It was the best of times. It was the worst of times.

Yesterday was not a bad day.

In fact, someone signed the lease on our house and put down the deposit. We have a renter for the next 12 months, guaranteed. Had coffee with Geraldine while Michael was still in childcare. I even finished making the favor bags for Sunday's birthday bash--little brown bags with puppy faces.

Dom and I decided some celebrating was in order. We hopped in the car down to Chili's for some good eats. After all that hard work of prepping for the party and costume sewing, I was ready for big ole plate of honey BBQ flavored chicken crispers. So crispy and tastey, that therein lies the first of many unfortunate happenings.

As I'm taking a gigantic bite, the crispness of the chicken's outer layer shot a teaspoon of honey barbeque burn right into my eye. I don't know how many of you have tried to eat sauce through your eye before, but the horrible stinging and shock of what the fuck just happened renders your speech uncomprehendable. While making stiff sweeps across the table like a rusty robot, I found a napkin and garbled, "Eye. It's sauce. Ah."

Today was a bad day.

I woke up with the ick that Michael's been spreading all over the house with his germy little hands. And I was going to inquire about the flu shot on Monday. I still managed to drag my body, which feels like it's rotting from the inside out, all over the house to get ready for Yoga class because I was supposed to meet Geraldine at 9. Too bad I didn't check the email that said she wasn't going before I left. I figured she was just running late, so I waited for about 15 minutes past before giving up and taking a shower. I had even shown up 15 minutes early because I had to stop and get more pedialyte for Michael Poopypants.

Now at home, I spend about an hour on the phone with my insurance provider trying to get Michael's card mailed out to us and change my doctor...blah, blah, blaaaahhh. I finally lay down for a glorious nap while Michael's still sleeping....only he's no longer sleeping. Fuck me.

I get him to the doctor's office and filled out my clipboard of family diseases while chasing him out of the bathroom and off of people's laps. It was a great time for all of us. *gag*

Ready for the shittiest part of my shitty, shitty, shit-filled day? I walk in to the living room and see the massacred remains of my cute, puppy favor bags lying mutilated on the floor. Blog damnit.

Hey, Dick, why is it that you see nude people in museums but they never show them on TV?

Remember how I said that before noon on a weekday the gym becomes a geriatric petri dish? Oh my Blog, it got worse today.

I'm taking the usual 15 minutes - 2 hours to blowdry my hair, because it has some sort of anti-drying charm on it that makes my locks perpetually wet and therefore takes an unbloggly amount of vigorous hairdryer waving to make any progress, and I see it via mirror standing behind me--naked grandma.

Diverting my gaze was absolutely top priority. I don't want to see any boobies in the locker room and here I am staring at Grandma Moses's exposed ta-tas. But with there being so many mirrors, it was nearly impossible. I had naked grandma in IMAX 3-D with Dolby Digital surround sound. I just started reading a sign sitting atop the counter over and over again. Ironically, it said this:

We hope you're enjoying your new locker rooms. For the consideration of other locker room patrons we ask that everyone remain covered in the common areas.

I never truly appreciated that sign before today. It's not just the age of the nakedness (though it does play a role). It's just awkward to turn around and be staring into someone's bare ass. Maybe it's me and my overly self-conscious attempts to stay fully clothed in the common areas that makes me think that everyone should at least wear the towel dress. Granted, I take the crazy cake and come out of the shower sporting my jeans and all. But as I heard a different elderly worker-outer once say, "Could you bring me my robe? I'm not ready to be Miss America."

Well hello there handsome. Coffee tea or me?

There are some things you just don't want to start your day off with and some without. The whole internet knows that I'm a dark roast lovin' java junkie--so when I don't have my caffeine infused miracle drink first thing I'm a little strung out. I certainly don't want to wake up and strip my son of poopy pajamas and wash his sheets. He is currently watching Curious George and eating handfuls of Captain Crunch.

And no matter how much I love my husband, having a conversation standing over me (still wrapped into my blankets and pressing one ear hard into the pillow) isn't going to be very two sided. All I can hear is the adult-figure voice from Charlie Brown. That works great for normal weekday circumstances of "I'm leaving for work. I love you. I'll call you this afternoon." But important news? You'd better sit me up and hand me some hazelnut flavored joe.

