Thursday, December 23, 2010

The Husband and I: Doing Our Part to Spread Holiday Cheer. No, Christmas Cheer. Kwanza?

After going on a tour of Christmas lights last night, the husband and I launched into an in depth conversation on the meaning of Christmas. Or something.

Me: Have you noticed lately how offended people are when you say Happy Holidays?  They respond with MERRY. CHRISTMAS.  It makes me not want to say anything.  Like sometimes I say Happy Holidays because I mean Christmas and New Years.  And besides Christmas is a holiday.

The husband: If someone says Merry Christmas when you say Happy Holidays you should be like: oh you’re one of those people.  And they’ll be like: one of what people?

Me: What’s even better is when someone says they like something and you say: you look like the kinda person who would like that.

The husband: For an entire week any time anyone says they like something we should respond with: you look like the kinda person who would like that.  And they’d say: what do you mean.  And we would say: You’re a little paranoid aren’t you?

Me: Or we could inhale sharply, like when you suck the air between your teeth, and say: Ohhh…  And walk away.

The husband:  I like chicken fingers.  Ohhh, you look like someone who likes chicken fingers.  We’d be creating mass amounts of paranoia.

Me: If someone says MERRY. CHRISTMAS. when I say Happy Holidays, I’m going to say HAPPY. HOLIDAYS.

The husband: MERRY! CHRISTMAS!

Me: HAPPY!! HOLIDAYS!!

The husband: MERRY!!! CHRISTMAS!!!

Me: HAPPY!!!! HOLIDAYS!!!!

The husband:  Happy Chanukah

Me:  Happy Kwanza.  What the heck is Kwanza?  Does anyone even celebrate it?

Me: Do they celebrate Christmas in China?

The husband: No.

Me: What?!

The husband: no

Me: WHAT?!!!  Why not?

The husband: Because they’re not Christian.

Me: So?  Christmas so become so secular.  So many people celebrate it without celebrating the true meaning.

The husband: Well maybe they put up winter decorations.

Me: What does Merry Merry mean?  People say it but I don’t know why.  I don’t know what it means but I said it an email yesterday.  Merry Merry!

The husband: People are so worried about offending people by saying Christmas that they say Merry Merry?  If someone said Happy Chanukah to me, I’d say Happy Chanukah back.

Me: No.  I think they just say it.  Like for people you see a lot and get tired of saying the same thing.  Merry Christmas.  Merry Christmas.  Merry Christmas.  So they say Merry Merry.

The husband: Oh. Weird.

That’s pretty much where it ended, which isn’t a very good ending.

So…then an evil troll pounced on our car and declared Christmas was canceled.  The husband and I jumped out of the car and I said, "no one messes with my favorite holiday."  And the troll said, "Ohhh, you're one of those people."  And I was all HAPPY HOLIDAYS!  HAPPY HOLIDAYS!!  HAPPY HOLIDAYS!!!  And the troll did this obnoxious little jig on the hood of our car.  Because, apparently?  He's Irish.  And then the husband retrieved the gun that was secured to his back with packing tape, pointed it at the troll and said, "Yipee Kai Aye, motherf*cker," and shot the troll and Christmas was saved.

You’re welcome.

The End.

Oh, and, P.S.  MERRY. CHRISTMAS. to all!

Tuesday, December 21, 2010

Just Because I Fear Them, Doesn't Mean I Want Them to Die

People wonder why I fear you. You are small and therefore, they think, harmless. But what you lack in size and sheer force, you make up for in cunning evilness. I suppose you have targeted me because you can smell the fear. You are determined to make an example of me to the rest of humanity, to let your minions know just how powerful you are, to warn them of your eventual world domination. They aren’t buying it, but I’m getting the message loud and clear. You are determined to see me die. Your initial tactics of death by fear inducing heart attack didn’t work, so you’ve moved on to more direct methods.

Today in the stairwell when I saw you and shouted, “Dammit!” I briefly thought that maybe you were trying to help me. I have heard that an effective therapy method for those with extreme fears, is to continually expose them to that which they fear until they are no longer afraid. Maybe that’s what they are doing for me, I thought as I scurried passed you and out the door to the safety of my car.

But before I had even started the engine, it all became so clear. You. Stairs. The perfect combination for my demise. Everyone already knows stairs and I don’t mix. I fall up them; I slide down them. In fact I have almost busted my head open on the stairs of my work building no less than four times. The very stairs in which you lie in wait.

I have told my co-workers that if I ever don’t show up for work to come look for me in the stairwell. They will find me at the bottom of the stairs, limbs bent in unnatural angles and think it was an accident, the product of my lack of coordination. They will never suspect that I saw you, little ole’ you, freaked out and in an effort to claw my way through the concrete wall, tumbled down the stairs.

They will open the door for the paramedics and you will scoot out, but not before some na├»ve soul says, “Look at the cute little lizard.”

I thought saving the life of one of you brethren last week would score me some points, give me a reprieve from the death warrant you have placed on my head. But alas, there is no end to your evilness. I know this and still, when my boss returns, I will tell him about you, how you will starve or perish from the frigid temps, and together – he with a bowl and piece of cardboard, and me supervising from a safe (safe, ha!) distance – we will save your life.

Why do I do it, continue to save your life when your evil species wants nothing more than to see me die? Because I’m freakin’ Snow White, that’s why.

Animals come from near and far to be in my presence. Like that spider in my car the other night. The one terrorizing me with its dance on my dashboard, forcing me to pull over, take off my shoe and kill it.  I will be in therapy for years over that.

Just because there are creatures that I fear - like you, evil lizard - doesn't mean I want them to die, especially at the hands of me, whether intentional or accidental.

Like when the husband, some friends and I were in Costa Rica and I organized a cadre of volunteers to save a colony of starfish - mutant, alien, most likely highly poisonous starfish, but starfish none-the-less.

We were on a day retreat to Tortuga Island and in a burst of creative genius, I wrote mine and the husband's name in the sand and decorated it with strategically placed pieces of dried coral washed ashore.  The husband, ever supportive of my creative whims hauled over the largest piece of coral I had ever seen.  Seriously, it was YUGE.  Definitely larger than a breadbox, but smaller than a really large dog.

I would like to take this opportunity to digress from my story, as I usually do.  Several of my friends have recently become parents.  And as new parents usually do, they are always seeking advice on how to "be a good parent."  Luckily for them, they have me.  I am not a parent, but am somehow uniquely qualified to give "how to be a good parent" advice.

The YUGE cluster of coral that the husband brought to me was pink and black.  Which reminds me of story from my childhood.  I was a wee lass of about eight and my stepdad was going to visit his family in New York.  He told my mom and me that he was going to return with sand that he had collected on one of his travels.  This wasn't just any sand, though. It was pink sand.  I'm sure you can imagine how utterly exciting PINK sand is to an eight year little girl whose entire room is painted in the upset-stomach/nausea/diarrhea remedying color. 

My excitement over the next several days could not be contained.  As my mom and I waited at the gate, I thought I was going to pee my pants waiting for my stepdad to emerge.  Finally he did.  He knelt down and retrieved a container from his carry-on.  He peeled back the covered, I peered inside and what did my wondering eyes behold?  Not pink sand.  Not rose, nor salmon, nor magenta, nor red, nor blush.  But black.  Black sand.  WTF, stepdad?  Seriously.  W.  T.  F.

Which leads me to my advice: parents, you want to build up insane amounts of excitement in your child and then crush it a few days later?  Promise her pink sand and deliver black.

That concludes my digression.  Back to the pink and black coral, which my husband gallantly brought to me.  And dropped in the sand.  And the thing exploded.  And a million, literally a million, black mutant alien starfish emerged along with a thousand unidentified creatures.

Perfect. We  just destroyed their home.  This was completely unacceptable to me and I made the husband help me transport all million mutant starfish to the ocean so they didn't dehydrate on the beach.  I delicately scooped sand beneath a mutant starfish, the sand providing a barrier between it's writhing spiny appendages - did I mention they were mutant? oh, and also black? - and gently placed it in the water.  The husband scooped up a handful and flung them at the ocean.

"What is the point of saving them from dehydration if they are going to die from a traumatic brain injury when they hit the water!"  I cried.

The husband: eye roll

Me: Go away. Stop helping.

I continued placing the mutant starfish in the ocean one by one, and soon a small crowd formed and everyone began helping me.  I closely monitored them to make sure they were all adhering to the appropriate transporting procedure while hoping that no one got stung by the surely deathly poisonous appendages of mutant alien starfish.  I of course couldn't tell my altruistic group that there was a very good possibility they would be poisoned to death.  They might stop helping.

That's how much I care about animals. I'm willing to sacrifice my life and that of others, apparently, in order to save them, whether evil lizards or mutant aliens.

So dear lizard in the stairwell, go torture someone else will ya?  Clearly I am on your side.  I'll even help you when your plan for world domination is complete.  As long as you promise to never send one of your siblings to crawl up my pants again.  All bets are off then.

Oh, and also.  I'm sorry I forgot to ask my boss to save you. If you survive tonight in the stairwell, I promise I'll have him rescue you first thing in the morning.  I'm so sorry you have to spend the night on the cold concrete. I really am.  My night will be miserable as I worry about you.

But if you think about it, you kinda deserve it.  You were trying to kill me after all.

Thursday, December 16, 2010

We Wish You a Tacky Christmas

Sometimes the only thing left to do is traipse around a golf course at 12:00 in the a.m. (that's midnight for those of you who get confused by the whole 12:00 a.m./p.m. thing. For those of you who say "no one gets confused by that, everyone knows 12:00 a.m. is midnight and 12:00 p.m. is noon, duh" to you I say you are wrong.  There is at least one person on this planet who does not know the difference and is therefore convinced everyone else wallows in the quarry of confusion that is 12:00 a.m./p.m.  This is also the same person who says "ironical" and doesn't know how to find a 10% increase and thinks he invented the phrase "it's what's on the inside that counts.") with 11 other people, all of whom - you included - look like  escapees from the state insane asylum.  I mean, honestly, what else is there to do after cheese balls have been consumed, 20 questions have been played and a Christmas gift of human hair has been opened?  Wandering around a golf course in pitch black with the threat of death by alligator consumption or serial killer like a scene from a horror/science fiction movie hybrid gone horribly wrong seemed like the next logical course of action.

Confused yet?  You're not alone.

How does a tacky Christmas sweater party turn into a night of Geo Caching and the re-emergence of a disease eradicated years ago?  I can't really give you the answer to that other than to say, It. Happened.

The night started off normal enough: gold lame pants (there's supposed to be a little accent thingy above the e in lame, as in la-may pants not lame pants, because gold la-may pants may be a lot of things, but lame they are not), candy cane ties, feetie pajamas, black tutus and a FUPA.  In short, it was the annual Tack Sweater Party hosted by the Stootzmans (name has been changed to protect the innocent).  The concept is simple, really.  Wear the tackiest Christmas sweater/outfit you can find, bring a dish to the party, drink some punch that tastes way too good to have alcohol in it - but it does  - parade your tacky self in front of the crowd to be judged (because honestly, who doesn't like to be judged at a party?), vote on the tackiest dresser who is awarded a prize, participate in a white elephant gift exchange, hang out awhile with friends, take a group photo, the end.  Except it wasn't the end, and the whole group photo thing never happened.

