, Sunshine.”

We finally got it to stop. “I can’t guarantee that it won’t start-up again,” he said.

Holy guaca-crapping-christmas-colored-mole.

“Well, that is the point when I will rip the freaking alarm out of the wall, sir.”

He looks at my husband. A knowing nod passes between them.

This must be male code for “and you have to live with this, huh?”

“Smile for the camera. You’re now part of this night,” I said.

So, I in barefeet and he in his kevlar, had just settled down the long alarm for a nap.

And, what to my wandering eyes should appear, but 80 familiar faces carrying ornamental reindeer.

Where up in the past the alarm rose such a clatter, and now it all behind us, it didn’t seem to matter.

He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work, and stopped all the ringing and turned with a jerk.

Laying his hand upon the side of his Glock, I thought for a moment he was going to whip out his …

Identification.

You guys are so naughty… I just love it!

And, giving a nod, out the door he did flee, this house of freakouts and terminal glee.

He sprang to his patrol car, gave a loud call, “Have a great party, my dear! Oh, Belle of the Ball!”

But, I heard him exclaim as he drove away faster, “If is goes off again, I know a man that’s good in repairing wall plaster!”

The party was a great success… and, the alarm did NOT go off again.

Thank you, jeeze Louise.

We drank, and we schmoozed, and some carols we did sing.

But, the alarm stayed silent, not nearly a ring!

Here are some pics from the party!

The vegetable crudite buffet and us!

Me giggling

Me and the chicks

4 of the 24 trees

Before the party

More holiday cheer

Beginning the Ham Session

Belt it, baby!

Lou and my book

Me and my man

More cheer

My daughter and her friend

Open your eyes, man!

Our Saviour

Smile for the camera!

The Boy

What the hell am I doing?

Yay! Sing it!

Yeah Baby!

xoxo

Be well,

Belle

Writer's Digest Award Winner - S. Belle Karper  A 78th Annual Writer’s Digest Award WinnerBookmark and Share

S. Belle Karper, Author, Speaker www.BelleKarper.com
THE WIDOW WEARS BLACK – An Edgy Memoir from an Outspoken Survivor
Check out S. Belle Karper’s – Beauties and Beasts – Blog! Baby! Blog!
and Belle Karper Face Book & the popular Twitter-Belle – all on Website
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Death is such an odd thing…

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So, it goes like this . . .

Death.

Such an odd thing.

Especially when you know that some one is going to die… in a matter of moments.

Eminent death.

Nothing can be done.

You wait there… until the decision is made.

Until the decision is made.

. . . __________________________________

The  pulsing beep stops.

Just one loud long blare of announcement… that the heart… well, no longer feeling… beating… living…

BEEP…______________________________

Until silence.

Another decisive switch is turned.

The time noted.

Heads hung low.

Silent tears of the unstoppable, unescapable moment.

Pause the reality.

Yes… it is the end…

Be well,

Belle

Writer's Digest Award Winner - S. Belle Karper  78th Annual Writer’s Digest Award WinnerBookmark and Share

S. Belle Karper, Author, Speaker www.BelleKarper.com
THE WIDOW WEARS BLACK – An Edgy Memoir from an Outspoken Survivor
Check out S. Belle Karper’s – Beauties and Beasts – Blog! Baby! Blog!
and Belle Karper Face Book & the popular Twitter-Belle – all on Website
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Farmville… Keep It Coming! (Part 2)

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So, it goes like this . . .

TO GET THINGS STARTED AGAIN, we’ll back track a little or you can get the whole prior part of the story by ******* CLICKING HERE *******

But… Then all my peeps and buds on Facebook started sending me all these gifty things for Farmville…

Who knew?

A Pig here.

A Goat.

Two people even sent me some elephants.

Elephants?

Yeah… like those belong on a farm.

Right.

Guess what they make?

Circus Peanuts.

They make circus peanuts.

Hmmm… I hate to break it to you… but those are awfully large “circus peanuts” that come out of a cute little elephant, if you know what I mean.

And… I wouldn’t recommend eating any of those so-called peanuts, okay?

Eeeeeeuuuw.

It’s just wrong.

Well… I had 82 (eighty-two) gifts sitting on my Home Page of Facebook.

Go figure.

82.

That’s quite a bit, right?

But… remember, I was NEVER going to play Farmville.

I have got no time.

Right.

My son nearly died when I told him that I had DELETED THEM ALL.

Yes, I deleted all 82 gifts.

I mean, what hell am I going to do with a pig that finds truffles, right?

