Lawyer Boy and I spent last weekend, Memorial "Sunburn Kick-off" Weekend, at my parents' beach house with my parents (you didn't see that coming and I know it), my sister and brother-in-law, and their two kids. The peach-and-white sand palace, appropriately named "The Beach Peach,"* lives four hours from Richmond on the Outer Banks, so LB and I tore out of work Friday afternoon so we could get home, pack nine times more clothes than we would need for a trip twice as long, and fire up the crane to hoist our Labradozer, Breeze, into the back of my Jeep.
If you've never encountered a Labradozer before, I highly recommend the breed. They're a high-energy, Cadillac-sized crossbreed of a Labrador Retriever and a bulldozer, and Breeze is really exemplary of the breed. At eleven years old -freakin' geriatric in dog years- she shows no sign of slowing down in trying to meet her goal of sniffing the crotch of every animate being in the tri-state area. We had another Lab, Amor, and she and Breeze were Bee Eff Effs in a way that made the Olsen twins look like frenemies. Three weeks ago, when Amor went to the Big Backyard In The Sky, we became worried that Breeze would slip into a deep doggie depression, so we decided to take her to the beach with us to keep her occupied. Our fears were apparently unfounded, since plenty of animate crotches still abound for Breeze to discover, and she hasn't missed a beat.
And so last Friday, an hour outside work, we had everything packed, loaded, and placated in the back of the Jeep, and we were off to show Breeze her first glimpse of the ocean!
Y'all, we got no more than thirty minutes outside Richmond before the ominousness (ominosity?) hit. We were heading through Prince George County on our way deeper into the eastern nether regions of Virginia, when we came upon a gas station so overrun with cops, squad cars leaking out of every exit and oozing across parking spaces, that we could only assume that Al Qaeda had been discovered, hunkered down over lemon chess pie in a back booth at the adjoining Stuckey's.**
In actuality, this was nothing more than a bored local police force out trying to raise funds for the annual Spring Fling by ticketing as many come-here's as possible over the holiday weekend. Guess who had been chosen in the Lottery O' Life to pay for the six trays of chicken wings doused in SHIT THAT'S HOT sauce?
As soon as we had cleared the stoplight directly in front of the gas station that had been marked for death, blue lights flashed obnoxiously in my rear view. LB and I exchanged puzzled stares. They couldn't pull me for an overdue inspection; that was current. For the first time in two years, my registration tags were actually current, so that couldn't be it. And how do you pull someone for speeding when you discovered them at a dead stop?
Dutiful, and fully huffed-up, citizen that I am, I steered the Black Sheep into the first available parking lot. The young officer, overseen by a much more senior officer riding shotgun, already had my license and registration in his hand by the time he drooled the words "liiiisnce 'n' rej'strayshin pleez." Confusion as to why I had been pulled had led me to act quickly in procuring the documents; confusion as to where he was, and what day it was, had caused him to black out the basic functions of his job.
"Ma'am," he drawled, losing points instantly for calling me ma'am when the license trapped in his sweaty palm clearly indicated that I'm all of 25. "We cawt ya on the lay-zah doin' sixty-two in a fawty-fahv. This's a fawty-fahv, heeyuh."
"What??!?!" I practically shrieked, losing all sense of manners in the heat of the moment. I am normally unreasonably nice to people I don't know, particularly anyone in a uniform. But apparently, when I feel my life and dignity are at stake, I'm a complete asshole. "Officer, I know I wasn't going that fast. Where was this?!?!?!?"
"Under th' overpass, ma'am. Th' lay-zah cawt ya at sixty-two. This's a fawty-fahv, heeyuh." Thank you, Officer Rainman. Speed limit is 45. Roger.
Several frustrated syllables that cannot be expressed within the confines of the English language hiccuped out of my mouth before I could finally sputter, "Officer, I hit the underpass right after a STOP LIGHT! This car will not get up to sixty-two that fast! It just can't! I was not going that fast!!!" And would you like one of the cookies I have in the back?
Officer Rainman shrugged noncommittally. At this point LB, ever the peoples' advocate, stepped in. "Officer, is there a chance your laser caught someone else, and you pulled my wife by mistake? I know she couldn't go that fast, right there." I noticed his Virginia Bar card casually protruding behind his driver's license.
Officer Rainman paused. I guess he was thinking; he was staring off into the distance and either counting gnats or considering LB's question. Either way, his eventual answer did not exude decisiveness. "Naw. I'be raht bayck." And off he ambled to write the first speeding ticket of my life. Do you hear me? Exactly one month, to the day, before I would have hit my ten-year anniversary of being a licensed driver with a perfect record, Officer Rainman breaks my streak. Oh, the wrath. Ohhhh, the fury!