I wore a cream colored knee length dress and brown knee high boots.  Doesn't sound too tacky, right?  Did I mention the long sleeved bronze and gold la-may flowered upper portion of the dress with pinkish pearls running up the arms and down the back?  My look floundered somewhere between creepy American Girl doll and Norman Bates' mother.  The husband wore green trousers -  because "trousers" are way more fun than "pants"- a sparkly gold "vest" aka lady's sleeveless blouse, and completed the look with a grayish/blueish jacket flecked with red and green...flecks.

Together we were really quite dashing, but sadly we did not win the coveted tacky schweata fashion parade prize.  That went to gold la-mayed pants Tina (again, name changed to protect the tackiest).  She completed her outfit with a red (tacky) sweater, red scrunchy socks and tennis shoes.  She looked like a Christmas obsessed aerobics instructor from the eighties.  She really was quite deserving of the award.  In fact, I voted for her, which I only  mention because I always like to take some degree of credit for other people's success.

The fashion parade was shortly followed by the white elephant gift exchange in which the husband and I did not participate because I forgot to bring a gift.  And by "forgot" I mean, intentionally did not bring a gift because white elephant gift exchanges cause me extreme amounts of anxiety.
 

I spent the first half of the exchange trying to convince my friend who gifted a giant tub of cheese balls to end up with the balls so I could eat them.  She did.  Because, seriously?  She's one of the greatest friends ever.  And a tub of cheese balls?  Greatest. Gift. Ever.  I spent the second half of the exchange shoveling cheese balls into my mouth, until someone picked up a gift bag, reached inside and pulled out what could have been a kitten.  But it wasn't.  It was hair.  Human hair.  From the heads of two of the party-goers.  Who had shaved their heads that day and thought their hair would make the perfect gift.  Some may find that weird, or gross even, but actually?  Genius.  I mean really, what else are you supposed to do with your hair once you've separated it from you body?

Someone received the game 20 Questions, which is a battery operated device the size of golf ball, as their gift and a group of us spent the better part of an hour trying to stump it.  After it had guessed everything we'd thought of, we became convinced it could hear us so we used sign language to decide on our next word.

I would like to say that a group of girls thinking a battery operated device had the ability to hear and a gift of hair were the weirdest things that happened that night, but I would be lying.

Bring on the geo-caching.

What's geo-caching?  It's kinda like a scavenger hunt.  You go to some website and get some coordinates which you enter into your phone or GPS or something and follow the coordinates to find an object and then you write your name down on piece of paper that has the names of all the other people that found the object and then you feel like you're a part of something special and your life is complete.  Or something like that.  I don't honestly know.  If you really want to know what geo-caching is, Google it.  Or Yahoo-it.  I recommend Yahoo.  It's way more betterer.

I first heard about geo-caching from a friend who hiked around in the woods and up mountains and across streams to find "the object", whatever "the object" may be and got bit by a spider and almost died.  The husband has absolutely no recollection of the deathly spider bite, so it's possible I just imagined the whole thing.  But probably not.  A 2009 report by the U.S. Department of Health reported - because that's what reports do, report things - that the third leading cause of death in the United States is geo-caching.

It's entirely possible that I just made that up.  Do we even have a U.S. Department of Health?

The second time I heard about geo-caching was at the party. Drue (spelling of name was changed to protect the identity of the geo-cacher from Muggles.  What?  You thought Muggles was just a Harry Potter reference? WRONG!  A Muggle is someone that has no idea what the hay a geo-cacher is doing when in the midst of caching and therefore the cacher must cease and desist caching until Muggles are gone.  At least that is what Drue told us.  I am starting to think he was just f*cking with us.) was extolling his geo-caching adventures with much gusto and enthusiasm. The interest of the group was piqued and there was much jubilation when Drue announced there was a cache just .3 miles away from our location.  Why, we could walk to it!

And that's exactly what a dozen of us did.

And it was an epic fail.

Because the cache was in another neighborhood. Surrounded by a canal.  Which half of the group knew was there. But that did not deter Drue.  So we walked along the road, through a golf course, behind a maintenance shed - where a crazy serial killer surely lived - and along a canal - surely filled with alligators.  We brought along a camera to document our death, I mean our adventure, and used the flash to provide intermittent light.

We all agreed we shouldn't split up, because that's how people die in horror movies.  And there was certainly no way anyone was going to sneak off and have sex or the nymphos would be permanently joined together by a stake through their chests.  We debated whether Tina in her gold la-may pants would be the first to die or the only to survive.  We laughed at our wit and from our drunkeness and blindly followed Drue.  And we STAYED TOGETHER.  Until Tina said she didn't know how to work the camera and I decided to stop and take a look.  "It probably doesn't have anything to focus on," I said.  I took the camera from her and she posed - a fingers at the lips, brow furrowed, worry-eyed, poor frightened girl look.  I snapped the photo, we had a look on the screen, and the rest of group was gone.  We had been separated.

And then we were cut in half by chainsaws.

Just kidding.

This is a Christmas story.

We reunited with the group and all made it back to the Stootzman's where we piled into two vehicles to drive to the geo-cache location because once this group of tacky sweater lovin partiers sets its mind to something, there is absolutely no detering us.

On the drive, Drue decides to share a story to distract us from our overwhelming excited anticipation of finding the cache.

Drue: I went to Tallahasee.  I played beer pong.  I got Shingles.

The rest of us: Insane amounts of laughter.

Drue: It's not funny.  The medicine costs $180 a pill.

The rest of us: Insane amounts of laughter and mocking the rest of the night.

Here's a tip you may want to keep in your back pocket, just in case: if you ever feel compelled to share a story in which you contract a disease that no longer exists, do not tell it to a bunch of drunk, delirious idiots on a geo-caching adventure in the middle of the night.  You're not going to get much sympathy.

The husband: Of all the things you could have said after I went to Tallahasee.  I played beer pong.  I got Shingles would have been last thing I would have guessed.

The rest of us: insane amounts of laughter.

Boy #1: I got drunk, maybe.

The rest of us: insane amounts of laughter.

Drue: It's not funny.  It was incredibly painful.

Boy #2: I would have guessed Aids before Shingles.

The rest of us: insane amounts of laughter.

Drue: I was so sick I actually drove myself to the doctor, which I hate.

Boy #1: So, what's Polio like?

Drue: I got Shingles, not Polio!

The rest of us: insane amounts of laughter.

The laughter and mocking ceased only because we arrived at our location: An island of palm trees, pebbles and an electrical meter in the middle of a round-about.  Our clue to finding "the object": it doesn't belong.

The twelve of us parade around and amongst the island, kicking up pebbles, feeling up palm trees and dismantling the meter whilst repeating, "what doesn't belong?"

What doesn't belong?  How about 12 fashion challenged assholes dancing around a round-about in 40 degree weather at 1:30 in the morning?  This occured to no one but the husband who kept the thought to himself, like his own private joke.

Prepare yourselves for what I am about to say next.

We didn't find "it."  Shocking, I know.

Does that mean the party's over?

No!

On to the next location!

Let's get tetanus as we molest a guard rail or perhaps we'll get electrocuted as we deflower this electrical pole.  We're only four feet away now! No, eighteen. Now, six inches away. It should be right here!  Nope, eight feet away!

Needless to say, we didn't find "it."

Three strikes and we were out.

Dejected but still jolly - it is Christmas, after all - we piled back into our vehicles and drove away.  Sometimes the only thing left to do is gather up your white elephant gift - oh wait, you didn't get one because you didn't bring one...because you have The Issues - hug the hostess good-bye, and go home.

Tuesday, November 16, 2010

Tis the Season

There are so many things I love about the holidays.  Christmas music, decorating, yummy food, getting together with family and friends.  But I think what I love most of all is how it brings out the absolute best in all of us.  Example, the other night I was in Target browsing their Christmas items and I overheard the most delightful thing:

Mother to her daughter: Well I guess we'll get this tree.  Even though it's f*cking retarded.

There really is nothing like the holidays.

Thursday, November 4, 2010

Sister Wives. To Take or Not To Take?

Have you guys seen that show on TLC?  Sister Wives?  It's about a polygamist family.  Kody is the douchey charming husband, who by the looks of his hair, sticks his fingers in light sockets on the daily.  He has three wives, Meri, the Pregnant One and the Other one.  He's about to take another wife, well technically he's already taken her.  No not that way, because that would be wrong.  Wait, actually yes in that way, but not before getting married in a ceremony that doesn't legally make them married, but really is just an excuse for Kody to eat cake.

And the Pregnant One is no longer pregnant, because she truely gave birth.  Unless you watch the show you probably missed the double entandre and think I incorrectly spelled truly.  But I didn't. Cuz the baby's name is Truely.  I think.  Well, I know it's named Truely, but I think it's with an e-y.  I don't know why, maybe I saw it somewhere or dreamt it or maybe I am the Pregnant One who is actually no longer pregnant.

Wow ya'll (by the way, I loathe the word ya'll.  Every time someone says it, I want to stab them in the ear with a golf pencil) I just wrote an entire paragraph about absolutely nothing. Truely I did. I don't think you're aware of just how much talent that requires. And how many beers.

When I started this blog, I said (to the voices in my head) that I would never write about controversial issues like politics and religion and homosexuality and women who wear too-tight pants with regular non-thong underwear and the underwear digs into their butt making them look they have four butts - stop it, it's not okay!  My blog was supposed to be a place for me to perfect my craft - mission accomplished, clearly - and have people read it without me wanting to stab them in the eyes with a golf pencil before they can finish for fear The Judgment and The Criticism and the OMG This Girl Is An Idiot Who Needs To Learn How too two To Spell.

Although I have opinions on all of these issues, I was never going to express them in my blog because this is a place of love and happiness and acceptance and way too many shout outs to food.

But just so you know. Politics aren't about taxes or immigration or married men who speak out against the gays but solicit sex in airport bathrooms.  It's not about right wing conservatives or the liberal left.  And it's certainly not about the Tea Party, because seriously, what the hell does tea have to do with anything much less politics? Unless you're having an actual tea party, then tea pretty has everything to do with it.

But I digress.

You know why it isn't about any of these things?  Because politics don't even exist.  Politics are like when your cat walks into the room, sits down and starts moving his eyes around the room like he's watching something, but there' s nothing there and then suddenly he lunges at the wall, looks around like what the hell just happened and then leaves the room like nothing happened.  And then you're like the hell?  That's what politics are.  A whole bunch of shit that looks like it's happening and you're kinda scared, like maybe there's a ghost in the room, and you're like I'm going to do something about it,  so you go vote and then maybe the people you voted for get elected, and maybe they don't, and you're filled with a mixture of extreme terror that the person you didn't vote for is going to f*ck up the country and extreme optimism that the person you did vote for is going to make everything better and declare Fridays  to be National Miniature Candy day and a little fairy will come deliver bite sized snickers and Reeses to your doorstep.  But, in fact, nothing happens and so you just walk away and everyone around you is still worried there's a ghost in the room.

Which is why voting is the biggest waste of time, unless you it gets you out of work.  Then it's totally worth it.  And also?  Free stickers.  A word of caution.  You can't jump back in line or go to another voting place and vote again to receive another sticker.  That's called a felony.  You will go to jail and not only do they not give you more stickers when you go to jail, they take the one you already have.  Which is why I don't vote.  (To my sexy lawyer friend who claims he reads my blog, but never leaves a comment, ya have anything you want to say?  Anything?  Really?  Nothing?  You don't care that I don't vote?  That I'm not even registered?)

Okay fine, I do vote (except for that one time that we're never going to talk about ever ever again).  But when I end up in jail and get my sticker taken away, I'm blaming you. And Peter Pan.  But mostly you.