I don’t even freaking like truffles.

Gag.

So, needless the say, “am-scray on the ig-pay.”

Until… my son showed me the Farmville light…

I never deleted any gifts again.

Yes, until my son “showed me the light” of Farmville.

I can here the angels sing like the old Star Trek theme song when I think of the word Farmville, now.

How even sadder is that?

Yeah… not good.

You better call the paramedics now.

But, you better make sure that they bring with them a pig that finds those stinking truffles that I can’t stomach (and now I found out that I don’t have to actually eat the truffles), a duck whose down feathers I can sell, or a horse with a “hair problem” or… I am not letting them through the front door.

Come bearing gifts, baby, or the deadbolt stays locked!

So… my dear son made me RE-announce to my FB friends that he was going to suck it up, and help his lame mother with the starting of her farm, and to please start sending gifts again.

Yeah… please forgive the old bag that she deleted all those fabulous gifts… she didn’t know the value of them then. Please forgive that she wasn’t a FV convert, and start sending us some goods so that we can get our farm thing started…

Please…

Little did I know that I was inviting my first “crack” addiction…

Yeah.

Stupid, I was… please send me stuff… and keep it coming… I need to fill my veins with the stuff.

It looked so innocent, right?

So “neighborly”…

And, in the gifts came.

I got so excited!

My son and I were actually able to communicate with the same glazed monitor-ial stare I used to only attibute to him when he played “Martian Rangers Kill Texas Hold-Em.”

I feel so proud.

So honored.

So in need of FA… (Farmville Anonymous).

“Hello… My name is Belle… (pause)… and, I play…”

“Go ahead honey, you can say it… you’re in a safe and accepting place…”

“Hello… My name is Belle… (pause)… and, I play…FARMVILLE!” WAaaaaah-waa-wahhhhh (me crying).

There is a rumble in the audience. People twisting in their chairs. FA is a tough crowd, man… they have all survived… FARMVILLE! WAaaaaah-waa-wahhhhh (me crying again — can you hear the addiction in that cry?).

Sad, huh?

Sad. Sad. Saaa-aaad.

“It’s okay, Belle. How many times did you go on ‘the game that shall not be named?'”

And, I mutter through my sobs… I turned on my computer… and I never… I never got off!” WAaaaaah-waa-wahhhhh (me crying still more).

My husband and my parents are sitting next to me for moral support… they are shaking their heads…

“We lost her. She’s our only daughter… And, she’s… well, you heard her… gone… to Farmville.”

My dad pulls out a hanky and blows his nose. My mom… suffers in silence. Slight whimpering, her only evidence that she hasn’t fainted… My husband twists his wedding band around his finger… questioning his 2-year old, “I do.”

The tragedy.

Belle…. Lost to Farmville…

….

TO BE CONTINUED…!                  

TO PROCEED TO THE NEXT PART OF THE STORY ******* CLICK HERE *******

Be well,

Belle

Writer's Digest Award Winner - S. Belle Karper  78th Annual Writer’s Digest Award WinnerBookmark and Share

S. Belle Karper, Author, Speaker www.BelleKarper.com
THE WIDOW WEARS BLACK – An Edgy Memoir from an Outspoken Survivor
Check out S. Belle Karper’s – Beauties and Beasts – Blog! Baby! Blog!
and Belle Karper Face Book & the popular Twitter-Belle – all on Website
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Farmville… It’s Time We Spoke Out! (Part 1)

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So, it goes like this . . .

Okay. First, we need to set a few ground rules here:

1.     I was never going to play Farmville.

I think that it is important to repeat that first assumption here, so I’m to give it a subheading, and going to call it 1A.

1.A. I was NEVER going to play Farmville.

I mean it.

Next…

2.    I don’t know how I’m supposed to deny anybody wanting to give me “Free gifts.”

That’s just rude.

My Momma raised me better than that.

Well… she did…

I mean, if somebody wants to give me a free gift, who am I to deny them the intrinsic beauty of this sharing of two souls when one bestows a gift to me, and then I to them…

Of course, I am simply going to lovingly accept it.

“Thank you, Dahhhling, for the fabulous Banana Tree. It does so come in handy when my husband is away…”    😉

Yes… I will love and adore… cherish, even… every gift.

Even if it’s a lowly apple, cherry or plum tree (lowly as in Farmville standards, of course).

No offense, Dahhhhlings!

By the by… neighbors and friends… keep those Olive and Pomegranate trees coming, ya hear!

Sorry, I had to put in a plug for which free gifts I prefer now.