I'm pretty sure he was telling me that our realtor emailed him about an interested buyer. The guy's military but can't afford a down payment right away, so he want's to lease for 6 months. A sort of rent to own option. He hasn't been to look at the house yet, but the pictures got him seriously interested. As long as the carpet doesn't frighten him away (since we ARE offering a carpeting allowance) we may be golden. Also, we have a couple interested in renting the house (if we recarpet). Finally, competing bids on my house!

I'd rather sell it. For the love of Blog, let's hope this guy takes the recarpeting allowance and does it his damn self. I'm so sick of relying on unreliable "professional" people in the housing market not getting me a fucking estimate. It's not like I can hop a flight down there with my trusty tape measure and do it. Well, I could but then I couldn't afford the carpet. But seriously, how hard is it to walk into Home Depot and talk to a dude with a lumbar support strap?

Neil, have you noticed that no matter how late girls seem to go out, they always look good after a night on the binge?

Now that I have taken the weekend to recover from Friday night's Margarita mahem, I'm celebrating my sobriety with a nasty cold (or allergies, more likely). I'm about two drips away from shoving toilet paper up my nose to keep it from running any more. It might help the itchiness too. Sometimes that's the only thing that helps when I've got an itchy nose and can't sleep. I just stuff my nostrils with tissue.

All nose problems aside. Let me really start this blog with: I hate you Margarita. At least there was no barfing. Silver lining? In all honesty, it was a lot of fun. In fact, there was a lot of honesty. I was loud and I told the table (and probably other tables by fault of my booming, drunken voice) most everything I've got when it comes to secrets. I did get some juicy details out of the other girls as well. It's not my fault, Geraldine brought conversation starters. They worked...well. And yes, about 3 questions into the night I revealed that my favorite website was, indeed, this blog. Let's just say it wasn't the last time I mentioned it, either. What a fucktard I am.

I was surprised at how well they took some personal details that I blurted out and I'm certainly relieved to get it out there. It's nice to feel free with your friends. What it actually comes down to, is feeling unhampered yourself. It's a shot of confidence that doesn't taste like tequila.

So, highlights of the night anyone? Okay. Let's see if I can remember anything. And I'm not revealing any dirt on my partners in crime. Not that there was any crimes occurring...that I recall.

We start off at Los Tres Amigos around 8 p.m. Fitting right? I then drink 3 regular sized Margaritas within the first half hour there. That's at least 24 oz. in 30 minutes. Almost an ounce per 60 seconds. My math is kinda rusty, but I think that equals drunkass. Of course, then I decide--but really Kelly and Geraldine decide for me because they want to see more of uninhibited Cassidy--to order a fishbowl of alcohol. This thing was the size of my head! I think I even mimed sticking my head into it at one point, but details don't really exist by this point. I drank half. That's another 32 oz. Big Gulps at the gas station are 32 oz. I drank almost 2 Big Gulp's worth of Margaritas--56 oz. That's almost as much water as I'm supposed to drink in a day.

I remember exchanging dumb jokes, missing my straw a few times, and hitting my head against the booth wall after talking too vigorously with my hands.

Los Tres Amigos closes at 10, so we had to vacate to the drive-through daiquiri place across the street. There, Kelly got hit on by a dude named "Nate" and I got hit on by his gap-toothed, pot-smoking sister. And I guess the pickup line of the day was "You from around here?" We heard it at least 3 times. But hey, it was a conversational peice--Slidouche is a hit even here. I got a high five out that. We even heard it from Peirced Ears McCreepy as we were heading back. He left us with "You have a good night..." then paused dramatically and deepened his voice "ladies."

By the time we were ready to leave I had not fallen down in my heels, but I had tried to jump into Geraldine's car only to be hindered by the carseats. That's when she drove off with me still leaning on her vehicle.

I got a ride back with Kelly, but first we had to stop at CVS and then get milk at the gas station.