As I was saying, I don't talk about controversial issues, because there is too much judgment involved.  And this is a non-judgmental blog.  So let's all keep that in mind as I provide wife number one, Meri, with some (non-judgmental) advice.

Really, Meri?  You're jealous your husband is taking another wife?

Really? You're sad that the time he spends courting her takes time away from you?

Really? You're oh-so-weepy because now he occupies your bed only every fourth night?

Really?  You're feeling insecure that she's the newer younger model?

I'm sorry.  I don't mean to be sarcastic.  Your feelings are completely valid.  Any woman in your shoes would feel the same way.  Lucky for you, I think I've come up with a solution to rid you of the sadness and jealousy and insecurities.

Are you ready for it?  It's a pretty radical idea and it's probably going to blow your mind at first.  But hear me out, think about it for a few days and get back to me.  Kay?

Here it is...

DON'T LET YOUR HUSBAND HAVE MORE THAN ONE WIFE!

I'm sorry, did it sound like I was shouting?  Because I wasn't.  I'm just really really excited that I've come up with a solution to end your misery.

You want to know the greatest part?  Besides no longer having to share your husband with a bunch of other vagin... beds?  No messy divorces.  Your husband's not even legally married to the other three.  He can just walk away.  Child support's going to be a bitch though.  He has a dozen kids, give or take another dozen or so.  But you make sure he pays it.  He made those kids, he better make sure their clothed and fed and receive a good education blah blah blah.

Okay, I'm tired of talking to Meri.  That didn't sound too judgmental right?  If anything, I was helpful.  So helpful.  I don't even know the woman and I just changed her life.  I deserve a medal.  Or at least a cookie.  No!  A cupcake!  Oooooh...donuts.

I'm sorry, what was I saying?

Right.  Sister Wives.  Yeah, I'm thinking of taking one.  I know it probably seemed like I was against the whole sharing of the husband thing, but honestly, I can see how a sister wife could be useful.

Example.  A few nights ago, the husband I were going on a date.  I wore the cutest outfit in the history of ever, but couldn't decide what shoes to wear.  And not because both pairs were so adorable, but because one would have made the outfit and one would have made me look like a   fashion challenged individual.  So what do I do?  I turn to the husband for advice.  Which is a dangerous thing to do.  Because he's a boy.  And not a gay one.

I put a brown shoe on one foot and a shoe of indeterminate color on the other foot and do a flamingo dance in the mirror.  The husband watches and decides on the brown shoes. I think he has made the right choice, but I would appreciate a second opinion.  That of a woman.  Which is where the sister wife would come in.  But I suppose if she agreed with the husband I would suspect that they were conspiring to make me look like an ass and then later were going to talk about me when they were together.  In bed.  After they...you know.  Which is why she would not be allowed to sleep with the husband.

She also can't be prettier than me.  But she can't be ugly either, because that's just a bad reflection on me and the husband.  She would also be expected clean up after me and do my laundry.  Ooh, and have dinner ready when I got home.

Basically she'd be more like a maid with fashion sense.

Any takers?  I'll dress up like a fairy and pay you in miniature candy bars.

Wednesday, October 27, 2010

Phoenix

Last night the husband and I went to a concert in a city an hour and a half from where we live.

I know.  A concert in another city on a week-night.  We are one crazy couple.  How does one prepare for such a concert in which you are mildly interested and your husband is dying to see.  Well, after you rush home from work to get ready as fast as possible and your husband tries to restrain himself from asking you "ready?"..."ready?"..."ready?" because he knows that it not only makes you move slower, but makes you feel like stabbing someone, you eat a snack in the car and listen to the band you are about to see until you decide all the songs sound the same and you don't want to listen to them anymore so you tell the husband to turn them off and then you go to sleep.

I woke up when we were five minutes away.  The husband was ready to sprint across the looooong parking lot to get to the House of Blues, but I made him slow down because my (sensible) shoes would not allow me to walk that fast.  Once we went through security check, my first order of business was to pee, find a place to sit, get some food.  Honestly, sometimes I don't know if I'm more of an eighty-year old woman or a two year old child.

There were no empty seats to speak of, so the husband and I found a railing to lean against.  I held our spots while he went off to find food.  He returned with chicken fingers, pizza, a bottled coca-cola for me and a beer for him.  I spent the next five minutes trying to upcap my soda then passed it to the husband who was also unsuccessful due to a broken finger that is possibly now more brokener.  (Do you think, that since my ulitimate dream is to be a published author, I shouldn't use words like more brokener?)

I went to the bar to ask for assistance with my bottle.  As I was waiting, a guy with a VIP tag came up to the bar, looks at me, wiggled his fingers, leaned over and said in a high pitched voice used for children under the age of seven, "hi."  I retorted, via my eyes, "screw you asshole.  I'm not a child, I'm a grown-ass wom..."

"Can I help you?" asked the bartender.

I handed her my coca-cola.  "Can you open this for me?"

She did.

Touche, wiggly fingered high-pitched guy.

A few minutes later the stage was filled with fog and people screamed.  With excitement.  But they should have been screaming in terror.  Like I was.  Clearly they don't know the dangers of fog.  Like when you're on the dance floor of a club at your friend's bachelorette party and they turn on a strobe light and fill the dance floor with fog and everyone around you loses their damn mind with excitement.  And you are filled with absolute terror, you're heart starts accelerating, you can't breathe and you can't get the hell off the floor because you can't see.  So you close your eyes and grab onto your friends until all returns to normal.  Except there is a very good possibility that when you open your eyes you won't be clutching your friend, but a seventy-eight year guy in a trucker hat who looks like the troll from the billy goats crossing the bridge story.

After the fog cleared, the lights on the stage dimmed and started to flicker. The screaming of the crowd intensified.  One person's scream to the left of me could be heard above all others.  "AAAAAAAAAA."  This continued, and continued, and they did not take a breath. "AAAAAAAAAA."  No breath.  I started to wonder if it was even a person making that sound.  No one can go that long without taking a breath.  "AAAAAAAAAAAAAAA."  I asked the husband, "is that a person?"  He says, "yes."  The scream continued.  No breath.

That's when I suspected someone slipped me drugs.   Because the sound was starting to make me panic.  I began looking around for the source.  I was convinced it was an equipment mal-function.  I was waiting for someone to do something.  Make the noise stop.  But it didn't.  And no one else seemed to notice.  I started to wonder if it was just in my head.  Like when you're in a room that's totally silent and you hear a high-pitched ringing in your head.

I was ready to bolt to the bathroom and hide, when finally the band came on stage and the "AAAAAAAAAA" stopped.  All I could see were their silhouttes and the one guitar player wore tight pants and had shaggy hair and reminded me of Hugh Grant's roommate in Notting Hill which made me feel kinda giddy because I felt like I was just transported to Britain.  But the band is actually from France, which made me feel completely disoriented, but it could have just been the drugs.

The band, which was Phoenix by the way, played my three favorite songs first, in order, which was totally awesome.  But then I didn't really know any songs for the next hour.  So I amused myself by watching the girl in front of me dance.  She was blonde and reminded me of my friend Juli.  She grinded on the bald guy in front her - who I was certain was actually a blow-up doll bodyguard until he clapped his hands at the very end of the concert -except it was more like bobbing because Juli would never grind.

Ha!  Yes she would!  Juli is the best girl to go to clubs with because she will totally grind with you on the dance floor, or, if need be, stand on the floor and spot you while your drunk ass dances on the bar at your bachelorette party.  Theoretically speaking, of course.

This girl reminded me so much of Juli that I was becoming convinced that it actually was Juli.  Then I remembered Juli dyed her hair brown so it couldn't be her.  And then I died a little.

Unless...Phillip, do you know where your wife was last night?  If she went missing for a few hours and returned with blonde hair then she was most definitely bop-grinding on a bald blow-up doll bodyguard guy whose hands were either remote-controlled to clap or he was actually a real person.

To get over my heart-break of the Juli look alike not actually being Juli, I looked up at the stage and was immediately cheered up.  In fact, I started cracking up.  The other guitar guy had his guitar slung around his back while he played the keyboard, and the neck of his guitar hung between his legs...like a penis.

I was thoroughly amused by this and then the husband leans over and says, "that keyboard player looks like..."

And I start shaking my head vigorously because I know he's going to say something about the guitar penis, and I think, THIS is why I married that man."

"...he's straight out of the eighties."

I was crestfallen.  "I thought you were going to say something about his penis."  The husband gives me a look which either meant I was disturbed or he didn't hear me.  We returned our attention back to the band.  The husband was rocking-out, which means he was standing and holding a beer, while I totally lost it, because now the guitar/keyboard player has shifted and the guitar was hanging further down his back, making the neck, aka penis, slap his leg.

At this point I realized I must blog about this situation.  I frantically searched my purse for something to write with.  My mom gave me a little notebook for my birthday for situations such as this, but of couse, I switched purses and didn't have it.  There was a paper menu on the railing next to me.  I wrested it from beneath on old guy's elbow and began scribbling furiously in the dark.

By the time I looked up again, the stage was covered in a sheet and the band was nowhere to be seen, but there was five minutes of a wap wap wap sound, like that of a bird caught in a ceiling fan, and the crowd was cheering like they liked this, which they totally did not, because honestly?  It was freaking annoying.

Finally the band started to perform again.  Non-Juli continuted bopping, and I periodically got all up in the biznas of the old guy next to me when I would lean over to catch a glimpse of the lead singer, who was blocked from my view by a large column.

At one point the music started slowing way down, until all that was left was the beat of the drum which was going so slow I thought it was going to stop my heart.  Why did I think that, you ask?  I don't know.  Maybe it's because of the same reason I once told the husband not to leave tile in the bed of his truck in case someone steals it and uses it to kill someone and the victim's family sues the husband.

Issues.  The reason is issues. 

Later in the concert, everyone started clapping, but I stopped my feet.  Because I'm a trendsetter.  For the last two songs, the band went down into the crowd and the lead singer sat on a stool and serenaded us.  Everyone loved the song, but I couldn't understand a word other than "twenty-one" and when, I thought, he said, "six, six, six, six, six, six."  But that made me uncomfortable so I pretended he was saying, "sex, sex, sex, sex, sex." 

After that song the lead singer said, "I want to sing More Than Friends for you," and the crowd started going nuts.  I got excited and said to the husband,
"do I know that one?"

"Something in French?" he said.

"Oh.  He's going to sing something in French?"

The husband: nod.

Yeah, needless to say, I didn't know it.

After that, the concert was over.

But wait...The Encore!  A song I knew.  Yeaaaaaaahhhhh!  I bop-grinded like non-Juli.

As the last note was sung and the last chord was struck, the place suddenly smelled like a Vegas hotel.  But one that was built 60 years ago, had seen way too much excess and debauchery in dark corners and smelled of stale smoke and bodily fluids.

It was the perfect ending.


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Guess what Internets?  I have a new follower.  Let's welcome Mary Erin!  Mary Erin your award will be coming soon.  It may or may not have something to do with the night in college that you were going out with your roommates and one of them threw gatorade in your face and you washed your face and reapplied your make-up, but only on one eye...and didn't realize it until we had all gotten back from the club.

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As usual, all typos in this story were totally intentional.

Thursday, October 14, 2010

My Love Affair with Food

Do I still have followers?  I'm pretty sure the number one rule of blogging is to not let eons of time pass between posts.  But it's not my fault.  I've been a criminal on the run, dealing with the fact that I invented The Facebook (I know.  It surprised me too.), getting lost in a town the size of shoe box and drowning in dressing and bacon.  Clearly there was no time left for blogging.

