Mariachi Sundays

Last night's Margarita Monday lived up to the hype, as Debbie did not disappoint. For once, we ordered a lot of food, so the bartender was so happy he gifted us several free drinks, including some thing that was strong and definitely not a margarita, but a lovely addition to my tummy all the same. The night also marked our youngest attendee ever, Jessica's cousin, age six. Or at least I think. I called him six, then his mother protested that he was seven. I apologized, and she explained he would turn seven in two months. So he was six, and I wasn't wrong, but it's hard to fault anyone for math at Margarita Mondays when you can't even count your own drinks. While the six-year-old built forts with chairs and collected deflated balloons, our typical bawdy conversations ensued regardlessly. Typically when you have someone's mother around friends, the mother will tell embarrassing stories about her child. Jessica did an excellent job of turning the tables, however, directing the conversation towards embarrassing tales about her mother, all of which were greatly amusing. Debbie took it like a champ, and drank like one, too. That's Debbie Downer, actually, the nickname having nothing to do with her attitude and everything to do with her ability to down margaritas.

We went home to keep the party bumping with rum -- we have a ridiculous amount of rum in the house right now. Michael Michael was dressing as a pirate, so Allison and I followed suit, figuring it was in celebration of rum. For Allison and I, dressing like pirates, by the way, meant wearing ties around our heads. Authentic, aaRRRRRRR. What we soon discovered was that Michael Michael was dressing this way for some sort of work-related activity the following day, not in celebration of rum. Though Allison and I felt a little stupid upon this revelation, we continued wearing the ties around our head anyway. Because it made us feel less stupid or something.

For a year now, the only thing I've had on my wall is this:


I bought it at a thrift store. Upon seeing it, Jessica's aunt was concerned for two reasons: my walls are almost entirely bare (blasphemous!) and "But Brandon's not your name!" I was well aware, particularly of the latter. It's not that I wouldn't have bought a Kevin decoration had i seen one for sale, but thrift stores never guarantee to have everything in stock, so I had to take what I can get. Plus, that's what makes it funny, I thought.

Unbeknownst to me, at one point at Margarita Mondays when Debbie excused herself to the bathroom, she helped herself to a large sign, folding it up and sneaking it out under her shirt. Also, she might have been caught while doing it, but her account on that matter is uncertain. As a gift, when I wasn't in my room (probably off swashbuckling with Allison), Debbie proudly taped to the sign to my bare wall, crooked no less.


Debbie Downer was excited to give me a souvenir that said Margarita Mondays on it. I see the words "Sunday" and "Mariachis" which, I suppose, might have read like "Monday" and "Margaritas" in a certain state of mind. Debbie proceeded to autograph the sign.


I had to have the message translated for me. Apparently, it says, "Stolen by Debra for Kevin's bad ass!" It looks a bit closer to "bare ass" to me, which might have to do with the fact I mooned her at the restaurant earlier.

Her sister also signed it as well.


"Brandon, it was nice to meet you." I assume it was a joke, but I'm honestly not sure whether she remembered my name was actually Kevin or not. After all, her son is seven. Or six.

So I have a new decorative keepsake. If it weren't vandalized, I would return it, because I like maintaining good relations with my friends at, ahem, Mariachi Sundays. I'll tip them nicely next week.

AARRRR, thanks for the booty, Debbie Downer.
X - Kevin's bad ass