How sad is that?

Well, so the Lord Almighty, and my Farmville neighbors all know that Belle (that’s me) is a loving and generous receiver of all gifts great and small, and likewise I am a loving and generous gifter.

Shut-up… I am, too.

Everyday, I make a list of the people that give me the Farmville gifts just to make sure that I reciprocate and don’t accidentally skip anybody.

I need a fricking virtual assistant to keep up with the stress of my Farmville.

Yeesh.

Next…

3.    I have never played an electronic game beyond “Guitar Hero.”

And for the record, I play a mean freaking guitar that has buttons on it, okay? 

Don’t try to convert me to the “real” guitar. 

Not going to happen. No way. No how.

I would never cut my acrylic nails, and besides I think those guys are just showing off. The guys playing with the wire stringy “old-fashioned” guitars. They might think that they are more talented than we…

The true heroes of the guitar… the guitars with color-associated buttons on them.

But, we know better… don’t we?

Yeah… guitars with wires on them are old news.

Get with the program, man!

Buttons are “in.”

Just give me a guitar with buttons on it any day… and a couple of double AA batteries, and a Wii that’s plugged in… and I play a mean three-fingered colored-coded guitar.

Oooh, Baby!

Yeah, I know it’s got more than three buttons on it… give me a break.

I can count.

It’s kind of like painting by numbers… but for the guitar… with three to five colors… of buttons.

But, I play on the EASY level — which means that I only play with three buttons… and that since I am a woman, it further means that I am entitled to believe that the EASY level means “Easy Listening.”

And, nothing else.

Got it?

Don’t try to correct me.

We’d all hate for you to get on the “bad list” today.

So, let’s just understand here… just so that we are all on the same page and everything… I play on the “Easy Listening” level with three fingers, three buttons, and three brain cells.

Oh, yeah… And, I only play three songs… But, I am damn good at those three songs.

Right.

I digress.

So, I am trying to apologize in advance that my field of play in the electronic alter-universe is limited, to say the least… and even with that analysis, I am being generous… even to myself.

Next…

4.     I’ve never liked any of those electronic games.

My son plays them with unbelievable expertise.

Not that I’m thrilled with that knowledge, mind you.  

I know this because if he had his druthers, he would be playing his Electronic Games every hour of every moment of every day.

Without pause. Without food. Without oxygen.

Heck, let’s face it — the whole world could be caving in and he would still be shooting out power blazers on a level 39 “Alien Cucumbers Battle Mario’s Speed Racer and Godzilla Fireballs.”

His mad pounding of the keys… well, I just don’t understand the hopping and jumping around and disappearing exploding fire-gonzos and stuff like that.

Big deal, right?

So what, that he hasn’t eaten… done his homework… or blinked his eyes in four hours…

Mere details.

He can’t be bothered.

So, no… I was never really good with the game thing.

But…

Then all my peeps and buds on Facebook started sending me all these gifty things for Farmville…

Who knew?

A Pig here.

A Goat.

Two people even sent me some elephants.

Elephants?

Yeah… like those belong on a farm.

Right.

Guess what they make?

Circus Peanuts.

They make circus peanuts.

Hmmm…

I hate to break it to you… but those are awfully large “circus peanuts” that come out of a cute little elephant, if you know what I mean.

And… I wouldn’t recommend eating any of those so-called peanuts, okay?

Eeeeeeuuuw.

It’s just wrong.

Well… I had 82 (eighty-two) gifts sitting on my Home Page of Facebook.

Go figure.

82.

That’s quite a bit, right?

But… remember, I was NEVER going to play Farmville.

I have got no time.

Right.

My son nearly died when I told him that I had DELETED THEM ALL.

Yes, I deleted all 82 gifts.

I mean, what hell am I going to do with a pig that finds truffles, right?

I don’t even freaking like truffles.

Gag.

So, needless the say, “am-scray on the ig-pay.”

Until… my son showed me the Farmville light…

I never deleted any gifts again.

Eeeeek!

TO BE CONTINUED!!!            

TO CONTINUE THE STORY ******* CLICK HERE *******

Be well,

Belle

Writer's Digest Award Winner - S. Belle Karper  78th Annual Writer’s Digest Award WinnerBookmark and Share

S. Belle Karper, Author, Speaker www.BelleKarper.com
THE WIDOW WEARS BLACK – An Edgy Memoir from an Outspoken Survivor
Check out S. Belle Karper’s – Beauties and Beasts – Blog! Baby! Blog!
and Belle Karper Face Book & the popular Twitter-Belle – all on Website
Save it, Baby! Count me in! Add to Technorati Favorites
BelleKarper-AuthorSpeaker7.jpg picture by bellekarper

Who Won?