I should probably address each one of these separately so that I have something to write about for a few days.  We'll see what happens...

Let's deal with the dressing and bacon, because food completes me.

I'm in love.  With the new guy at my favorite deli.  And it's not because of his adorable boyish smile.  It's because he knows how to make a salad.  My kind of salad.

For the last month and a half the deli has been closed, which has been absolutely devastating to me, partially because I've had to go without their yummy food, but mainly because I hate envy people who can close down their store/shop/business for a month and go on a fabulous vacation.  I don't actually know that's why the deli was closed, I'm just assuming.  It's possible they closed because of some horrible personal tragedy, which is exactly why you shouldn't compare your life to others and be thankful for what you have.  That's my advice for the day.  Give thanks.

The person who used to make the salads was the cute lady who would mix all of my selected ingredients together, toss it in my selected dressing and yum!  Except that I always wanted more dressing...and more bacon.  She probably thought oh this is just the right amount of dressing and bacon for this little girl.  She couldn't possible want more than this.  But guess what?  I totally did.  But, of course, I never said anything, because hello fatty. 

But adorable new boy?  He could either sense the desperate dressing, bacon, dressing, bacon, dressing, bacon vibes emanating from my being, or he could just tell I'm the kinda girl who likes to super-size her dressing and bacon.  Whatever the case, it was amazing; hence being in love, hearts, rainbows and sunshine.  But not in love, hearts, rainbows, and sunshine, I want to marry you kind of way, because hello he's twelve. Okay, he's actually probably eighteen or twenty even, but when you're as old as I am, (late twenties) anyone under 22 seems like a baby to you.  Also, I'm already married and polygamy isn't really my thing.   My point is I'm in love, hearts, rainbows, sunshine, he can toss my salad any day.  Uhh...you know what I mean. And I don't mean that.

Talking about bacon and dressing reminds of that time I tried to get a cupcake after work.  I never told you that story did I?  I think I started writing about it and then just never posted it.  Hold on.  Lemme check.

Yep, I did start writing it, and guess what?  It. Is. Awesome.  Except I never finished it and only have a vague recollection of how it ended.  So I'll post it and just make the rest up.

Cupcakes Are Assholes.  So is 7-Eleven.  And also, Moe’s.

Today at work I was daydreaming about cupcakes, which is not all that unusual except that it was actually work related.  I know.  How awesome is my job that I get to talk about cupcakes?  (Honestly?  Not that awesome.)

There is a store in town that makes to-die-for cupcakes, and after talking about cupcakes with my boss, obtaining a to-die-for cupcake became the single most important thing on my mind. 

It was a race against the clock.  Finish work, call husband to say I am leaving work to drive to friend’s house to pick up cell phone, husband starts talking about something, interrupt husband and say, “honey, can we talk about that later, I need to get to the cupcake place before they close,” leave the office, take a pee and fly down the stairs like a spaz, tell myself to calm the eff down - me and stairs don’t work out so well under normal, non spastic situations, and I’m pretty sure acting like a schizophrenic squirrel on crack while trying to attempt what most people have mastered by the age of three, is asking for trouble– fly out of the stairwell, start to run toward my car, but see people in the parking lot, decide to not embarrass myself, and walk like a normal person. 

While I’m walking I contemplate running, because while it may be embarrassing to sprint toward my car as if seeking cover from an impending asteroid attack (note, I’m pretty sure your car will not save you from an asteroid attack.  Asteroid are assholes.  They’re probably going to kill you no matter where you seek shelter. Unless you’re the lead actor in one of those end of the world disaster movies.), it makes for a more interesting blog story if I trip over my own feet and eat shit in the parking lot in front of an audience.  That is the state of confliction I live in these days: trying to avoid situations in which I make a complete ass of myself because oh-my-gosh-how-embarrassing and hoping to end up in situations in which I make a complete ass of myself because oh-my-gosh-this-would-make-a-totally-good-post.

I get in the car and check the clock.  It says I have eight minutes left until the little cupcake shop closes and I am denied an explosion of awesomeness in my mouth (get your mind out of the gutter you dirty whores) and all my dreams are crushed.

As I’m driving out of the parking lot I remember I have no cash. There is no way I’m paying for one cupcake with a credit card.  As I sit at the light and contemplate methods of suicide, I think I can’t put ONE cupcake on a credit card, but I could put TEN.  See that, my friends?  Those be some stellar problem solving skills.  I should work for NASA like Gary Sinese in Apollo 13 where he brings the astronauts home on a toaster or maybe it was a coffee maker or maybe it was on the power it takes to run one of those things.  I can’t remember because some asshole broke into my house and stole my VHS.  And by ‘some asshole broke into my house and stole it’ I mean I most likely lost it.  And I have been devastated. Because Apollo 13 is one of my favorite movies.  Because I can relate to the superior intelligence of astronauts.  On a side note, I think I should rename this post The One Where Everything’s an Asshole.  In related news, I think I have adult ADD. 

Yeah, so I’m going to pretend I didn’t just go off on a tangent about toasters and the space program and pick up where I left off.  If you don’t remember what I was talking about, it’s probably because you have adult ADD.  You should go to a doctor.  They’ll give you medicine for that shit, which you can sell for Anthropologie dresses.  That’s my way of saying I would have posted this fabulous piece of awesomeness earlier but I spent the last hour drooling over Anthropologie dresses online and lamenting over the fact that I can’t freaking afford the 8-10 dresses I just absolutely have to have, so uh, you should totally go by them for me.  Kay?  Thx.

So…anyway… before I can make the right turn on the highway to cupcake heaven, the ever-diminishing part of me that doesn’t want to become a huge fat blob, overrules the ever growing part of me that screams CUPCAKE GOOD, MUST HAVE NOW and I remain at the light.

And then my brain screams CHANGE!  CHANGE! CHECK YOUR PURSE FOR CHANGE!  So I do, and find quarter after quarter after quarter in the disgusting depths of my purse that I’m pretty sure is lined with mouse ashes, or maybe just a crumbled cookie – but seriously it’s probably mouse ashes because I’ve already emptied my purse of the crumbled cookie, like, four times and yet the crumb/ashes are still there.  Ipso facto, mice keep crawling into my purse looking for cookie crumbs, can’t find any, can’t find their way out, and die.

This story is weird.

After I unearth ten pounds of quarters – did I mention these to-die-for cupcakes are also the most expensive freaking cupcakes on the planet? – I look at the clock.  There is only six minutes until the store closes.  Which means they are probably already closed.  Because the people who run the cupcake shop are assholes.  (Okay, they’re actually not assholes, but I’ve got a theme going here.)

 I’ll spare you the details of my fantasies of obtaining-free-cupcakes-because-it’s-the-end-of-the-day-and-surely-they’re-just-going-to-throw-them-out-anyway-so-they-might- as-well-give-them-to-me on the twenty miles over the speed limit drive to the cupcake shop, and just tell you that, of course, they were effing closed.

The story would end here (you’re totally hoping it would), but cupcakes are assholes and they set off a chain of assholey events.

I go to the 7-11 to get gas and water.  While I’m pumping the gas, the evil cupcakes remind me of my other favorite thing in the whole world.  Donuts.  Seven-eleven sells donuts.  I go inside to buy my water and tell myself not to look at the donuts.  That even though they say they are delivered fresh each day, they are actually sitting in a rat infested back room and are full of lard and all kinds of disgusting evilness. 

I give myself mad props for ignoring the evil tempting donuts and head straight to the water cooler thingy. 

And then 7-11 became an asshole.  Probably because I wouldn’t buy their rat-turd lard- filled donuts.

I grab a bottle of Zephryhills.  Not cold.  I reach for one further in the back.  Not cold.  As I reach for the one further in the back my arm brushes a bottle of 7-11 water.  Freaking freezing. 

Touche 7-11, I won’t by your heart attack inducing donuts so you get me with your super cold toilet water.  I am a sucker for cold water. I can’t resist.  I grab a bottle and go up to the counter.  And do you know what they have up there?  Do you have any idea what they have on the counter? 

Go ahead.  Guess.  You’ll never get it. Here, I’ll count to three so you have time to guess, and then I’ll tell you.

One.

Two.

Three.

Big Gulp Cups. 

Filled. 

With. 

Donut. 

Holes. 

Are you effing kidding me 7-11?  What’s the one thing I love more than donuts?  Donut Holes. 

My hands tremble as I retrieve my change.  I do not let my eyes wander back to the donut filled Big Gulp.  I bolt out the door, run to my car sans donut holes and unscrew my water. I tell myself that this water is no different than Zephryhills and Disani and Aquafina.  I tell myself it’s not moldy full of lard toilet water from the 7-11 bathroom.  (It’s pretty much a requirement that all food things sold at 7-11 be injected with lard.)  But as I drink it, I dry heave.

I am drinking toilet water and 7-11 is an asshole.




So that's where the story ended and I don't remember all the details of the rest, but here is what I do know...

After retrieving my phone from my friend's house I go to Moe's and everyone's all "Welcome to MOES!" which I totally hate, because it makes me feel all awkward.  Should I say hi?  Thanks?  I'm pretty sure the welcome is rhetorical and they're not looking for a response, which just makes it seem so in-genuine and the exact opposite of welcoming, which makes me wonder if that's the point.  Like they don't want you to feel welcome because they hate their jobs and they just want you to leave.  But without customers they don't get paid which seems like a really bad business practice, but when the hell do I know?  I'm just a girl trying to get a freaking cupcake.  Or in this case, a burrito.

Next, I remember there was a dad balancing  his can-barely-stand-on-his-own-two-feet-toddler on a two inch beam and I had to turn away so I didn't a.) scream what the hell kind of parent are you? and b.) see the kid's head split open when he tumbled to the ground.  Hey idiot dad, if you're reading this, you should teach your child how to walk when he's on the ground, not on a two inch beam four feet of the ground.  Honestly, you should have to pass a test and obtain a license to be a parent.

The Moe's employee takes my order.  "Two Joey's," I say.  The employee's eyes widen.  "Two?"

Yes, asshole.  Two.  I want two effing burritos.  Have you ever heard of someone ordering food to bring home to someone else?

Seriously, can you imagine what it's like to be that guy's boyfriend?  You want a soup and salad?  A burger and fries?  Cheerios and milk?

We get it dude, you have a small penis.  Stop trying to distract us from that fact by talking about how much food I eat, you're only making your inferior penis size more obvious.

Perhaps you think it's way harsh of me to accuse this guy of having a small wiener just because he asked if I wanted two Joey's (in case you've never been to Moe's a Joey is a burrito.  It's actually called a Joey Bag Of Donuts, which is totally misleading because they do not stuff a donut inside a burrito.  False Advertising if you ask me.) but let's remember I didn't get my to-die-for cupcake and am therefore completely justified in anything I say or do No Matter What.  Never mess with a girl who was denied her cupcake.
 
I think that's enough for now.  I'll talk about inventing The Facebook, being a criminal and getting lost later, so stay tuned.

And THANK YOU to Tab, Kins, and Juli for commenting on my last post. Your comments complete me.  Even more than food.  Definitely more than cupcakes.  And don't worry that I haven't friend requested you yet.  I have created my The Facebook page yet.  I've attempted to five times now, but I never get further than my name before I end up rocking myself in the corner.

