Handguns in Handbags and Other Stories

Okay. This is going way back, but I have to tell you a couple of stories about my dear, dear friend Lesley who was my "date" for my sis's wedding at the end of May. I knew I was going to forget this, and I don't know what prompted me to remember it (maybe something I just heard on Seinfeld?) but I'm sure glad I did.

If you are lucky enough to know Lesley, you know one gloriously Southern, unabashedly honest, beautifully funny, gorgeous, blunt Mississippi darling. She and I go way back. Way back. As in, we went to Headstart together at age 4. So I've known this precious gal for quite some time. And she is the subject of many a side-splitting story.

For starters, when she showed up at my apartment in Starkville, Mississippi, the day we were leaving for Orange Beach, she had so many bags (and for just a week, might I add!) that I feared the Honda would be dragging ass and causing sparks with the tailpipe the whole way to the Gulf coast. "This one's just shoes," she said as she heaved a massive cloth bag into the trunk. "Because I like to have options."

My favorite part of the trip, by far, happened at a gas station in Scooba. This old dude was looking at us funny when we pulled up, and after making some comment to Lesley about how I'd appreciate it if he'd stop staring, she said, and I quote, "Don't worry. I'm packing heat."

Now, it was funny enough that Lesley used the phrase "packing heat" in the first place. But what really put the icing on the cake was when this blonde-haired belle proceeded to reach into her designer purse and pull out a pistol. I wasn't sure whether to laugh or run like hell! She must have seen the look of terror on my face because she told me quickly, in her sweet Southern drawl, "Oh, but don't worry. I've got a permit."

Well, that certainly made me feel better...almost as good as it made me feel when she shared the gruesome details of what the hollowpoint bullets (of which she had more in her wallet) would do to a human body.

Then one night out at the Flora Bama, Lesley finds a handsome young gentleman who wants to dance. So I assume the position of wallflower and purse watcher - a title I hold often and very well - while Lesley heads toward the tiny dance floor to get her groove on. I'm looking around, watching the people, sending a text here and there and saying "No, thank you" to all the eager rednecks looking for a partner. Then I see it. I'm not sure I've seen it at first. But I have.

There's my dear Lesley in mid-air, ass up, her Victoria's Secret-bedecked booty shining, skirt flying and hair flailing. Someone on the dance floor has flipped her. Such a butt baring might have humiliated some. Not this girl. As a matter of fact, upon having her feet returned to the dirty dance floor, she shot a look of pure pride at me, yelling across the bar as her skirt fell back into place, "Did you see me? I got flipped!"

When we got back to the condo, Lesley explained what was running through her head during her bottoms-up boogie... "Well, I was just dancin' and this guy asked if he could flip me. I said yeah, hopin' he knew what he was doin', and before I knew it, I was up in the air. I didn't care that my panties were showing. All I could think was, 'Shit! I better stick this landin'!'"

Hey, I Can Always Be a Lady of the Night

So what happened in Vegas this last time simply cannot stay there. It's just too laugh-out-loud funny and mildly humiliating to keep a secret. I was there for two nights, visiting a wonderful friend who was there for work. The first night, he headed to bed fairly early since he had a long day ahead. Being the independent and nocturnal creature I seem to become in Vegas, I decided to go it alone and visit a couple of new friends who work at one of the bars in The Mirage (the site of my one and only Penthouse stay).

And so the story goes, our sweet, Southern heroine is sitting at the bar, sipping her bourbon like a lady, well past midnight, chatting with the bartender and minding her business. Sure, her outfit is a little sexy, but not sexy enough to warrant the proposition presented to her by the drunken buffoon who assumed, without hesitation, that she was a prostitute. I wish I were joking. I most certainly am not. Okay, so maybe I shouldn't have been in a bar at 3 a.m. But it's Vegas. You gotta do what you gotta do.

Night two. Same scenario. Same bar. Much less sexy clothing. But this time, it's a Las Vegas law enforcement official. He shows me his badge and says he needs to see my ID for "age verification purposes." Yeah. He, too, thought I was a hooker. Talk about great for the self-esteem.

