bar juice and butt messages.

I can tell whether or not I've worn a pair of jeans to work based on the smell that wafts up to my nostrils as I slip them on.

They're drenched in bar juice.

Bar juice is a pleasant blend of margarita mix, dirty dish water, fruit residue, beer, and other alcoholic substances. It coats my skin after every shift at Sandbar, and lingers within the fibers of my jeans. Bar juice has a very distinct smell and once I've worn a pair of clean jeans to work, it's safe to say they are barred from any and all public outings. No pun intended.

It's typical for me to wear my jeans about three to four times before I wash them. Four is about the maximum before I either have spilled something on them or they've got that unpleasant saggy "I've been worn too many times and need to be washed please, thanks." thing goin' on. And yes, I just personified my jeans. They talk.

I just got a new pair of jean shorts yesterday, jorts if you will, and I'm sort of obsessed with them because they fit sooo well. All my other shorts are about three years old and have had their fair share of summer wear. Even washing them doesn't reduce the sag. They're old and crochety. Time to retire them.

I went shopping at Victoria's Secret with my aunt yesterday. Let's just say I've been fighting the "budding young woman" phase of life for awhile now. The staples of my wardrobe consist of crew neck sweaters, jeans, and Vans. I buy cosmetics, bras, and underwear in bulk at Target. I've never been one to drop a hundo on Mac make-up and never once have I made a purchase at Victoria's Secret, aside from those smelly lotions once when I was like 12. I know. Laugh. So I walk in with my aunt in my jean shorts, high socks, Vans, and oversized hoodie, looking to buy bras and underwear, excuse me, panties. Oh, I hate that word. Panties. Just typing it makes me squirm. I feel like panties are what old women wear just before they hit the Depends stage of life.

But anyway, I ended up dropping not one, but two hundos at Vicky's, but I'm sort of obsessed with my purchases. Victoria bestowed her secret upon me and I'm hooked.

My aunt and I shared loads of laughs over the PINK section of the store where the, ahem, panties, had phrases like 'come visit soon', 'are we there yet?', and 'just visiting' emblazoned on the buttcheeks. Yes please, I'll take seven of those, one in every color of the rainbow. Not.

Anyway, all that to say, I have bras that not only make my boobs look good, but are beyond comfortable. So that's cool.

I just spent 20 minutes typing about bras and jeans. I'd say that's worth more than a few petals on the budding young woman flower. Ok, that was weird, but I rarely edit what I write so I'm leaving it.

Today was good. I'm off to watch Fight Club alone in my room on a Friday night. I suppose you can now pull those petals off the budding young woman flower.

I'm right back where I started. But I like it.

So there.