She’s claiming that shit for Spain and the revolution!

I have spent the last week entertaining a cousin-in-law from Spain. I’ll just borrow the name Tequila Rosa for blog sake. TR is nineteen with a body comparable to Jennifer Lopez, just a little thicker. She’s beautiful in an exotic way, and her little tops and super low pants have insured her several dates in Austin. Follow this up with her sexy brown eyes that scream “Take advantage of me I am 19 and far away from home”, and she’s the center of attention wherever we go. (Compliments to Cal on reading her eyes)

By this point you might have realized, I love the limelight. It suits me, it does. I don’t have to be the prettiest girl in the room, as long as I can be the second prettiest girl with the best personality. Okay I’ll take 4th or 5th on a bad night, but I’ll be back with a vengeance. Let’s just hope I don’t drink too much and announce that to my competition.

Last night we took TR out to Havana for a mojito. The patio was open, a nice breeze flowed throughout the room, and the Spanish music helped us feel festive. Simon was working, and we asked him to come over and meet TR. Simon has waited on us a couple of times, and I like to think of him as my own personal member of MENUDO.He looks like one of the former members of the infamous boy band, and has a nervous giggle that reminds me of the days of graphix bongs and Cheetos.

I’ll be damned if our little Latin lover didn’t come up to the table and sweep TR off her feet. Words like “Que ricccccooo” came out of his little mouth, along with “Ahh, Rossssa – que bonittaaa”. By the end of the night she was fanning herself with his number.

What’s this? I’ve been in there several times, and was never offered a number. How can this be? Perhaps at 31, it’s time for me to realize my glorious days as the star of the show are dimming. I’m more likely to introduce than to be introduced.

That being said, I just went shopping and bought a pair of jeans to accentuate my bootiful bootie and a little black top to accentuate my bounty. One more stab at center stage couldn’t hurt. If all else fails, I’ll move on to 50 year-old men. On second thought, it’s not so bad. I don’t mind being a wallflower.


(I should mention the clichés in this blog are complements of someone other than yours truly)