Lesson learned: If you are female, even if you are not dressed like a lady of the night, and you are sitting alone at a bar in Vegas in the early hours of the morning, the general population will assume you're a working girl. Can't a girl have a drink alone in this town? Sure she can. She can also get some customers without even trying.

The return to San Clemente brought an eagerly anticipated job interview. Which, by the way, I rocked so hard that they e-mailed the same afternoon to ask for a second interview. Looks like things are coming together after all. But it's always a comfort to know that if this job falls through or if I'm just looking for a little extra spending money, I can always count on late nights in Vegas. Apparently, I've got what it takes.

So Here's the Thing...

I had the noblest of intentions to share every moment of my trip to California with you. But the truth is, my laptop died in Oklahoma City. And the previous post was completely fabricated. Well, not completely. I did do and think and see all those things, but I totally wrote that about a week ago. Long after having arrived and settled in California. Yes, I'm hanging my head in shame.

I'm a blog sinner, and I'm confessing my transgressions to you now. The truth is, writing in retrospect is very difficult for this forgetful gal. I'm impressed that I remembered anything at all about that first day, and if you read carefully, you'll see that the details are sorely lacking.

If I may proceed, let me get you up to speed... Oh, and since my laptop is still on the fritz, I haven't had a way to download pictures. They're coming, though. I promise.

Day two of the road trip consisted of the remainder of Oklahoma, the top tip of Texas, New Mexico and half of Arizona. It was long and grueling, though stopping in Groom, Texas, to see the largest cross in the western hemisphere proved to be quite amusing. We spent that night in Flagstaff and parted ways with our driving buddy the following day when Emily and I headed north to the Grand Canyon.

Let it here be stated that anyone, at any time, is free to jump right off into that massive ravine. There are no barriers, though the friendly bus driver asks you to "please stay a body length away from the edge of the canyon" should you accidentally trip and fall. All I'm saying is that if you felt the urge to Thelma and Louise into that thing, there would be nothing there to stop you. That is incredibly cool and incredibly horrifying at the same time. Oh, and it was here that an very sketchy old guy walked up to me and said, "I know this is gonna sound creepy, but..." I think it's a safe bet that anything following "I know this is gonna sound creepy" is sure to be just that and most likely shouldn't be shared. But this dude wanted to tell me that he saw the sun hitting my shoulders and that they were the most beautiful shoulders he had ever seen. Someone, he said, should take a picture of them. Allllllrighty. Moving on.

After the Canyon (which, by the way, is only accessible via creeping along a windy, scary gravel road - my Honda was NOT ready for all that) we headed to Las Vegas. Sin City, baby. The lights really are impressive. I can't lie. I felt a little "country girl goes to town." Especially when, upon check-in, Em and I got upgraded to a Penthouse suite with a view of the strip! No, I'm not kidding. We ran around like little kids, screaming, laughing, saying, "Oh my gosh, have you seen the bathroom!" and generally acting like idiots. We don't know why or how, and we didn't ask questions. We just basked in the glory of living like the rich, knowing full well that it would be the only time we'd ever spend the night in such a nice room. Bittersweet at best. Oh, who am I kidding? It was freakin' AWESOME! As for the rest of that night? Well, you know the Vegas slogan.

The next evening we arrived here in San Clemente around 7:30. I'm pretty sure I cried when I saw the "San Clemente City Limits" sign. I definitely cried when we played "The Great Escape" one more time to bring our trip full circle. Starkville to San Clemente. More than 2,000 miles. And even more laughs than that.

I've been here for almost a month now, which I honestly don't even believe. I'm adapting well to the traffic (it seems as though I really enjoy driving fast while weaving in and out of heavy traffic - who knew?) I love this town. It's all still very surreal. Probably because I'm not working yet. But that will change soon, I feel.

Tonight's agenda? Drinking champagne and eating cake in honor of Sir Paul McCartney's birthday. Tomorrow? Yeah. I'm going back to Vegas.