Thursday, September 23, 2010

The Facebook

I think the time has come for me to get my own facebook page.  For those not aware, my current facebook page is the husband's facebook page.  Well technically his page is my page.  We're not one of those couples with a combined page, like Mr. and Mrs. Sarcasm Goddess.  No, his page just says Mr. Sarcasm Goddess, except that it doesn't say that all, it says his name, Mark W.

Those of you who've read my I Don't Get Technology post are probably all what!  You're getting a facebook page?!  I thought you were against it and didn't get it.  And to you all I say, yes you are right.  But after the latest facebook disaster, I think it is an absolute necessity and yes, it is going to be one hot mess.

What was the latest disaster?, you ask.  Well, let's just say the husband and I were watching The Shawshank Redemption. (Okay, time out.  Have you guys seen The Shawshank Redemption?  Worst. Movie. Ever.  You're probably like, no.  It's such a good movie.  I love that movie.  Yeah, that's what I thought too.  Until I watched it.  Again.  I watched it one time a long time ago and ever since I've been like, it's such a good movie.  I love that movie.  But apparently I had blocked out the bad parts.  Can we say insane amounts of prison rape and beating?  The prison rape and beating isn't graphically shown, but it happens.  A lot. For years.  And it made me sick.  For days.  To those of you all pissed because you've never seen TSR, and you think I just spoiled the movie, RELAX.  I didn't.  It's a movie that takes place in prison.  Of course there's going to be raping and beating.  And now you're probably all if you knew there was going to be prison rape and beating, then why were you so upset?  And to that I say, don't question me.  And also. It was disturbing.)

Time in.  So the husband and I were watching the worst  movie ever when his phone starts beeping like a kitchen timer.  Which can only mean one thing.  People are leaving a message/commenting/whatever-it-is-you-do-on-facebook on Mark W's wall.  I think it's called a wall.  I'm not really sure, because remember I DON'T GET THE FACEBOOK.  So then he starts telling me what people are saying and I start to freak the freak out and run to the computer.  The comments weren't bad or inappropriate or anything.  They were actually very nice and I LOVED them.  They just needed to be removed immediately.  Which made me feel horrible, because these super awesome ladies are my friends and they were doing something that I beg people to do on the daily and now I had to remove what they said and send them a private message to NEVER DO IT AGAIN.  (I know it would probably make more sense if I explained what they said and why I was so freaked out, but it's just better if I don't.  If I did it would probably cause the world to implode or something, and I'm already incredibly stressed out and I just can't deal with that guilt.)  So I sent my super awesome friends, that I love so much, a private message and then removed their comment, which forever removed them from my wall, which I totally did not want.  Which led to more freaking the freak out.  It was finally all resolved but I'm pretty sure I broke Mark W's page forever.  It just hasn't seemed to operate properly since the incident.

I'm kinda sad to be leaving the husband's facebook page.  Somewhere Green Day's "Good Riddance (Time of Your Life)" is playing to a slideshow of all the great times we've had there.  Tear.  It really is the end of an era.  I'm not going to shut down his page, because, memories (and because I've heard once you create a facebook page, you have it for, like, ever.  Remember that, you slutty teenage girls).  I think I'll turn his page into The Husband and Sarcasm Goddess facebook page, only with our real names.

One person who's really going to be sad I'm getting my own page is the husband.  He just loved it when I was him on The Facebook, especially when I sent all my girl friends (not girlfriends, I'm not a lesbian Patrick.  Quick! Name that movie!) a martini bumper sticker that said Girls Night Out.  Or after returning from a fabulous Las Vegas trip with the fabulous McL's, I sent my friend Ashleigh a chip-n-dales bumper sticker with the message "next time we're there."  Only instead of sending it to Ashleigh McL. I sent it to her husband Adam McL. because in my list of friends, and in the alphabet, Adam comes before Ashleigh and because Adam's profile picture was what Ashleigh's used to be, and oops.  So what appeared to The Facebook world went something like this: Mark W. sent Adam McL. a chip-n-dales bumper sticker with the message "next time we're there."  Yes, yes, I quickly realized my mistake and there was loud gasping, coughing, sputtering, clutching of the chest and hysterical-spewing-up-a-lung laughing from me, while the husband shouts "what did you do!"  But really, honey it's okay, cuz everyone knows it's me on The Facebook.

But apparently not everyone knows it's me on The Facebook, because recently it was Adam McL's b-day and I said Happy Birthday! complete with the exclamation mark and jazz hands.  And he responded "thanks bro" so either Adam thinks I'm a dude or he thinks Mark W. gets really excited about his bros' birthdays.

Yes, I'm going to miss all the good times.  Like when Mark W. told Kinsley he loved her dress or when Mark W. told Tabitha, right after she had a baby, that he hopes her vag will be feeling better and back and action soon.  Don't worry, that was sent over the private message thingy.  I didn't check with the husband, but I'm pretty sure he would have lost his s.h.i.t. had I posted that for all the world to see.  He's so uptight.

Anyhoudini, be on the lookout for my page.  And if I friend request you, you better accept or I will develop all kinds of issues.  More than the ones I already have.  If you friend request me and I don't accept right away, don't take it personal.  I'm pretty facebooktarded and sometimes it takes me awhile to realize what's going on.  But if it takes me more than awhile, then you should take it personal because it probably means I don't like you.  I kid.  I love you.  I really do.  So let's be bff's on The Facebook and we'll have good times.  Not as good as the times we had on the husband's page, but we'll do our best...Just Kidding!  We'll totally have way more fun on my page!  See you there!

Thursday, September 16, 2010

This Story Really Isn't All That Interesting and You Should Only Read It If You are Feeding Your Baby at 4 a.m., are bored at work, or someone is holding a gun to your head forcing you to read this

Please pardon the title.  I got tired of capitalizing the first letter of each word. 

I couldn't be more lazy if I tried.

Today I ordered a chicken bacon ranch sub, with a side of ranch, from Dominos.  (And I wonder why I'm gaining weight.)

I walked into Dominos and told the Dominos Dude I was picking up an order for Kelley.

Dominos Dude: Shelley?

Me: Kelley

Dominos Dude: Shelley?

Me: Sure.

Dominos Dude: Oops.  I wrote down Shelley.  Wait...did you order a sub?

Me: Yes.

Dominos Dude: I have an order for a Shelley and a Kelley.

Me: Oh, it was probably my twin.  Well, technically, she's not my twin.  When I was little I had a friend who looked a lot like me and we used to pretend we were twins.  She would say her name was Kelley and I would say my name is Shelley.  Which means you were right when you called me Shelley.  How'd you do that?  Oh my gosh, do you think the Shelley who placed an order is my long lost twin who technically wasn't my twin, just a friend who looked a lot like me?  I should stick around until she shows up to see if it's her.  But I guess if it was her she would have said her name was Kelley.  Unless she did and that's why you kept saying my name is Shelley.  Shelley's kind of a weird name, don't you think.  I mean, it has the word shell in it.  Shells are something you collect at the beach.  You can't just throw an "e.y.", or a "y,", or an "i," or an "i.e." at the end of it and call it a name.  That'd be like someone looking at the sand and saying "you know what would make a good name?  Sandy."  Wait, that actually is a good name.  Okay, it'd be like someone naming their kid Beachy or Oceany.  Those are horrible names.  Um, unless your mom or your sister or your mother or your wife is named either one of those.  Then they're totally awesome names.  You're not going to spit in my sub are you?

The Dominos Dude said nothing.  Possibly becasue that entire soliloquy happened in my head.

Why do I feel the need to share these things?

I Don't Want To Be His Mother, But Sometimes, There's No Other Way (Updated)

This posted has been updated to remove information that the husband has deemed too personal to share with the world.  My bad.  I should have checked with him first before posting.  Sorry, husband.


Tonight the husband decided to do battle with our dog Cody.  By "do battle" I mean Cody was in his psychotic frenzied mood in which, if you even get in his general vicinity, he will freaking cut you.  Seriously, his nails are like razor blades.  You feel the slice, you look down but don't see anything.  A few minutes later blood is dripping down your leg.  When Cody gets in his frenzied psychotic mood, the husband likes to egg him on by lunging at him and pushing him as he jumps in the air.

Tonight's psychotic frenzy took place in the garage.  "I'm anticipating some new scars," I said.  Sure enough a few seconds later, the husband had blood dripping down his leg.

Of course, being a typical boy he did nothing about the blood and let it crust to his leg.

Then, as we were in the bathroom getting ready for bed, this happened:

Me: You need to clean that so you don't get flesh eating bacteria and they have to amputate your leg.  I'm pretty sure I won't be with you any more if you have an amputated leg.

The husband grabs a towel and walks to the sink.

Me: No! Don't use a towel!

The husband: Well then how am I supposed to clean it?

Me, pointing to the shower: Get in there and use soap and water and clean it.

The husband gets in the shower and I start brushing my teeth.

Me: Are you using soap?

The husband: Yes, mom.

Me: What soap?

The husband holds up the bar soap.

Me: Oh, the soap that's been sitting on the shower floor?

Something happens next that I cannot reveal, but let's just say that it is typical boy behavior.

Me: What is wrong with you?  This is so going on my blog.

More stuff happens that makes the husband say: You're treating me like a child.

Me: Because you're...

The husband: What, I'm acting like one?

Me: Blood is dripping down your leg.

The husband reaches for a towel again.

Me: No!  I don't want blood all over the towel.  And that one's not even clean.  Do what you do when you cut your face shaving and stick toilet paper to it.

The husband does as I say then walks out of the bathroom with the bloody tissue.

Me: Where are you going with that? Don't throw it in that trashcan or the dogs will get it out because there's blood on it.

The husband sits on the edge of the bed and begins dabbing at the blood: I wasn't finished.  Jeez, you're so bossy.

Me: I'm sorry for caring about your bloody cut.

The husband: Cunt?

THE. END.



Tuesday, September 14, 2010

Celebrate Good Times

Sorry I've been MIA for awhile.  I've been high.  From excitement.

Drum roll please...............

........................................

........................................

I have a new follower!  Which means I have fifteen followers!!  Woo to the Hoo!

Let's all welcome Sandy to the circle of awesomeness.

Welcome Sandy.  I and my followers hereby dub you awesome.

Here is your award:


No, not that box, you perverts.

Her cornhole box. 

No, cornhole is not code for some other hole on her body.  Cornhole is an actual box that people try to throw their bean bags in.

No, bean bags is not code for some male body part.  What is wrong with you people?

Cornhole is a game you play when tailgating.  It is an actual wooden box that has a hole in it that people try to throw bean filled bags in to.  You get one point for landing your bag on the box and three points for getting it in.  (Thanks to the Jersey Shore, that is pretty much the dirtiest thing I've ever said.  If you don't know what I'm talking about you are missing out on some high quality TV.)

Just to clarify, Sandy one time broke her cornhole box.  Her actual box is intact.  I assume.  I don't know for sure because I haven't seen it.  I mean, we're friends and all, but boundaries, people.

So um, welcome Sandy and thanks for following.  I'm sorry I talked about your box.  My readers are dirty pervy whores who made me do it.  Please don't unfollow me.

On a somewhat related note.  You know how when you're trying to type a letter or a memo or create an envelope or something like that in Word and that stupid paperclip comes up and tries to help you?  That thing is so annoying.



Friday, September 10, 2010

Conversations With The Husband

Me: My coworker told me how he and his wife start each day.  It's so nice.

The husband: How?

Me: Whoever gets up first makes the coffee, then they both drink it in bed and talk about what they're going to do that day and any big plans they have for the week.  Isn't that a great way to start your day?