A few minutes later, having written my ticket and eaten six chicken fingers, Rainman wandered back. He bumbled through the standard assignment-of-blame language, then decided to try small talk.
"Y'all headed to th' beach th'sweekend?" No, Officer, scenic East Jesus was our destination.
"Yes, Officer," I replied.
"Well," he drawled, visibly fighting the urge to spit. "I hope I din' ruin y'all's weeken'." No, you didn't. I just hope your wife cheats on you with Jon Gosselin, is all.
"No, Officer," I said calmly. "You're just doing your job."
"Y'all have a sayfe trip. Drahv slow!" he called out in farewell. I used my most ferocious ESP skills to beam rays of Jon Gosselin into his wife's head.
Thoroughly incensed and more ready than ever to burn the road to the beach, LB and I got back on the road. Not two miles of monitoring speed limit signs like ravenous hawks later, I saw something glistening and black in the road. It looked like a plastic bag blowing across the asphalt. All too late, I realized the plastic bag was a thick black snake, stretched so long across the road that it had sealed its own slithery fate.
"OMIGAAAAAAAAOOOOODDD!!!" I shrieked as I felt the almost undetectable bump of my wheels flattening the snake's tail. "I KILLED HIM I KILLED HIM OOOOHHHH NOOOO!!!!" I saw the poor snake's body curled up in the middle of the road, slithering no more.
I carried on like this for five minutes, thoroughly disturbed that I had killed something so violently, while LB tried unsuccessfully to convince me that the snake had felt no pain, and that if the snake had met me personally, he probably would have bitten me on the face. Hell, the way I was carrying on, I would have bitten me on the face, too.
Four hours later, we finally made it to the beach, and had a fantastic time. I'm not worried about the speeding ticket, because I'm married to Lawyer Boy. Have I mentioned he's a lawyer?
Have I mentioned he's a real estate lawyer?
Have I mentioned the fact that the only crime he could really defend me for is if I were charged with painting my house too fast?
Maybe I'll get off on a technicality. Maybe the officer won't show due to severe emotional trauma. He just found out his wife was having an affair with Jon Gosselin, is all.
*Complete with its own personal sign sporting a peach painted like a smiling woman's face, which they had to send back after it was first painted because the cleft in the peach looked indisputably like a big beachy buttcrack.
**They were only discovered when Raylene, the perennial pie-server, asked after their mamas. Rather than answering, they went back to their pie and coffee, causing Raylene to yank them straight up by their ears, at which point she realized they weren't the Jenkins boys. Ain't nobody go'n ignore Raylene, y'all.
Friday, May 29, 2009
Thursday, May 28, 2009
Tiger Beat, Chapter 3: Questicle's B.S.
Welcome back amigos, for the grand and exciting(ish) conclusion to the Tiger Beat Chronicles, wherein my baby brother gets drunk, gets his degree, and gets drunk again, in that order. Onward!
***
Saturday morning, the dawn of The Day, found the inhabitants of Questicle's apartment less than chipper and hangin' a little lower than usual. I was fully awake, all fidgety and jangly like a six-year-old on Christmas, at 7am--and unhappily so. Have you ever been awake in the single digits of the morning in a college apartment? It's like being hopelessly marooned on a desert island that some previous castaway pre-scented with beer and sorority girl pheromones. I busied myself texting LB and chugging environmentally unsound amounts of water to combat the previous night's chugging calamities, glad that I had abstained from the vodka shots that had been passed around circa 1am.
Questicle, however, had drunk deeply from the pitcher of fun the previous night, including the aforementioned vodka shots, and was not exactly en bonne forme upon the arrival of the morning star. When I finally forced him to peel himself off the sheets and consider consciousness, it became obvious that the only thing that would drag him out of The Land Before Time was a salty greasebomb and strong coffee. In other words, a bag from Bojangles.
Have you ever had Bojangles before? Broadening my search a bit, have you ever had a chicken biscuit before? Somehow, despite a lifetime spent studying the finer points of grits, red-eye gravy, and biscuits with sausage gravy, I had never had one. I was fully prepared to hand over my chicken biscuit v-card, and Macy (both tiny AND fabulous!) was well equipped to punch it for me: She knew how to get to the nearest Bojangles. So off we rode, in search of grease and enlightenment!
