Shit kickin' boots.

I channeled my inner redneck for Ladies Night.

I dressed for the part, right down to my dog tag I wear every day with utter pride.  It's the one I received from the Queer Arts Festival this summer.  You remember the one?  The Queer As Fuck award!

One this day, I felt it was the perfect accessory for my power suit.

Every day, I dress in my prettiest clothing, sometimes wackiest colours, to make my femme presence known.

This time, I didn't want to wear it for shooting guns.

I did the last few times.  It's fine to wear a skirt, but from this point forward, I feel that I must don my jeans and boots.

I pulled every little eyelet of my 'Sidekick' Dayton Boots taut.  I exerted myself, as I wrapped that stout leather around my ankles and shins.

That of course was after I'd slithered into my tightest, most badass jeans I have.

This was not a night for my Dominican jeans with rhinestones on the ass pockets.

No, this was a night for Diesel Indian, Bootcut jeans.

They pull my figure into a tiny little package of strength and 'don't mess with me' attitude.

You could never pull the femme from me, so I still felt pretty with my locks hanging down around my shoulders.

In order to fit in the with the bio-boys, I especially chose my camo sweatshirt to wear nice and snug under my riding leather.

Of course, I no longer have a license to ride my motorcycle, or any other vehicle for that matter.  Even if I did, my dearly departed bike was killed in the motorocycle accident.

Still, I kept my leather jacket.  Only problem is, as I went into the closet in Our Closet, I realized it's in storage!

I had to settle for my black jean jacket with a few lacy bits behind the buttons.

No matter, because all together, they give me a certain amount of strength.

My boots hold my feet firm on the ground, with their sturdy heels.

Not to mention their pointy tips, that are seriously good for the off-chance that I may need to kick someone in the balls.

Strength.  I'm searching for my strength.

It's my power suit.

She means business.

When we arrived at the shooting range, I walked in with confidence.  Every boot step sounded as I crossed the floor.

It was like I was wearing a red dress.

It was my space.

My night.

When I shot those tiny silver bullets from my .22, the gun ranger realized he didn't need to help me, saying, "you're really doing good!" then turned his focus on My Gratitude Buddy and my friend I got to know a little better.

They're another member of the Pariah Club.  They fit in just fine.

The only thing I needed the gun ranger to do for me, was load me another cartridge so it was ready for my next round.

Of course, my two buddies were in it for the fun, as they shot their 357 Magnum.  I stuck to my .22 and 9mm.

If you didn't see the outcome of my new shooting expedition, you have to take a peek at it from yesterday.

I'm getting better.

I'm finding my strength.

I'm finding more confidence.

I'm finding that I WILL be protecting myself without any hesitation.

With that, I'm finding more peace.

I'm also finding a new bond with my shit kickin' boots.

i have only positive mental pictures

Naming the baby.

Ok.

Here are some of the options I've been given thus far:

~ Casa del Boomboom? Villa del BoomBoom?
~ Mi esperanza por les putas. 
~ Villa des puma

These three were donated by a very cheeky, yet pervertedly creative friend of mine.  I'm not sure we'll be using these.  But thank you for your hard work and input.

Oh, before I go any further, you do know about Google Translate, don't you?  Go there to check out translations so that you get the full effect of some of the options.

Next one was from The Yank who knows us oh so well!

~ however you translate "furry family" into spanish (following "casa de" of course)

Then there was a very exuberant friend who had all kinds of options, who I think should go into marketing with the amount of ingenuity in that cranium:  

~ Casa de los peros y gatos...cause let's face it, they've got you outnumbered

~ Casa de la ausencia de dolor

~ La casa feliz

~ Casa de los gringos

Next up was a friend who really understands where we're coming from:

~ Casa ante paz/relajación/ House of peace/relaxation

Then a few from another pal who was very excited about the game:

~ Villa NO COLD DRIVE, MOI BIEN!!!

~ CASA DE LA EASTANDREA VILLA
(editor's note: you won't be able to translate this one.  it's a combo of our names.  cute, eh!)

And one from one of my very first Blogger Friends who decided to make us think for ourselves:

~ You should use a word that means something to you. I like Villa better than Casa. Maybe hope (esperanza)

This one from a family member who wants to make sure we represent our Canadian heritage!

~ Casa de los Canucks!

Here's a Blogger Friend who had me thinking.  Couple this with guns and I'm sure we'd be safe:

~ I suppose the dark humour of "Villa Loco" might be misconstrued ? On the other hand, it probably would discourage unwanted guests ;)

Lastly, a Blogger Friend who has really listened to the journey Papi and I have had:

~ If I had to sum up what I know of your life in one word, it would be "change". Extreme change. Even drastic change. And your casa is the latest instalment in that long line of changes. So,

Villa Cambiar

These are all such great suggestions and have really had me thinking about how we want to present ourselves to the village we'll be a part of.

Good god!

This is harder than naming a baby!  When I was trying to have one, I had names picked out with ease!

Not this time.  I feel like I want all the suggestions written around our wall from one end to the other.

... well, i have to admit, except for the first ones ... sorry sweet pea, but i don't need people jacking off in front of our ocean view ...

We have some time before Papi has our massive wall built around Casa Paraíso, so there's a lot to digest.  Of course, we'll still be accepting ideas to give our villa it's spirit.

And now, I have to prepare for Ladies Night!  Yes!  Ladies Night! 

If it's your first time visiting my blog, I'll just let you know it's not the type of night where I sit at a table with my 'rough around the edges' friends who may or may not be drunk enough to look at men stripping in front of them. 

At my Ladies Night, the only guns being slung will be held by me and pointed at a target of an imaginary predator's 'man zone'.

Gimme the guns baby!

i courageously sell my ideas