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So, it goes like this . . .

 

Well, let’s just suffice it to say that I had to spray a lot of perfume on this morning. There was no time to shower, much less mascara my eyelashes. This game was just too dang early…

 I’m not happy to admit this, and so I am not formally admitting this… but my husband informs me that I may not be a “morning person.”

Huh?

What does he know?

He is off riding the mountainsides in Utah right now.

He may or may not be right. I don’t have the freaking patience to find out at this early hour, but I did have a hard time waking up this morning.

Go figure.

My only incentives being:

A. To see my son play

B. To see my son play well

C. To see my son play well against “dickhead.”

Now, I am not one to hold any grudges.

Like, I have almost forgiven that little bitch in high school… almost.

I don’t use the voodoo doll on her anymore… well, only semi-annually.

Heck, I have other things to do than live in the past.

And, that neighbor that I used to have living near me, emphasis on used to (and no, nothing mysterious happened to her… much to my regret. She just moved… how common, right?)

Let’s just say that when the book came out, The Devil Wears Prada, I thought it was about my neighbor.

Bee-atch, with a small ass and rock-hard boobs.

Yikes. I remember the first time she hugged me. I was bruised for a week from her plastic surgery stone tits.

Well, I am still in therapy over all of that neighborhood nonsense stuff. 

No one here misses her dropping her garbage into other people’s cans.

Yeah baby, you can keep your dirty diapers to yourself.

Schtinky.

My dog misses them though. Evidently, there is something attractive with the scent of toddler diarrhea rolled in a Pampers disposables…

Eeeeeeuuuuw.

So, like I said I’m not one to keep grudges. So the fact that we are facing up dickhead and his team this morning is double-edged.

First off, I had to drive all the way back to my house because I forgot my chair.

I knew this was not going to be a good sign.

My sweet little sugar-coated ass would melt on the beauty of the morning dew if I were to sit on the ground. We can’t be having any of that wet dew sinking into my “down there” now can we?

Right.

So, I drove back to get my chair.

Gosh.

Secondly, I can’t help it that I express myself verbally.

Calling a kid dickhead seemed and still seems appropriate, and if the conditions arise again… and I feel the need to express myself in these and other matters, then I am bound by the “Mother Bear” Codes of Conduct to protect my little cub.

Regardless.

And… I am going to disregard the coaches messages left on my cell phone informing me of various muzzle supply shops.

A muzzle?

For who?

Dickhead?

That might be a little extreme for a 15-year-old, but I picked one up for him just in case.

I do understand the mouths of these babes, because I live with two teenagers and I could see how it could come in handy.

Like… everyday.

So, I bought him an extra-large.

Because he has an extra-large dickhead.

Du-u-uh.

I learned that from my kids… that “duh” thing.

Doesn’t it just make you feel good all over?

….

Well, right now… we are knee-deep in the second half and the score is one-to-one.

The kids are dripping with sweated competitiveness. Licking their teenaged chops for this victory that is due them. The tension hovers over the parents around me.

And me… well, I am in a catatonic stare… they are all navy colored enemies against our white shirted boys, and now those 15-year-old little penile wannabes threaten our good Saturday.

They have kicked two of our guys in the balls.

Hard.

One of their players received a red card.

And if that is not enough, they have tackled my son to the point where he was lying on the ground for literally two minutes.

Just lying there.

Unmoving.

And, I was not allowed to go on the field.

Mama bear does not like this part.

And, I’m going to tell you that two minutes is a very long time when your son is in pain, on the ground and not moving.

….

I would like to say that we won the game, but we did not.

We played a hard fight, but a clean one.

I left my comments until after the three tweets of the whistles were heard, signaling the end of the game.

Then I let a few “explicatives” fly…

A tough loss for all…

For us…

For other dickheads across the world…

And… for the world…

I don’t think that I am over exaggerating here, when I say that this IS a tough loss for the entire world…

Tragic.

And then of course, we all went to CoCo’s for breakfast.

🙂

Hug, hug, kiss, kiss, Y’all — Even you with hard boobies — Still love ya! xoxo

 

The is the final to: 

If you don’t know who dickhead is … ***** Then Click Here *****  

A must read story.