And what a mixed bag of victory we brought back. Win: Delicious chicken biscuits for all! Fail: Apparently Questicle wanted a bacon-egg biscuit instead of a chicken biscuit, and apparently Bojangles felt like we only deserved two of the three biscuits we gave them dollars for. My first ever chicken biscuit was actually a demi-biscuit, shared with Macy, while Questicle plowed through his biscuit and attempted to stick the straw in his Diet Coke directly into a vein. After twenty minutes and 6,000 calories, we finally felt ready to shower and mosey over to the Coliseum to watch The University bestow a B.S. on Questicle.
After getting choked up the first of six times watching Questicle process in with the rest of the class, and professors in a progression of sillier and sillier academic hats, I settled in for a graduation ceremony longer than Elton John's career. Clemson has a charming dedication to allowing each and every university graduate the opportunity to shake the hand of the president of the university himself, before snagging his diploma in front of 20,000 of his closest friends. I, for one, would much prefer if the president would make house calls to give out these handshakes, since watching him glad-hand 1,099 graduates, in addition to the one I personally showed up for was, to say the least: boring, mind-numbing, excruciating, tedious, leaden, exhausting, drool-inducing, and in summary, enough to make me (and everyone else in the arena) wish that I could voluntarily slip into a deep, dark coma.
I tried everything to stay focused. I gave up. I tried everything to stay awake. I gave up. I experimented in trying to sleep with my eyes open. I became concerned that if I were able to accomplish such a feat, gnats would land on my eyeballs. I eventually became bored enough to stop caring, only to discover that I am not capable of sleeping with my eyes open, gnats or no gnats.
Finally, at long last, Questicle mounted and crossed the stage to shake the hand of the president of the university. He later said that when he got there, he was smiling so big that the president said to him, grasping his hand, "It feels good, doesn't it?" Questicle grinned even bigger and replied, "yes sir, it does!"
Damn, little Questicle, I'm so proud of you I'm tearing up even now. How awesome! But, if I may request, please don't graduate again. I seriously can't sit through another Festival of REM Sleep.
After three more hours, much more unnecessary academic hoopla, and the conferring of degrees on people I don't care that I don't know, we were released again into the wild. Mom and Dad had brought a giant amount of pork barbecue and all the fixins for a dinner at Questicle's apartment, so we headed back to celebrate, making a pit stop for beer. Macy and I, dazed and hungry from camping out in the arena for four hours, made the mistake of going into the grocery store with Questicle, and we stumbled deliriously upon the chip aisle. We set upon it like buzzards on a dead lamb, eventually dragging six different bags of random-ass chips, including one made with real live olives, out of the store behind us.
What? Going comatose burns calories!
Back at Questicle's apartment we ravaged the chips and food that Mom and Dad had brought, oggling Questicle's diploma and working hard to ensure that no barbecue survived the night. Questicle and Macy were gearing up for another vodka-infused pong-fest, and were lobbying hard for me to stay another night so I could smack more of their friends' faces with stanky pong-balls. Everyone loves the party girl!
Ultimately, because I am old, lame, and nowhere close to as cool as you undoubtedly think I am, I decided to spend the night on the floor of Mom and Dad's hotel room, where I fell asleep at 10:15 watching Dr. Gregory House harass his staff into solving another epic medical mystery. I wished I could have partied another night with the Questicle crowd, but as the responsible older child, I knew I had to be back at work bright and early Monday morning.
***
Thanks for tuning in for the conclusion of the Tiger Beat Chronicles! Now I can start telling you all of the other words that have been rumbling around my head while I tried to stop procrastinating and just finish the stupid Tiger Beat Chronicles, dammit. Tomorrow. I will tell you tomorrow.
***
Saturday morning, the dawn of The Day, found the inhabitants of Questicle's apartment less than chipper and hangin' a little lower than usual. I was fully awake, all fidgety and jangly like a six-year-old on Christmas, at 7am--and unhappily so. Have you ever been awake in the single digits of the morning in a college apartment? It's like being hopelessly marooned on a desert island that some previous castaway pre-scented with beer and sorority girl pheromones. I busied myself texting LB and chugging environmentally unsound amounts of water to combat the previous night's chugging calamities, glad that I had abstained from the vodka shots that had been passed around circa 1am.
Questicle, however, had drunk deeply from the pitcher of fun the previous night, including the aforementioned vodka shots, and was not exactly en bonne forme upon the arrival of the morning star. When I finally forced him to peel himself off the sheets and consider consciousness, it became obvious that the only thing that would drag him out of The Land Before Time was a salty greasebomb and strong coffee. In other words, a bag from Bojangles.