The husband: Yeah, I'll try that tomorrow.  I'll bring you the coffee and you'll smack it in my face.  You'll dump it in my lap and say "how's your day going?"

************************************************************
A few weeks ago the husband and I went to a Japanese restaurant for some yummy sushi.

The husband: I feel like why is Chinese food so much better than Japanese food?

The husband: I meant Chi- Japanese is better.

Me: I feel like why is it better.  What does that even mean?

The husband: I meant why is Chinese food...

The husband: sigh

The husband: Why is Japanese food so much better than Chinese food?

Me: I think that's a matter of opinion.

Later when we are leaving the restaurant and selecting peppermints from the giant bowl of mints and candy they have by the front door, I gasp and point to some fortune cookies in the bowl.

The husband: What?

Me: That's not right.

The husband: What?  Fortune cookies at a Chinese rest-  Dammit!

Wednesday, September 8, 2010

Someone's Getting Stabbed

This post started out as marriage advice; however, this is the third time I'm attempting to write this because my computer is a douche and decided to shut down for no other reason than being douchey, so now I'm feeling stabby and this post will still contain marriage advice but probably also a whole bunch of other crap that I, in no way, take responsibility for.

So here goes the marriage advice.  Did you know that 86% of marriages that end in divorce do so because of mixed signals?  I'm not entirely sure that that figure is accurate or if that statistic actually exists.  It's highly possible that I just made it up.  But statistics make people sound more credible - according to an article in Cosmo that said 93% of people take advice more seriously if that advice contains facts and figures.

Just kidding.  Cosmo doesn't have articles like that.  Their articles are all about sex.  Like the top 5 things NOT to do to get your man in the mood:

5. Punch him in the testicles
4. Light his nipples on fire
3. Laugh at the size of his penis
2. Tell him you fantasize about his brother
1. Say, "are you sure it's hard?"

Really Cosmo?  Did we really need an article to tell us that punching our man in the balls will not assist in achieving an optimum sexual experience?

But lighting nipples on fire?  You obviously didn't include the husband in your survey, because that totally turns him on.

Okay, fine.  He totally hated it that time I tried and now I'm banned from using lighters.  Which means all the candles in my house are purely decorative now.  Thanks a lot Cosmo.

As I was saying, mixed signals in a marriage can lead to divorce.

Example:

The wife who tells the husband, "sure honey, go out and drink with your friends while I clean house from top to bottom getting it ready for your mother's impending visit."  And the husband's like, "are you sure you don't need my help?"  And the wife says, "do whatever you want honey."  And the idiot husband goes out and has drinks with the guys.  And when he gets home he's ambushed by his wife who stabs him in the kneecap with a broken broomstick.

That's a classic case of mixed signals.  Well, technically it's a classic case of mixed signals.  But it's more the case of the husband being a total moron.  Here's a tip guys: if your woman says do whatever you want, DON'T DO IT.  What she really means is, if you do what you want I will stab you in the kneecap.

I feel the need to point out that this example was purely an example.  Not a description of a situation that has actually happened to me and the husband.  He would never leave the cleaning of the whole house for an impending mother-in-law visit entirely to me.  He actually does his fair share of cleaning and is quite good at it.

So, that was just an example.  And not a very good one.  The following, however, is a very real life example of mixed signals the husband and I recently had.

Road trips with the husband are super fun, but also mildly frustrating.  He likes to listen to talk radio.  I like to listen to music.  I usually win because I pitch a fit until I get my way the husband is nice; however, deciding on what type of music to listen is like trying to cure cancer, accomplish world peace, insert your own cliche here.

Recently we traveled to Gainesville to see the boys of old Florida fumble a whole bunch of snaps (I love you Gators, but really?  Really? Fumbling snaps?  You're breaking my heart. Also, Steve A-douche-io, you suck.).  The husband was working the radio controls.  He scrolls through the stations and stops on pure crap.

Me (after what is probably only 5 seconds but feels like 50): Really?

The husband: You don't like this?  I was just going to leave it here until you told me you were going to stab me in the throat if I don't change the channel.

He changes the channel.  "I'm in the mood to listen to rap music."

The husband is almost never in the mood to listen to rap music.  Usually car rides go like this:
       Me: Rap music yay!  Salt Shaker. Get Low.  Miss New Booty.  Miss New Booty again.  And again.  Yay for new booties.  This song is great. 
       The husband: Have you seen my gun?

The husband scrolls through the rap stations and stops on a song talking about french fries or some such nonsense.

Me: French fries?  Really?  This song is dumb.

The husband: Not all rap songs are about bitches and hoes f*cking.

Me: N*gg*s and hoes, honey.  It's n*gg*s and hoes that f*ck.

Stoopid rap song:  French fries. French fries. Blah blah blah.  Girl I'm gonna eat your french fries.

Me: Please change this.

The husband: Kelley, I don't know any of the latest rap songs because I always change the channel.  Now, let's listen.

Me: I'm going to stab you in the throat.

The husband changes the channel.  He continues to scroll and finds not one decent song.  Seriously XM radio, you have like 5,000 stations.  Can't you devote at least one of them to music that doesn't make me want to bash my head through a wall.

The husband stops on a song.  Apparently he likes it.  It sucks.  I try to wait it out.  The suckage continues.  Finally I can take it no longer and I explode.  "Change this right now!!  I can't take it!!! AAAAAAA!!!"

The husband: You think you can tell me to change the channel a little sooner, you know, before the frustration builds and you explode?

Hello? Can we say mixed signals?  Apparently threatening to stab him in the throat is okay, but raising my voice is bad.

Now, there's some marriage advice for you.  If your spouse if frustrating you, resort to physical violence.  But don't, under any circumstances, talk in a slightly elevated voice.

Somehow marriage advice about avoiding mixed signals turned into advice on how to communicate or resolve conflict or get your way or something like that.  Which makes me think I'm not so good at this marriage advice thing.  Also, I think I just said it was okay to stab your spouse.  It's totally not okay to stab your spouse.  You shouldn't do that.  That's probably the best advice I've ever given.

Thursday, September 2, 2010

Forces of Evil

Last night, all the forces of evil collided.

It started with the truck.  Did I tell you the husband got a truck?  A month or two, or six ago.  I'm not really sure.  I'm trying to block its existence from my mind.

Don't get me wrong, it's a nice truck and all, but a new truck equals car payment.  Something neither the husband nor I have ever had.  A car payment means I can no longer spend four hundred dollars a month at Ann Taylor we can't afford our mortgage.

I mean, technically we can afford our mortgage, in that we still pay it every month, but the point is, car payments suck.

But he had to get a new truck when he left his job to start his own company, which, oh so conveniently coincided with the World Cup.  What luck that he suddenly works from home, where there just happens to be a TV, which just happens to show hours upon hours of men running up and down a field in the hopes that after eighty-nine point four minutes of playing someone will score a goal.  And everyone's all woo-hoo and the stadium is filled with the sound of cicadas on crack.  But at least the game is over and your team won.  Yes, there is four minutes of stoppage time, but it took eighty-nine minutes to score one goal, there is no way anyone is scoring a goal in four min-

What!

Seriously, how the hell did he do that?

Great, now the score is tied.  How long is overtime?

There is no overtime?  They end in a tie?  So basically what you're telling me is if these two teams hadn't played at all, the outcome would have been the exact same.  You're telling me if the players of these two teams spent the afternoon in their hotel rooms drinking beer and entertaining hookers it would have made absolutely no difference in their standing, because a tie's a tie, whether the score is zero zero or one one.

I'm calling shenanigans.  Can we watch a real sport now?  Like football.  No, not American football.  Just football.  With helmets and padding and big bulging men in spandex.

To summarize all that, the new truck is evil and is responsible for stupid sports.

It's also evil because I need a step ladder to get in it, my feet don't reach the floor and I have to manually adjust my seat.  The husband gets an electric adjuster that not only makes the seat go forward and back, but up and down, adjusts the lumbar support and performs magic tricks.  My seat has that metal bar underneath that you have to pull up on then shimmy your ass back and forth to move it forwards or back.  And you better make sure you hear it click in place or you'll be riding along and someone will slam on the brakes and you'll be flung to the back of the vehicle, which thankfully isn't that far because it's a truck and I don't care what people say about how big the cabin is, and how much room there is in the back.  It's a truck.  The backseat sucks.  I vowed to the husband that I will never sit in the backseat.  Ever.  We could have that truck for fifteen years and I will never step one foot back there.

So the truck was evil force number one.

Number two was our small, single-car driveway and the maniacal bushes that line it.  The husband is still learning how to is really good at parking the truck and gave me plenty of room to exit the evil truck.  And by plenty of room, I mean he pretty much parked on top of the bushes.

I open the door, free fall from the truck and miraculoulsy land on the small sliver of driveway. And there I shall stay for the rest of my life because I cannot move.  In one hand I hold my shoes - I've been wearing five inch heels all day and my knees are shot - while the other hand clings to the open door of the truck.  I can't close it, because then I will lose my balance and fall into the evil bushes.

I attempt to turn.  Enter evil force number three.  Something lands on my foot.  My bare foot.  I scream my head off, fling myself into the bushes and attempt to run, which is ridiculous becuase I'm crammed between a truck and bushes and there is no where for my feet to go.  So instead of running I just flail around like a spaz and hope the inertia of my movement will propel me out of peril.  Except doesn't inertia hold things together, like keeps the earth in orbit or something?  Or not.  I'm not a scientist.  I'm A VICTIM.

I vaguely remember the husband reaching for me, trying to steady me, trying to help.  It was pointless.  Sweet.  But pointless.

I finally free myself from the clutches of the truck and bushes.  Step on the grass - evil force number four - and run upstairs to our front door.

I am frozen in horror.  I hear cursing and muttering from the husband.  He comes to the bottom of the stairs and asks for my keys.

Me: Do you know what just happened?

The husband: I'm guessing a lizard jumped on your foot.

Me: Lizard.

The husband: Do you have your keys?  I dropped mine in the bushes and the flashlight is locked in the car.

Me, eyes wide, vacant: Lizard.

The husband: Can I have your keys?

Me drooling, crumbling to floor: Lizard.

The husband takes my keys from my purse, unlocks the truck, grabs the flashlight and journeys into the bushes to retrieve his keys.  Where he was eaten alive by lizards.

Tuesday, August 31, 2010

Well Deserved Awards

Guess wha -at?

I HAVE TWO NEW FOLLOWERS!!!

WOO HOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!

Internets, please join me in welcoming Carrie and Ashley.

Welcome ladies.  We lover you lots.  You are my favorites.  Here are your well deserved awards.

Carrie is a super cool chick, as her award reflects.



Ashley has mad interior design skills, as her award reflects.  Or not...


Seriously though, she's good at the designing of the interiors.  You should check out her blog Smitten Design.

Internets, did you know they have trophies for practically everything?

Need a trophy for superior bull riding?  Here you go.


Need one for the biggest baby?  The trophy world's got you covered.


How about one for the ass in your life?  No problem.


However, if you're in need of a bl*w j*b award, well, too bad.  They don't make those.



I'm disturbed...

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Bull rider, baby and rear end award from funnyemployeeawards.com

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Mah Book Progress: A few new pages a few days ago.

Monday, August 30, 2010

Adventures in Traveling

Strap yourselves in folks.  This is a long one.

That's what she said.

Sorry.  Couldn't help myself.

 


The husband and I love to travel.  I'm not exactly sure why.  We don't have the greatest track record.