A follow-up story with pictures is ***** Here*****

Be well,

Belle

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S. Belle Karper, Author, Speaker www.BelleKarper.com
THE WIDOW WEARS BLACK – An Edgy Memoir from an Outspoken Survivor
Check out S. Belle Karper’s – Beauties and Beasts – Blog! Baby! Blog!
and Belle Karper Face Book & the popular Twitter-Belle – all on Website
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Sephora! A Giant Equivalent of Female Orgasm!…

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So, it goes like this . . .

 

Well, really, I don’t know what I can say that goes much beyond that title, do you?

However, being the wordsmith-y (is that actually a word?) girl that I am… I am going to try… (Wink, wink.)

So…Sephora… my beloved, Sephora…

How do I love thee, let me count the ways…

I love the to the depth, girth and breadth my ass can reach.

I love thee… that you are in almost every blooming mall that I have ever shopped… and if that is not enough… you are helping me to spend more of my money by opening more stores in lucky select JC Penney’s across the United States.

Bless you, because I thought you weren’t really giving me enough opportunity to spend my money already.

Now, I have yet another reason to walk into a JC Penny’s for more than just the $12.99 sitting fee in your Photo Booth center.

I used to take my kids there for their baby pictures… but now I just go there to harangue high school part-time photographers by sitting in making ju-jee faces in the camera.

Trust me.

They love it.

Right.

I digress.

Sephora…

Ah, yes… my beloved, Sephora…

I love thee to the extreme that my credit card can reach…

I love thee for your precious vials of wrinkle erasers…

You are so kind to give me samples in little plastic cups to take home… sure to lock me into the use of yet another $130 an ounce wrinkle cream for the rest of my life.

Bless you… again…

I have no more counter space in my bathroom due to your generosity.

Thank you to you, beloved, Sephora… for the fact that every time I walk into the house from one of your stores I smell like a perfumery…

“Honey, do like this Gucci fragrance?” And, I stick out my arm.

My husband puts his nose above my arm, “No, not there, honey. That’s Chanel. You have to move your nose up 3 inches toward my elbow.” My husband still hovers his nose above my arm… “No, honey, not there, that’s a Britney Spears fragrance that I despise… Uh… How about this one on the back of my wrist — that’s the new Thierry Mugler… what do you think?”

Poor guy… he doesn’t realize that I have sprayed 24 different fragrances on the fronts and backs of each arm, behind each ear, and between each toe…

“So, which one do you like, honey?… Honey? Honey?… What, baby?… You don’t look so good…”

He has now turned a little pale, and evidently has sprouted a migraine from all the combined scents that will now reside for the next 24 hours on my little piece of “sumpin sumpin” that he was hoping “to get some” from later.

“Honey, I am only trying to make myself more attractive to you, baby.”

No response.

Whatever…

My beloved Sephora…

A rainbow of makeup choices for every type of skin, for every type of look, for every holiday… including Halloween.

Grandiose eyelashes, eyeshadows that you never think that you would actually wear…

“Just sit right down and let me give you a little demo…”

And, of course, after said demo, you are walking out of there looking like something out of a Cosmo magazine.

You are looking absolutely divine! 

However, after you’ve spent $700 to get all of that absolutely divine looking stuff that will give you that absolutely divine looking “look,” you take it home and try to re-create that divine looking “look” and walk out of your bathroom looking  something more like Frankenstein’s cousin… Frau Hosselheimerbrau… albeit, with great eyelashes.

My dear, dear Sephora…

You even let me take home little spritzers the perfume for my husband to try.

I love those little testers that you guys make up for him.

All different kinds of men’s fragrances. You are just too generous.

Of course, he has never tried any of these because I have never given them to him… those little darn fragrance sprayers are just too cute.

I have to hoard them for myself, even though they’re full of men’s fragrances. I think I have about 23 of them…

Those little baby perfume sprayers…

Eeeek! I’m in love with them!

What he doesn’t know won’t hurt him, right?  …  😉

Honestly though, I could go on all day about the attributes of Sephora…

My knees get weak when I walk by their black-and-white striped storefront.

I get a little “oodle” in my “hoo-haw” just thinking about it.

Eeeek!

Yup, this is a Sephora “O!”

I just need about 30 seconds to myself…

….

Yes, it’s a fact…

I am happily a Sephora “Ho,” and I have the credit card statements to prove it.

Plus, I have 2473 Points in my “Beauty Insider” account…

So…

Let’s go shopping!