Have you ever had Bojangles before? Broadening my search a bit, have you ever had a chicken biscuit before? Somehow, despite a lifetime spent studying the finer points of grits, red-eye gravy, and biscuits with sausage gravy, I had never had one. I was fully prepared to hand over my chicken biscuit v-card, and Macy (both tiny AND fabulous!) was well equipped to punch it for me: She knew how to get to the nearest Bojangles. So off we rode, in search of grease and enlightenment!
And what a mixed bag of victory we brought back. Win: Delicious chicken biscuits for all! Fail: Apparently Questicle wanted a bacon-egg biscuit instead of a chicken biscuit, and apparently Bojangles felt like we only deserved two of the three biscuits we gave them dollars for. My first ever chicken biscuit was actually a demi-biscuit, shared with Macy, while Questicle plowed through his biscuit and attempted to stick the straw in his Diet Coke directly into a vein. After twenty minutes and 6,000 calories, we finally felt ready to shower and mosey over to the Coliseum to watch The University bestow a B.S. on Questicle.
After getting choked up the first of six times watching Questicle process in with the rest of the class, and professors in a progression of sillier and sillier academic hats, I settled in for a graduation ceremony longer than Elton John's career. Clemson has a charming dedication to allowing each and every university graduate the opportunity to shake the hand of the president of the university himself, before snagging his diploma in front of 20,000 of his closest friends. I, for one, would much prefer if the president would make house calls to give out these handshakes, since watching him glad-hand 1,099 graduates, in addition to the one I personally showed up for was, to say the least: boring, mind-numbing, excruciating, tedious, leaden, exhausting, drool-inducing, and in summary, enough to make me (and everyone else in the arena) wish that I could voluntarily slip into a deep, dark coma.
I tried everything to stay focused. I gave up. I tried everything to stay awake. I gave up. I experimented in trying to sleep with my eyes open. I became concerned that if I were able to accomplish such a feat, gnats would land on my eyeballs. I eventually became bored enough to stop caring, only to discover that I am not capable of sleeping with my eyes open, gnats or no gnats.
Finally, at long last, Questicle mounted and crossed the stage to shake the hand of the president of the university. He later said that when he got there, he was smiling so big that the president said to him, grasping his hand, "It feels good, doesn't it?" Questicle grinned even bigger and replied, "yes sir, it does!"
Damn, little Questicle, I'm so proud of you I'm tearing up even now. How awesome! But, if I may request, please don't graduate again. I seriously can't sit through another Festival of REM Sleep.
After three more hours, much more unnecessary academic hoopla, and the conferring of degrees on people I don't care that I don't know, we were released again into the wild. Mom and Dad had brought a giant amount of pork barbecue and all the fixins for a dinner at Questicle's apartment, so we headed back to celebrate, making a pit stop for beer. Macy and I, dazed and hungry from camping out in the arena for four hours, made the mistake of going into the grocery store with Questicle, and we stumbled deliriously upon the chip aisle. We set upon it like buzzards on a dead lamb, eventually dragging six different bags of random-ass chips, including one made with real live olives, out of the store behind us.
What? Going comatose burns calories!
Back at Questicle's apartment we ravaged the chips and food that Mom and Dad had brought, oggling Questicle's diploma and working hard to ensure that no barbecue survived the night. Questicle and Macy were gearing up for another vodka-infused pong-fest, and were lobbying hard for me to stay another night so I could smack more of their friends' faces with stanky pong-balls. Everyone loves the party girl!
Ultimately, because I am old, lame, and nowhere close to as cool as you undoubtedly think I am, I decided to spend the night on the floor of Mom and Dad's hotel room, where I fell asleep at 10:15 watching Dr. Gregory House harass his staff into solving another epic medical mystery. I wished I could have partied another night with the Questicle crowd, but as the responsible older child, I knew I had to be back at work bright and early Monday morning.
***
Thanks for tuning in for the conclusion of the Tiger Beat Chronicles! Now I can start telling you all of the other words that have been rumbling around my head while I tried to stop procrastinating and just finish the stupid Tiger Beat Chronicles, dammit. Tomorrow. I will tell you tomorrow.
Wednesday, May 27, 2009
Ways To Get Fired, #76
Often the attorneys will leave files for me when I'm not in my office. They place them on my chair so that I can't ignore them--or so they think, until they come in and I'm teetering on top of six pending files, perched like Grandma atop phone books in the driver's seat.
"What? I didn't see anything in my inbox!"
Anyway, the files often come with love notes placed lovingly atop them, and they are usually limited to two-word tags of affection: "See me."
I so very desperately want to write below that, "OK," and leave the files in their chairs when they're not there.
"What? I saw you. I saw you leave for lunch."