For our honeymoon, we went to Jamaica.  We got to the airport at five in the morning for an eight o'clock flight, only to find out it was delayed due to mechanical problems, to later to find out the flight was canceled indefinitely.  "So you're never going to Jamaica?" I said.  We took turns sleeping on the floor, were herded on a bus to the Miami airport, and were solicited by swingers.  We finally boarded a plane bound for Jamaica and arrived seven hours later than we were supposed to. 

The rest of our honeymoon was pretty uneventful.  I did confuse a hot towel with an egg-roll.  I was pretty pissed about it.  We arrived at the resort and I was STARVING.  A woman came up to us with a tray of rolled things and said something that I didn't understand, you know, because they don't speak English in Jamaica.  I believed the rolled things to be egg rolls, because, what else would a resort in the Caribbean serve guests upon arrival than Chinese food?  I think I don't really like egg-rolls, but I am starving so gimme gimme.  I pick it up and guess what?  It's a hot towel.  What the hell am I supposed to do with this?

So other than a canceled flight, a confusion over egg-rolls, and oh yeah, a raging UTI, our honeymoon was amazing.

A month after our honeymoon, we traveled to Alabama for our friend's wedding.  We were once again leaving our hotel room at an ungodly hour when the husband said, "I can't find my wedding ring."  We tore the room apart.  No dice.  "We have to go," I said.  "But it's my wedding ring," the husband said.  "We'll get you a new one.  We are not missing this flight.  The tickets were $500 a piece.  Let's go."  The husband was all torn up over the fact that the symbol of our love is gone forever, but we made our flight.

P.S.  We did end up finding the ring, but flash forward three years and he loses it again.  This time is stays lost for two years and counting.  I, of course, wear both my engagement ring and wedding ring at all times.  Nothing adorns the husband's finger that shows he is a taken man.  When we go out, we like to pretend I am married to someone else and he is my lover.

Let's see, what else?  Oh yes.  There was the time we went to New Orleans.  The husband is a huge Saints fan.  HUGE.  His uncle, who lives in Louisiana, got us tickets to a game and mailed them to us.  This time we were flying out of the Orlando airport.  We were sitting in the airport, humming with excitement. Our plane was about to board when I turned to the husband and said, "Did you grab the tickets?" 

"What tickets?" he says. 

"To the game," I said.

Have you ever seen a grown man go from looking healthy and vibrant and full of life to looking like death?  I literally watched the life drain from his face.  I went into survival mode while the medics resuscitated the husband.   I called my poor mother, who lives an hour and a half away from our house, and asked her to drive to our house, get the tickets and overnight them to our friend's house in New Orleans.  She did, because she loves us way too much, but when she gets to FedEx they are closed.  So is UPS.  She drove three hours round trip for absolutely nothing.  Love you, mom!

It almost didn't matter whether we had the tickets or not, because our flight was thisclose to death.  We pretty much flew through a hurricane and I was sure our plane was going down any second.  We survived, but our friend who was picking us up from the airport, almost did not.  He hydroplaned across four lanes of traffic and crashed into some bushes.  He didn't tell us this and when we got to his car and saw that it is completely covered in leaves we said, "What'd you do?  Drive through a jungle to get here?  Har. Har." 

"No.  I almost died," he said. 

Oh. Uh, oops?

In case you're wondering, we managed to get tickets to game.  The Saints lost.

Then there was the time we got to the airport two hours early - I don't remember where we were going - and decided to eat at one of the delectable airport restaurants.  We finished eating, decided to hang out for awhile.  The next thing we know, we hear our names over the loudspeaker.  “Paging Mr. and Mrs. Dumbass.  Mr. and Mrs. Dumbass, please come to the counter.  You got to the airport two hours early. Your plane is a hundred yards away and you’re about to miss your flight.  Hurry up Mr. and Mrs. Dumbass or we’re leaving without you.  Dumbasses.”

And who can forget New Orleans part two?  We once again got tickets to the game.  But there will be no leaving them behind this time.  We checked and double checked and triple checked that we had them.  We once again flew out of Orlando, which is a good deal away from where we live.  We left the house with, what we thought,was plenty of time to catch our flight.  We stopped on the way to get some coffee, some breakfast, use the fine facilities at the Seven Eleven, take our sweet ass time.  We finally got on the road again.  Twenty minutes later, we checked the clock, did a little math, and realized there was no effing way we were making our flight.  Well, technically we'd make the flight.  But we were checking baggage.  You have to arrive forty-five minutes before departure in order to check baggage.  We arrived forty-three minutes before departure. 

For just a mere $50 per ticket (in addition to the cost of our original tickets) we caught the next flight out.

In case you're wondering, the Saints lost.  Had they won, they would have gone 14-0.  But the Dumbasses showed up and ruined their perfect season.  We are pretty much banned from the Superdome.

That leads me to the most recent traveling mishap.  Our five year anniversary to the Turks and Caicos.  This story deserves its own title.

The Wrong Side of the Airport

We have a very early flight out of Miami for our non stop flight to the Turks and Caicos.  We decide to drive to Miami the night before our flight and stay in a hotel close to the airport where we can leave our car for the week.  The husband books a room at the Days Inn.  We don't need luxury, we just need clean and convenient.  The husband says he wants to get to Miami by 11:00 p.m. so he can get a good night's sleep for our flight and the first day of our fabulous vacation.

Well, work catastrophes ensue.  I get home around eight, finish packing, drop off the dogs and we get on the road at 10:30.  Um, yeah, I'm not a rocket scientist or anything, but I'm pretty sure we aint gettin to Miami by 11:00.

Other than being tired, and getting more and more tired, the trip goes smoothly.  We arrive at the Days Inn and are confused. You could say we were Days'd and Confused. Ha.  Haha. Hahahaha.  I should do stand up.

There were cars.  And people.  Lots of cars and people.  Everywhere.  The people are hanging out by the cars.  Sitting on the trunk.  In beach chairs.   Um, Miami's version of tailgating?  Possibly.  But tailgating for what?  It's one thirty in the A.M. and they're at a hotel. 

We finally maneuver into the parking lot of the Days Inn, which looks like a retrofitted gas station with a bunch of rooms stacked on top. There is nowhere to park.  Because of all the cars.  And people.  And tailgating.  A futile conversation ensues between the husband and the security guard aka shriveled eighty year old man, in which the husband says, in English, "Where should I park?"  The security guard responds in Spanish.  The husband responds in English.  The security guard responds in Spanish sign language.  The husband:???

I tell the husband just to leave the truck in front of the lobby door, which is pretty standard protocol.  If we're wrong, well, we'll just look like we're here for the tailgating.  

It is during the where-do-I-park/what do-I-do/what-did-you-say conundrum, that we realize the reason for all the people is that the Days Inn is attached to a night club.  Duh. How could we forget that Days Inn are known for their bangin nightlife?

As the husband goes inside to check us in, I try to figure out what kind of club it is.  They offer valet parking and security, so, obviously a high-class, up-scale establishment, right?

Oh look, there are a bunch of men.  Aren't they...pretty.  And look at those clothes!  Impeccably dressed.  Ooh, those two are a little flashy.  Maybe even a little...flamboyant?  Hmm, I think those two are fighting.  Is one of them crying?

Oh, I get it.  It's a gay night club.

Wait, here come some ladies. Hmm, that's an interesting outfit.  Did she skin a leopard and hot glue its epidermis on top of hers? 

Oh look, some of them are going to stop in front of the hotel window that also serves as a mirror.  How lucky for me, sitting behind them in the truck, that I get a view of both the back and the front. 

Excuse me miss, you forgot your pants.  Oh. That's not a shirt, it's a dress?  I'm sorry.  I didn't realize.

Pardon me ma'am, but your nipples are showing.  What?  They're supposed to?  I'm so embarrassed.  I really should keep up on the latest fashion trends. 

How about I just sit here, keep my mouth shut and watch you all dig your underwear out of your butts, (honestly I'm surprised you're wearing any) fluff your hair and adjust your boobs for maximum nipple exposure. 

I'm starting to think this might not be a gay club.  Ladies, and I use that term oh-so-loosely do not spend this much time primping to attract a token gay friend.  They're here for...um...there!  Those men.  The ones who forgot their shirts.

I guess this is just your average Days Inn night club. 

Wait, is that girl with her parents?  Is it family night?  I am seriously confused.

I go into the lobby before my head explodes.

"They booked us at the wrong hotel," says the husband.  The husband is not pleased.  "I knew this was going to happen.  When I made the reservation, I confirmed with the guy at least ten times, that our reservation was at this hotel."

We get back in the truck, and before we pull away, I look through the window (that the “ladies” were using to adjust their boobs), at the stain-covered purple couch, a variety of arcade games, pin ball machines and pool table.  Cool games room, right?

WRONG!

The sign on the wall?

BUSINESS CENTER.

Sure.  Why not?

The drive to the other Days Inn Airport Hotel was just lovely.  Broken bottles curbside, sketchy characters posted up against chain link barbed wire fences, bars on windows, dilapidated buildings good for only two things: drugs and sex of the lonely perv, streetwalker variety.

Suddenly there is a loud pop and the truck wobbles, interrupting our picturesque ride.

Great, I thought.  Flat tire in the ghetto.  Bring on the robbing and raping. 

Normally there would have been much more hysteria to my thoughts: Oh my gosh!  What was that?!  We've been shot!  Aliens landed on the roof!  We ran over a dead body!  What?  Just a flat tire?  What a relief!  Wait, no.  That's even worse!  Now we'll be stranded here and we'll be robbed and raped and murdered.  Must find paper to write final note to loved ones!

But I was much too tired for that hysteria, so it was more like a very deadpan: Yay.  Flat tire.  Robbing.  Raping.  Good times.
 

The husband and I quickly realize we do not have a flat tire; we are dragging something.  Even better!  Now we get to pull into the parking lot of one of buildings of ill-repute and remove said object from vehicle.  I look around in the car for a sharp object to ward off the robbers and rapers as the husband removes the ginormous vacuum cleaner box that is lodged all up in the business of the front right tire.

We survive with minimal robbage and raping and are on our way.

"No!  No!  This is not what I wanted!  That is why I wanted the other place.  I specifically asked for the opposite of this!"  There is much yelling and fury coming from the husband as we pull into the new Days Inn.  All the doors of the hotel rooms open to the outside world, which is not exactly the safest thing, even in non-sketchy environments, but considering our surroundings, we're pretty much guaranteed some amount of rapage and stabbage to the throat.

Once again, there is no where to park.  We ask the "security guard" where to park.  I say "security guard" because in order to understand the caliber of this guy you need to imagine the dumbest person you know, cut that person's level of intelligence in half, then remove half of that person's brain.  That is the level of wherewithal we are dealing with.

The husband: Where should we park?

"Security guard": (stares at us and waits a full thirty seconds before answering.  Lest you think thirty seconds is not a long time, the next time someone asks you a question, look right into their eyes count to thirty and then answer) Uhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh

I'll spare you fifteen lines of h's as long as you understand just how long the "uhhhhhh" went on before he finally says, "you can leave it right there."  He then turns his attention back to his iphone, or blackberry or whatever it is in his hand that has him so mesmerized.

"Don't worry honey," I say, "with him on the job, we'll be okay."

The husband laughs, but not that ha ha-that-is-so-funny, kind of laugh, but that ha ha-is- this-honestly-my-life-right-now, kind of laugh.  He goes inside and I wait in the car. 

An aforementioned lonely perv and streetwalker walk by. 