Be well,

Belle

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S. Belle Karper, Author, Speaker www.BelleKarper.com
THE WIDOW WEARS BLACK – An Edgy Memoir from an Outspoken Survivor
Check out S. Belle Karper’s – Beauties and Beasts – Blog! Baby! Blog!
and Belle Karper Face Book & the popular Twitter-Belle – all on Website
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Vegas, Baby, Vegas!… (w/ pic)

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So, it goes like this . . .

 

My chicks and I go way three times a year.

Palm Springs spa weekend.

Mammoth Lakes ski weekend.

And, Vegas, Baby, Vegas weekend.

Yeah, we’ve been trippin’ for a long time now.

For the last 10 years. Yeah, Ba-bay!

WE HAVE GOT IT DOWN.

Our so-called weekend getaways have now stretched into five night minimum stays.

We know where we are going to eat… who serves the strongest mai tais… where the “I Dream of Jeanie” (Oooooh Master!) slot machines are… and where we can laugh the loudest not get thrown out of the place.

You might say, that after all these years, we could be professional partiers.

You might be right.

But, alas… we are just moms that have maneuvered a tri-annual ESCAPE for the last decade.

Admit it now, you’re jealous.

It’s okay, we understand jealousy.

These are required outings for we, the core four.

Since my girlfriends would have a coronary if I actually named them, I’ll just give you our names that we developed one year when we watched “Malibu’s Most Wanted.”  Since we are all Mom’s and can’t seem to get out of the freaking kitchen . . . you may sense a theme here.

I am “White Top” AKA Wonder Bread, Sunbeam, Goya Loaf. They seem to think that I have lead a conservative life . . . I let them think what they want as I spread my three fingers and bang it on my chest like I am a “bro in the hood.”

Bang, bang, bang (three fingers) “White Bread, yo?”

Yeah, that, popping a couple of my “Move Free” glucosamine/chondroitin pills and my hair spray makes it all very convincing…

Then there is “Cinnabon.” As you can imagine she’s a beautifully tanned mother of two, and makes her hand into “C” shape and whacks it on her chest. “Cinnabon, Buya!” 

Then of course, we can’t forget “Bagel.” She hysterically tries to form a “B” shape with her fingers to bang on her chest.  And, then groans, “Bagel. You guys, I got a crummy name.”

“Oy! Such is life Heidi Goldbaum,” not really her name, “You be Bagel, and don’t give us any shen-agle!”

And, then lastly . . . There is “Buttertop.”  She doesn’t have to make any hand signals at all, because frankly there’s no room left on her chest. She has the most beautiful store-bought breasts any woman (or man) could hope for.  So yes, she is “Buttertop.” And she doesn’t have to do a thing to just stand there with that perfectly shaped shelf of breasts.

You could put a plate of sandwiches on those breasts…

So, it’s basically us four — White Bread, Cinnabon, Bagel and Buttertop, and we try our best to terrorize Vegas within an inch of it’s questionable life.

Yo.

Yo Momma.

Me Momma?

You Momma.

We da Mommas.

We da Ho’s.

Well, I guess you can see what we “think” we are accomplishing here…

But really, life is too short to be Mommies all the time.

Sometimes . . . we have to be just girls.

Girls gone wild!

Girls gone wild…

With cellulite…

And baby-tummy.

And, thyroid conditions, and children’s college tuitions to pay.

And . . . And . . . Well, 40-ish Girls gone half-mad might be a better description.

But, ALL, and I mean ALL of Vegas knows that we have a good time!  It take the city a whole year to recover from us.

Yeah, we DO know how to play…

Our husbands wish so desperately to be flies on the wall…

“No, no, no, Joe.”

“Just fo the Ho’s. You get to stay home and play Mommy, mo-fo!”

But, remember . . . most people say, “What Happened in Vegas, Stays in Vegas!”

However, OUR mantra is . . . “What Happened in Vegas . . . Never Happened!”

So, you want to go to Vegas, baby?

Yeah, I could show you the town!

  

Some of the Crew

Some of the Crew

The Core Four - White Bread, Bagel, Buttertop & Cinnabon

The Core Four - White Bread, Bagel, Buttertop & Cinnabon

Be well,

Belle

Bookmark and Share

S. Belle Karper, Author, Speaker www.BelleKarper.com
THE WIDOW WEARS BLACK – An Edgy Memoir from an Outspoken Survivor
Check out S. Belle Karper’s – Beauties and Beasts – Blog! Baby! Blog!
Belle Karper Face Book
& the popular Twitter-Belle – all on Website
Save it, Baby! Count me in! Add to Technorati Favorites
S. Belle Karper -- Author & Speaker