"What? I didn't see anything in my inbox!"
Anyway, the files often come with love notes placed lovingly atop them, and they are usually limited to two-word tags of affection: "See me."
I so very desperately want to write below that, "OK," and leave the files in their chairs when they're not there.
"What? I saw you. I saw you leave for lunch."
Wednesday, May 20, 2009
Tiger Beat, Chapter 2: Let Me See That Pong
Welcome back, amigos, and thank you for opting, possibly against your will, to come back after the last chapter's epic Ode to T-Bell! Today's installment of the Tiger Beat Chronicles promises to be at least that exciting, and hopefully less nauseating.
***
After seven and a half hours of Donna Summer-themed ear rape and several verbal assaults from the haughty GPS madam who became i-freakin-rate when we turned off the prescribed Yellow Brick Road to stop for gas, Mom and I cruised into Clemson, Scarolina, home to the Clemson Tigers, Death Valley, and more Bojangles chicky-huts than I have pairs of shoes.*
We dressed for dinner and met Questicle and his girlfriend Macy, who is both tiny and fabulous, for dinner at a restaurant called The Blue Heron. Since Clemson is a small-town college joint, and since it was being invaded by at least 20,000 proud parents that weekend, we had set the bar for food pretty low, expecting glorified bar food served by mumbling waiters in restaurants crammed with t-shirt-wearin' rednecks whose crowning glory was their NASCAR belt buckles with real light-up parts. Like Applebee's with a side of cheese grits and indignity.
All my regular snarkasm aside, oh my dear Lord, The Blue Heron was one of the single best meals that I, or anyone else at the table, had ever had. And we, a group of die hard foodies, are a hard sell. At the end of the meal, my dad actually wanted to summon the chef to our table so we could (I am not making this up) give him a standing ovation. The thought of this mortal humiliation horrified me in a way that could only be eclipsed by my dad trying to give the DJ at the "Rainforest Romance" middle-school dance a standing O for his really bitchin' remix of the Macarena.
Fortunately for my reputation, the chef was busy, either cooking for other patrons or laughing so hard at the suggestion that he peed his balsamic reduction-stained pants.
After dinner Mom and Dad headed back to their hotel, and I headed to Questicle's apartment to pretend I was a college student before I would eventually crash for the evening on my air mattress in Questicle's spare bedroom. In honor of the solemn commencement rituals of the weekend, Questicle and his roommate had invited everyone they knew to show up with shitty beer and belly up to the spray-painted majesty of the plywood beer pong table that crowned their apartment.
When I was in college I was terrible at beer pong, in the same way that I'm terrible at any sport that involves throwing things, unless it's throwing bullshit at my boss, a game at which I am the office Michael Phelps. Pong always annoyed me because I was so bad that I never made it past the preliminary rounds, and it seemed vaguely inadvisable to drink beer that had just incubated a ball that had been on the floor, in peoples' hands, and in some rare and special cases, in their mouths, which had in turn usually been on, or in, the mouths of other party-goers.
Don't even try to tell me there is enough alcohol in beer to bulldoze that germ jungle.
But since I'm out of college and therefore Magic At Life, I decided I would show the students how it's really done before the night was over. While I waited for my turn at the table, I mingled with the graduates. I told Macy how much I love her, repeatedly and with the emphasis that can only be conveyed after four vodka lemonades. I bonded with Questicle, laughing about the ridiculous things we did when we were kids/last week. And in one of the greatest moments of the evening, I met my SameName! She not only had the same name as me, but was also a redhead with a wicked sense of humor. We had a great time comparing the nicknames we get from our SameName, and sharing fashion tips for what matches our SameHair.
Finally, it was my turn at the table, and for my personal World Series of Pong, I had been paired with a guy named Kevin, who agreed to drink all the pong-beer while I continued to slurp vodka lemonades. And who should appear on the other side of the table to play me for ultimate pong glory, but SameName! Oh, it was on.
And how quickly it became apparent that I was very, very off. Not only were SameName and her partner sinking balls more expertly than cheerleaders after the prom,** but none of ours were even coming close to the gold. Mine weren't even clearing the midpoint on the table. After a few airborne failures, Kevin decided to coach me.
"You've got to throw the ball higher, so it clears the tops of the cups."
"Like this?" I said, raising my elbow and preparing to cock my wrist.
"Right," he said. "And throw it harder. Like, a lot harder, so it actually, um, gets to the cups."
Across the table, SameName was talking to her partner, laughing about something. Her partner pointed out that I was about to take another failure-riffic shot, and SameName turned back to the table.
