The Kindergarten Moms Book Club (there are no books, and in fact, none of us have kids in kindergarten anymore, some never did, and one of us is actually a dad, not a mom, but I digress). Start over. The Kindergarten Moms Book Club meets in a bar (hence the reason we don't have books) a couple of times of month. We meet there for deep, stimulating adult conversation. Oh, fine. We meet there to drink a lot, to make fun of each other and what other girls in the bar are wearing, and to get away from our (much loved) children. At least, those of us who have children are trying to get away from them. The rest of them are there, I think, to make fun of me.

What? Seriously - what do YOU do at YOUR book club? (I'm suddenly thinking of that weird cow cheese commerical, with the trying-too-hard-for humorous-sarcasm woman.) If you say you read and discuss fine works of literature, I'm totally going to make fun of you. You probably play bunco, too.

Start over again. I keep losing my train of thought. Stop distracting me with all these questions.

The Kindergarten Moms Book Club, of which I am the self-appointed president (Fine, you're right. There wasn't, in fact, an election. And yes, right again. No one but me knows that I consider myself to be the president. Get over it. I'll be the freakin' CEO if I want to. As soon as I figure out what it is that CEO's do, other than make great pots of money that they don't seem to want to give to me, for my beer habit), meets in a bar. We buy many drinks, and it's one of those times I'm SO glad I'm married to a man who earns enough money to buy me many drinks, even when he isn't there but his debit card is. (I might also note that the bar owner knows him very well - they are friends, so it's great when I decide I've had enough beer and fun and just walk out of the bar, leaving a gigantic tab unpaid. It's not my fault! I haven't worked at a job in almost seven years and my husband always follows me around and pays for things; I just forget!)

Crap. I got off subject all over again, and I really DO have something to say, something to ask, something that's really bugging me.

Once again: The Kindergarten Moms Book Club meets in a local bar, which we all love for no other reason than that it is close and cheap. There! I got that much. (The bar is called the Cock O' The Walk, which could be another reason we love it. Who wouldn't love saying "Let's go get Cocky," or "I'm at the Cock, come meet me"?)

AT THIS BAR, which we love, for years and years, there was the BEST graffiti. Our particular favorite was written in six-inch tall letters, and said "Kirsten B (her last name was there, but I have moments of kindness and won't include it here, just in case, you know, she finds me at the Cock and decides to kick my Kindergarten Mom butt) has a hairy back." For months and months, we'd all stare at that giant sentence, feeling really bad for Kirsten. And we'd come stumbling out of the bathroom, usually weaving a bit and smashing into the jukebox, and eventually make it to our table, at which point we proclaimed, "Poor Kirsten!" and we'd all drink.

Seriously, it was one of our favorite drinking games. We have many of them. Our second favorite is called "Let's all just sit here without talking and chug beers."

But the bar owner (his name is Chris, boo him when you see him) had a fit of some craziness. I guess. BECAUSE HE PAINTED OVER ALL THE GRAFFITI. And now the bathroom is all clean and damn near cozy. He RUINED the ambiance of my favorite bar.

But, we thought, no big deal. Someone (you know, SOMEONE) will eventually be the first to besmirch the walls and things will get back to normal. And SOMEONE did. And the next week? THE BATHROOM WAS PAINTED AGAIN.

If Chris didn't serve such fine beer and have such a beautiful understanding of how easy it is to forget to pay your tab, I'd find a new bar.

Oh, crap! I forgot what I was writing about! Let's start again, and I swear, I'll get it right.

The Kindergarten Moms Book Club meets in a bar that used to have the best graffiti, much to our delight. (But now it's gone, and we find ourselves less delightful.) Fully 90% of all that divine graffitti was written with a black Sharpie marker.

And here you have the reason for this somehow very long blog, full of semi-interesting thoughts I had while writing it:

WHO ARE THE GIRLS WHO CARRY SHARPIES IN THEIR PURSE? Do they go out and BUY them in bulk, and put one in every handbag they own, just in case there is a graffiti emergency? Is the bartender secretly slipping them Sharpies? Is there a secret cache in the bar somewhere, filled with Sharpies?

I really need to know this stuff.

And, as a final aside, after watching a sublime video about a wedding that took place at the Waffle House somewhere in the deep south (or possibly even somewhere in Oklahoma City), we have decided that the next one of us to get married is SO getting married in the Cock O'The Walk. (How much fun is it to say "Oh, we got married at the Cock.") And my tap dancing friend Lesli has promised to provide all the bridesmaids (we'll wear wife-beater tank tops and carry designer purses) with jewel-encrusted Sharpies. The reception will feature a graffiti contest.

I only hope poor Kirsten is there. I need to meet her.

Do YOU carry a Sharpie? Should I start? Am I too old for graffiti?