Two men with slicked back hair and glittery shirts walk by.  (Can anyone tell me at what point it becomes okay for men to where glitter on their shirts.  You wear that in the fifth grade, I'm pretty sure you get beat up at recess.  But ten years later, a skin tight black shirt with a glittery serpent is perfectly acceptable attire for a walk in the ghetto at two in the morning?  What. Ever.)

A man and woman walk by.  The man carries a 32" flat screen tv on his shoulder.  Did you know Best Buy was open at two a.m.? Yeah, me neither.

The husband finally returns with one of those baggage cart thingys.  "Good news," he says, "they have rooms inside this building."  Yay!  Our chances of being raped and murdered have dropped significantly, but are probably still pretty high.  I'd say on a scale of one to ten, our chances were now a seven as opposed to a ten point infinity.  We load up the cart and I wait outside while he parks the car.

He returns a few minutes later.  There's nowhere to park.  Shocking.

I go inside and ask the "security guard" what we should do.

He says, "Uhhhh.  Did you... Uh.... Did you see..."  And then he walks away and out the front door.  I follow him out. The husband sees him, looks at me and starts pointing at him.  "Ask him," he says. 

"I did.  I think you're supposed to follow him."

The "security guard" disappears into the abyss of the parking lot and the husband follows.  I am certain he is being led into a trap of rapists and murderers.

The husband finally returns sans truck.  "There were no spots.  I parked on the side of the road.  I told him we were leaving it here for a week and asked him if that was okay.  He said we should probably move it in the morning."

I look at my watch.  "What, four hours from now they'll be tons of parking?"  I sincerely doubt this and believe our only hope for finding a spot is catching the prostitute shift change, but I'm not entirely sure when that is going to happen, so the chances of us being able to move our truck in a few short hours are less than good.

We enter the lobby and look for the elevator.  There isn't one.  We have to carry our luggage up the stairs.  What, pray tell, is the point of the baggage cart thingy if there isn't an elevator?

The husband yanks our two suitcases, each weighing fifty pounds each, and stomps up the stairs.  This is the point where my extreme exhaustion turns to extreme giddiness and I can't stop laughing.  I try to get the husband to give me my suitcase. I can pull it up the stairs.  I was a pro at doing this during my two week senior trip to Europe.

The husband won't give it to me.  I worry that he'll hurt his back.  I try to get him to pull them up the stairs.  “Don’t talk to me,” he says.  I begin maniacal laughter.  We are both beyond done.

We get to our room.  Open the door.  There are fliers for restaurants all over the floor.

There is a smell.

Imagine the smell of the absolute worse bathroom you have ever been in, gas station, rest stop, whatever.  Imagine the stale moldy urine smell.  And multiple that by a gazillion and you will still not come close to how bad our room smells.

I begin gagging and have to breathe into my sweatshirt to keep from vomiting.

The husband and I stand in the room and immediately catch four different STD's.

"We can't stay here," I say.

The husband gets a pained expression on his face.  "I'm so tired.  We only have four hours until we have to get up."

I'm not sure why but I venture into the bathroom and flip the switch.  Nothing.  There's no light.  I pull the cord in the closet.  No light.  And no iron. 

Deal.  Breaker.

"We HAVE to go.  There's no iron. Go down there and demand our money back.  They booked us at the wrong hotel.  There’s nowhere to park.  It smells like pee.  There is no electricity.  And THERE IS NO IRON."

The husband gives a heavy sigh.  He knows we can’t stay here. But he’s so tired.  We both are.  “If they won’t refund our money, don’t argue, we’ll just call the credit card company and get it taken off our bill,” I say.

We leave the room, but before we go down to the lobby we decide we should reserve a room at another hotel first.  The husband begins looking up places to stay on his iphone. A poor bedraggled girl in a fast food restaurant shirt walks by. “People live here,” I hiss.

We wait for the iphone to load.

“This a by-the-hour hotel,” I say

The husband’s eyes go wide, “It is?!”

The husband begins scrolling through the list of hotels near the Miami airport. 

“Why are we doing this in the hallway?” I say.

We go back in the room and begin gagging.  “Oh right, the smell.”

The husband sits in the chair and begins dialing.  I lean against the dresser, the place I determine to have the least amount of semen.  It’s really not a question of whether it has semen, but rather, how much; the entire room, is no doubt, covered in it.

He calls hotel after hotel after hotel.  All are booked.

Finally, he reaches the Hilton.  It’s a regional call center.  After the guy on the phone asks us our name, address, social security number, date of birth, weight, favorite ice cream and plugs our information into a complex mathematical equation, he says, “Okay, we have a room.  It doesn’t have a king bed though.  Only two fulls.”

“That’s fine, we’ll take it.”

“Okay.  Ooh, but it has a handicap bathroom.”

“Uh, sir, we are currently sitting in a pool of stale semen and our bathroom doesn’t have electricity.  A handicap bathroom will be just fine.”

We gather our stuff, only have to put up a minimal fight to get our money back, and at the instruction of the husband, RUN to our car.

“Hurry,” he says, “Come on, run.  We have to get the bags in the car as quickly as possible.”  Now in order to understand just how funny this is, you have to know the husband.  He is the calmest, most rational, never has he feathers ruffled, kind of person.  So any time he appears slightly, uh, ruffled, it is hysterical to me.

So as we are running to our car, dragging our luggage over an uneven, potholed parking lot, I am laughing hysterically, but inside I’m also slightly terrified because it’s basically like we’re wearing a sign that says please rob and stab us and leave us for dead.

We get to the car and the husband can’t get the suitcases in.  It was like one of those cheesy horror movies where the dumb girl is being chased by the crazy killer and she runs up to her house and is fumbling with her keys and she drops them and picks them up but can’t find the right one, and then finally she does, but it won’t go in the hole. 

Well that’s exactly what was happening, except the keys are luggage and the hole is the truck and instead of a killer coming after us a car is slowly driving up to us.  This is it, I think.  This is why you shouldn’t joke about being raped and stabbed and robbed and murdered, because then it will actually happen.
The car and my heart simultaneously stop.  The window rolls down. 

You know how, in the cheesy horror movie, the dumb girl stares right at the killer coming toward her and she doesn’t run? She’s frozen.  And she’s like. “Oh hai.  Are you here to kill me?  How about I make it easier for you and just stand here?”  Well that’s what I am like.  I stand there, ready for men in glittery shirts with mean tattoos to run out and take our stuff and stab us.

But, instead of killers, a man and woman are in the car.  I am too terrified to speculate whether they were a lovely couple or a lonely perv and streetwalker.

“Are you leaving?” asks the boyfriend/husband/lonely perv.

I breathe a sigh of relief and say yes.  Thankfully, the husband has gotten the luggage in the truck and we can be on our way.

The neighborhood continues to get worse.  We turn a corner and it gets a little better.  And then worse again.  We turn again.  And it’s better.  Much better.  We are on the other side of the airport.  We turn down a palm tree lit drive, and the heavens literally part and angels begin singing.

However, I am not excited yet.  We booked our reservation through a “call center.”  I’ll believe we actually have a room when they hand us a key.

We go inside the lobby.  We meet Albert.  Albert, I will forever remember.

The husband says we have a reservation.  I am ready for a fight.  I am ready to scream at Albert that the guy on the phone said we have a room.  With two full beds.  And a handicap bathroom.  But I refrain from screaming, because I’m polite like that, and thankfully, Albert says, “yes, here we are.”

He begins doing whatever it is you do when you’re checking guests into a hotel and starts chatting it up.

“How’s your night going so far?”

Me: Just peachy.

The husband: This is the third hotel we’ve been to.

Albert: Oh, did you go to the Hilton West and the Hilton Garden Inn first?

Me: Ha, I wish we had started there.  The hotel we just came from didn’t have electricity.

Albert: Oh.  Well we’ve got a great room for you.  It’s a really nice room.  You’re going to love it.

Me: If it has a bed, we’ll love it.

Albert continues solving complex equations on the computer.

Albert: When are you checking out?

The husband: Uh, in three hours.  We’re catching a flight.

Albert: Oh where you going?

The husband: Turks and Caicos. It’s our five year anniversary.

Me: So far it’s starting out just like our honeymoon.  They canceled our flight to our honeymoon.

Albert with big smile: Well we’ve got a great room for you.  It’s the Presidential Suite.

Me: Uh, huh, yeah sure.

Albert: It overlooks the Lagoon.

Me: I’m sure it does.

Albert continues to go on about how great the room is.

The husband: Are you serious?

I give the husband a look: don’t believe him.  He’s messing with us.

Albert: I love it when they unlock this room for me.

He hits some buttons on the keyboard.  “Yep, we’re at ninety percent capacity.”  He writes our room number down: 1332.

The husband and I exchange a look.  Maybe Albert isn’t bullshitting us.  If we are staying in the Presidential Suite then it would be on the top floor.  The 13th floor could be the top floor.

Albert continues to talk.  “You’re going to love this room.  It has two stories.”

Me: Are you serious?

Albert: No.

Oh well.  No Presidential Suite. Would have been cool, but who cares.  We have a room where we won’t be raped and stabbed, won’t smell like urine, and will only be mildly covered in semen, because let’s face it, all hotel rooms are covered in some amount of semen.

We go to the car, grab our bags and head to the elevator.

“Do you think he was serious?” says the husband.

“I don’t know. I didn’t think he was.  But then I did.  But then he said he was kidding.  I don’t know.”

We get in the elevator and see there are fourteen floors.

Definitely no Presidential Suite.  We don’t blame Albert for joking around with us.  He’s at work at three in the morning.  He’s allowed to have a little fun with the guests.

We get to the 13th floor, go left down a hall of dark wooden doors.  As we walk down the hallway, we see that there are no wooden doors at the end, just a big white panel of wall.

Finally we stop at room 1332.  There are double doors. 

The husband and I look at each other.

The husband inserts the key.

He opens the door.

There is a coffee table surrounded by cushy chairs.  To the left there is a sectional.  To the right there is a dining room table.  Further to the right is a kitchen.

We continue left to the business center.  One that, shockingly does not contain a pinball machine nor pool table. 

Across from the business center is a bathroom with a shower.

We continue further left to the bedroom.  King size bed.

On the other side of the bedroom is another living area.

We go into the bathroom “area.”  To the right is a walk-in shower.  For two.  With more shower heads coming out of the wall at various heights. That can be turned and manipulated in any direction to hit any part of your body.  ANY part, ladies.

To the left of the shower is a sink. And to the left of that is your “traditional” bathroom with a sink, shower, toilet, and, of course, a phone.

Um, so, yeah.  We gots the Presidential Suite. And yeah, all four of its balconies overlook the lagoon.

I immediately call the front desk and ask for Albert.

“Albert, this is really unacceptable,” I say.  “We were expecting something much  nicer.”

He laughs, “If there is anything I can do for you, just let me know.”

“Albert,” I say, “this has been a horrible night.  The hotel we were supposed to be at didn’t have our reservation, we had to pull over in the ghetto to remove a box that was lodged in our car, we gasped for air in a semen covered room and were nearly knifed on our exodus from the Cum Hotel.  We are completely and utterly exhausted.  The only thing we could possibly want right now….

…is a threesome.”

That is where I will end the story.  But let me just say it was a wild three hours before we had to leave to catch our flight.





Just.

Kidding.

But seriously, it was one of the wildest nights of our lives.

As we sank into the plush sheets of our clean bed and breathed in the urine-free air it was hard to believe that just one hour ago we were faced with the rare but coveted opportunity to curl up in a bed once enjoyed by prostitutes and drug addicts.

We were only mildly disappointed.