She turned back to the table right as I decided to show Kevin just how hard I could throw. And I threw hard. And I have no aim.
I accidentally hit my SameName. I HIT MY SAMENAME IN THE FACE!!! With the wet, stanky BALL!!
She was, to say the least, stunned, and not surprisingly, my ball did not make the cup. I immediately fell all over myself, partly from the vodka lemonades, and partly in trying to apologize my face off. SameName shook it off gracefully, but I suppose it's easy to overlook a minor battle wound when you beat your opponent six to zero.
*So, countless.
**I HAD TO SAY THAT.
***
And that concludes this chapter of the Tiger Beat Chronicles. As we barrel towards Memorial Weekend, be sure to check back for the next episode: Questicle's B.S.
***
After seven and a half hours of Donna Summer-themed ear rape and several verbal assaults from the haughty GPS madam who became i-freakin-rate when we turned off the prescribed Yellow Brick Road to stop for gas, Mom and I cruised into Clemson, Scarolina, home to the Clemson Tigers, Death Valley, and more Bojangles chicky-huts than I have pairs of shoes.*
We dressed for dinner and met Questicle and his girlfriend Macy, who is both tiny and fabulous, for dinner at a restaurant called The Blue Heron. Since Clemson is a small-town college joint, and since it was being invaded by at least 20,000 proud parents that weekend, we had set the bar for food pretty low, expecting glorified bar food served by mumbling waiters in restaurants crammed with t-shirt-wearin' rednecks whose crowning glory was their NASCAR belt buckles with real light-up parts. Like Applebee's with a side of cheese grits and indignity.
All my regular snarkasm aside, oh my dear Lord, The Blue Heron was one of the single best meals that I, or anyone else at the table, had ever had. And we, a group of die hard foodies, are a hard sell. At the end of the meal, my dad actually wanted to summon the chef to our table so we could (I am not making this up) give him a standing ovation. The thought of this mortal humiliation horrified me in a way that could only be eclipsed by my dad trying to give the DJ at the "Rainforest Romance" middle-school dance a standing O for his really bitchin' remix of the Macarena.
Fortunately for my reputation, the chef was busy, either cooking for other patrons or laughing so hard at the suggestion that he peed his balsamic reduction-stained pants.
After dinner Mom and Dad headed back to their hotel, and I headed to Questicle's apartment to pretend I was a college student before I would eventually crash for the evening on my air mattress in Questicle's spare bedroom. In honor of the solemn commencement rituals of the weekend, Questicle and his roommate had invited everyone they knew to show up with shitty beer and belly up to the spray-painted majesty of the plywood beer pong table that crowned their apartment.
When I was in college I was terrible at beer pong, in the same way that I'm terrible at any sport that involves throwing things, unless it's throwing bullshit at my boss, a game at which I am the office Michael Phelps. Pong always annoyed me because I was so bad that I never made it past the preliminary rounds, and it seemed vaguely inadvisable to drink beer that had just incubated a ball that had been on the floor, in peoples' hands, and in some rare and special cases, in their mouths, which had in turn usually been on, or in, the mouths of other party-goers.
Don't even try to tell me there is enough alcohol in beer to bulldoze that germ jungle.
But since I'm out of college and therefore Magic At Life, I decided I would show the students how it's really done before the night was over. While I waited for my turn at the table, I mingled with the graduates. I told Macy how much I love her, repeatedly and with the emphasis that can only be conveyed after four vodka lemonades. I bonded with Questicle, laughing about the ridiculous things we did when we were kids/last week. And in one of the greatest moments of the evening, I met my SameName! She not only had the same name as me, but was also a redhead with a wicked sense of humor. We had a great time comparing the nicknames we get from our SameName, and sharing fashion tips for what matches our SameHair.
Finally, it was my turn at the table, and for my personal World Series of Pong, I had been paired with a guy named Kevin, who agreed to drink all the pong-beer while I continued to slurp vodka lemonades. And who should appear on the other side of the table to play me for ultimate pong glory, but SameName! Oh, it was on.
And how quickly it became apparent that I was very, very off. Not only were SameName and her partner sinking balls more expertly than cheerleaders after the prom,** but none of ours were even coming close to the gold. Mine weren't even clearing the midpoint on the table. After a few airborne failures, Kevin decided to coach me.
"You've got to throw the ball higher, so it clears the tops of the cups."
"Like this?" I said, raising my elbow and preparing to cock my wrist.
"Right," he said. "And throw it harder. Like, a lot harder, so it actually, um, gets to the cups."
