This summer, I head west

This summer, I'll be heading to Odessa, Texas, for a friend's baby shower.

I spent two years in Odessa, a rough-and-tumble town in West Texas, and home to the best damn bloody Mary I've ever had. Mel, my expecting friend, is the one who introduced me to these spicy perfections at a joint called Riley's Roadhouse.

I met Mel at the newspaper. Her desk was next to mine. On my first day, Mel spent hours on the phone, ranting about the boyfriend who had cheated on her with a stripper. His name was Seven. His parents were aiming for Sven, but someone screwed up the birth certificate. Anyway, at one point Mel picked up this stuffed animal from her desk, and, using a pair of scissors, decapitated it.

"I (whack) can't (snip) believe (swish) I trusted him!"

I knew we were destined to be friends.

After hitting a few clubs with Mel, she took me to Riley's.

"Do NOT put down your purse," she hissed as we walked through the door.

And then she introduced me to Queen Mary. Yum.

Mel and I specialized in dating inappropriate men. I settled on the TV reporter who essentially read my big investigative story on air -- without crediting me.

"OK, aside from that, what is wrong with him?" I asked Mel.

"He has no soul," she replied.

One night, I met Mel at a club so she could introduce me to her latest. He said hello, then promptly slumped over the table and passed out.

I jabbed her.

"What's wrong with him?" I shout-whispered over the pulsing music.

"Oh, I don't know," Mel said, airily waving a cigarette. "He smoked some pot, popped a couple of Valium and chased them with a couple of margaritas."

"Do you think he's OK?" I asked.

"He's fine," Mel said. "He does this all the time. Let's go dance."

Still, this guy was an improvement over the hapless Seven.

One night, after getting off work, Mel and I met Seven at a bar in nearby Midland.

Once there, we had time to down only one beer before closing. We piled into Mel's car -- Mel, Seven, me, another girlfriend, and two of Seven's friends. Seven said he would drive.

"I've only had one beer," he assured us.

Fifteen minutes later, cop lights flashed behind us.

We all watched as Seven attempted to pass a sobriety test.

Sandwiched between Seven's two lunkhead buddies in the backseat, I watched him flunk it.

"Dude," said one of the guys. "I forgot about the bong. Should I stuff it under the seat?"

"You have a bong?" I squeaked. Drugs were not my thing. I was, I admit, a bit of a goody-goody in that department.Oh, great.

"Yeah, dude. What should I do with it?"

I slouched down in my seat.

"Mel, it is high time you broke things off with Seven. If you want to make it easier, just tell him you can't be with someone whose parents can't spell."

I dumped my story-stealing boyfriend and she left Seven puzzling over the true pronunciation of his name.

And here we are all these years later.

I haven't seen Mel since my own baby shower in 2002. And now I'm headed to hers.

I can't believe I'm saying this, but Odessa, here I come. Just slide that bloody Mary down the bar.

And don't touch my purse.