I got into a bar scuffle

Before I forget, a good blogging friend, Norma Beishir is celebrating the re-release of her 2008 novel, Chasing the Wind. The gal has talent in spades. I cannot wait to buy the novel on Amazon and thought I would pass along the info to you all.

As you all know, the past few months have left me sick as a dog. I spent December and January in my velvet covers on my round bed hacking up a lung. Thankfully, those days are long gone. I finally feel up to par and as a result, I have gone on quite a partying bender, sans any substances, of course.

It all started with karaoke night and my 2012 mantra-live like this is your last year on Earth.
My friends, this mantra may be the death of me. This weekend I went with Jameses and crew, I wore my black lacy cardigan with leggings and chic motorcycle boots.

I loathe karaoke, I don't see the point in singing off key with strangers making out in the dark corners but hey, this is about doing something new and exciting, right?

Unfortunately, I don't do exciting well. No, catastrophe follows me around every bend. So, nestled in a tiny basement bar, Jameses and crew take turns in karaoking their little hearts out.

I hold my hand sanitizer in my palm and keep staring at this huge 6 foot 6 man who cannot peel his eyes off my friend. This chick is so short I could even throw her across the room but she's a spitfire.

So, this bulky 6 foot 6 man approaches Spitfire Girl. He comes on to my friend, he grabs her arm and yanks her close to him. Spitfire girl pushes him back. There's not a security guard in sight. No one around me knows what to do, they are watching this creepy guy force Spitfire Girl to walk to his side of the bar.

My new motorcycle boots must have inspired me to go crazy on his butt because I run after him and leap on his back. I am still mortified that I did this, I leaped on this humongous man's back and refused to get off until he let her go.

He then throws me off his back like I'm a lil mouse (which is hard to do, I am 6 foot 2). I gash my forearm on loose pipe. I should have walked away after Spitfire Girl was safe but noooo, something inside me snapped and I yelled, "There's no way I am getting hepatitis because you're a creep."

The 6 foot 6 guy just stares at me in surprise. Jameses and crew burst out laughing because I am not freaked out by 6 foot 6 man. Instead I am worried that I am going to get hepatitis. The tension has faded.

The 6 foot 6 man begins laughing. Yep, everyone is laughing-the tears gushing out of their eyes, lungs burning kind of laughing. All because I am a wacked-out-germ-fearing-kind of gal.

Everyone goes back to what they were doing. For the next hour, I got ribbed for jumping on a humongus man's back. I can't stop smiling and laughing. The only way to get them to shut up is to do the thing I loathe most-sing karaoke.

I walk up to the stage, gulp down the fear and grab the microphone. I tap my black boots against the floor and sing along with Sir Mix-A-Lot, "I like big butts and I cannot lie . . . "