Across the table, SameName was talking to her partner, laughing about something. Her partner pointed out that I was about to take another failure-riffic shot, and SameName turned back to the table.
She turned back to the table right as I decided to show Kevin just how hard I could throw. And I threw hard. And I have no aim.
I accidentally hit my SameName. I HIT MY SAMENAME IN THE FACE!!! With the wet, stanky BALL!!
She was, to say the least, stunned, and not surprisingly, my ball did not make the cup. I immediately fell all over myself, partly from the vodka lemonades, and partly in trying to apologize my face off. SameName shook it off gracefully, but I suppose it's easy to overlook a minor battle wound when you beat your opponent six to zero.
*So, countless.
**I HAD TO SAY THAT.
***
And that concludes this chapter of the Tiger Beat Chronicles. As we barrel towards Memorial Weekend, be sure to check back for the next episode: Questicle's B.S.
Happy Anniversary, Grace & Lawyer Boy!
Dear Grace and LB,Wow! I can't believe you've been married for three years! Three years without a divorce or an unintended pregnancy--that's a better track record than some people have just coming out of college. Way to rock the nuptials, guys. One day, when you're mature enough to admit that guacamole and chips are not a balanced meal and that watching Family Guy is not "cultural enhancement," you'll have really cute babies, who will be good at math and have sassy mouths, which will piss you off and make you proud, respectively. But for now, stick to enjoying each other and trying to get the dog to play with the cat by the head.
Love,
Grace
Friday, May 15, 2009
Tiger Beat, Chapter 1: Road Trip Necessities
And now, at long last, with great fanfare and much squealing of kazoos, I bring you Chapter One in the Tiger Beat Chronicles, an epic tale of my trip to Clemson, Scarolina to watch Questicle embark upon adulthood, drink my weight in Frathouse Special brew, and eat my Very First Ever Chicken Biscuit.
Now what, I ask you, could be more exciting than tales of the loss of my chicken biscuit virginity?*
Thus we begin on Thursday morning, when Mom arrived ten minutes ahead of schedule to collect my duffel bag, tote bag, garment bag, shoe bag, food bag, handbag, giftbag, windbag, bagpipe, and self to cart down to Scarolina. As usual, I was running no less than fifteen brain cells behind, so I fluttered about like a hummingbird trapped in a shoebox, simultaneously drying my hair, packing my makeup, and hugging the cat goodbye. Finally, twenty-five minutes and six Mango scratches behind schedule, we were off, guided by the comforting voice of the GPS who assumed, from the moment we lumbered off the curb, that we were complete morons in need of guidance, both geographically and philosophically.
All was well in the Tahoe powered by disco music and girl talk, until we both became hungry enough to consider eating at some roadside establishment whose kitchen output was rivaled only by its bathroom intake. Scanning the blue signs that littered the interstate like tattoos on a hairy redneck, I had an epiphany of epic proportions: WE SHOULD EAT AT TACO BELL.
Something I may have never disclosed, but which is a huge part of my personal being, is that I'm an obsessive foodie. There are three things in life that I take very seriously. The Three Fs. They are:
And oh, it was so good, good like cheese fries on a hangover, or aloe on that sunburn that you kind of want to heal, but kind of want to peel because peeling sunburn is so grotesquely delightful. You might have lost respect for me after this Ode to Fresco-Style Crunchy Beef Tacos, but I just don't care. T-Bell and I are tight, and there's nothing you can do to come between our love, unless our love results in my contracting the herp from T-Bell's special parts.
Fueled up in an ominous way that would ensure we drove as lightning-fast as possible to our destination, Mom and I hit the road again. We had gone about a hundred miles when it became crucial that we stop again: There were forces at work that we, mere mortal women with fabulous handbags, were powerless to stop. Did the car run out of gas? Did a rock hit the windshield? Did T-Bell come roaring to the gates in a way that demanded we screech to a halt immediately and dart behind the nearest tree?
Would you believe me if I said I saw a sign for an exit that had a HomeGoods AND a TJ Maxx in one giant building, and I shrieked like a middle schooler at High School Musical On Ice until Mom pulled over out of fear for her life? Smart lady, my mom.
I don't know if you've ever been to one of these magical Meccas, but there is nothing more wondrous to me than a store where I can buy both tart pans and tarty sandals, both with matching earrings. Never mind that Mom and I had each packed six pairs of shoes. Never mind that we only had two dressy events to attend that weekend. I am powerless against the song of the Shoe-Sirens, and I've got the overstuffed shoe rack, shoe bags, and eye-rolling husband to prove it!
Half an hour later, after happily stuffing six completely necessary and in no way superfluous shoes in the back of the magic Tahoe, we were on the road again, racing against time to Clemson to make sure we'd have enough time to choose the perfect shoe for dinner.
***
Thanks for tuning in to the first installment of the Tiger Beat Chronicles! Stay tuned for our next episode, coming soon: Let Me See That Pong.
*This phrase banned in countries run by theocracies, monarchies, and common decency.
Now what, I ask you, could be more exciting than tales of the loss of my chicken biscuit virginity?*
Thus we begin on Thursday morning, when Mom arrived ten minutes ahead of schedule to collect my duffel bag, tote bag, garment bag, shoe bag, food bag, handbag, giftbag, windbag, bagpipe, and self to cart down to Scarolina. As usual, I was running no less than fifteen brain cells behind, so I fluttered about like a hummingbird trapped in a shoebox, simultaneously drying my hair, packing my makeup, and hugging the cat goodbye. Finally, twenty-five minutes and six Mango scratches behind schedule, we were off, guided by the comforting voice of the GPS who assumed, from the moment we lumbered off the curb, that we were complete morons in need of guidance, both geographically and philosophically.
All was well in the Tahoe powered by disco music and girl talk, until we both became hungry enough to consider eating at some roadside establishment whose kitchen output was rivaled only by its bathroom intake. Scanning the blue signs that littered the interstate like tattoos on a hairy redneck, I had an epiphany of epic proportions: WE SHOULD EAT AT TACO BELL.
Something I may have never disclosed, but which is a huge part of my personal being, is that I'm an obsessive foodie. There are three things in life that I take very seriously. The Three Fs. They are:
- Food
- Family
- Fart jokes
And oh, it was so good, good like cheese fries on a hangover, or aloe on that sunburn that you kind of want to heal, but kind of want to peel because peeling sunburn is so grotesquely delightful. You might have lost respect for me after this Ode to Fresco-Style Crunchy Beef Tacos, but I just don't care. T-Bell and I are tight, and there's nothing you can do to come between our love, unless our love results in my contracting the herp from T-Bell's special parts.
Fueled up in an ominous way that would ensure we drove as lightning-fast as possible to our destination, Mom and I hit the road again. We had gone about a hundred miles when it became crucial that we stop again: There were forces at work that we, mere mortal women with fabulous handbags, were powerless to stop. Did the car run out of gas? Did a rock hit the windshield? Did T-Bell come roaring to the gates in a way that demanded we screech to a halt immediately and dart behind the nearest tree?
Would you believe me if I said I saw a sign for an exit that had a HomeGoods AND a TJ Maxx in one giant building, and I shrieked like a middle schooler at High School Musical On Ice until Mom pulled over out of fear for her life? Smart lady, my mom.
I don't know if you've ever been to one of these magical Meccas, but there is nothing more wondrous to me than a store where I can buy both tart pans and tarty sandals, both with matching earrings. Never mind that Mom and I had each packed six pairs of shoes. Never mind that we only had two dressy events to attend that weekend. I am powerless against the song of the Shoe-Sirens, and I've got the overstuffed shoe rack, shoe bags, and eye-rolling husband to prove it!
Half an hour later, after happily stuffing six completely necessary and in no way superfluous shoes in the back of the magic Tahoe, we were on the road again, racing against time to Clemson to make sure we'd have enough time to choose the perfect shoe for dinner.
***
Thanks for tuning in to the first installment of the Tiger Beat Chronicles! Stay tuned for our next episode, coming soon: Let Me See That Pong.
*This phrase banned in countries run by theocracies, monarchies, and common decency.
Sunday, May 10, 2009
Sunday Snippet of Stupidity
As promised, I will return to regale you with tales from my adventure in South Carolina, which will serve as part captivating autobiography, and part "what not to do in public if you ever want people to like you," both of which I hope will serve you well in the years to come. Someone has to learn something from my life, because clearly, I am not.
At this present juncture, howevz, I'm in a less-than-fantastic state of mind to share words with you this morning. Already today, I have:
1. Tried to stir a cup of coffee with a fork;
2. Become totally huffy and surprised when this did absolutely no good whatsoever; and
3. Lit a campfire in the bottom of my oven. Second time in a month--I'm better at camping than I thought, apparently.
Would you say that I'm a little "out of sorts" when LB isn't around...or that I'm just plain special like a three-legged giraffe?
At this present juncture, howevz, I'm in a less-than-fantastic state of mind to share words with you this morning. Already today, I have:
1. Tried to stir a cup of coffee with a fork;
2. Become totally huffy and surprised when this did absolutely no good whatsoever; and
3. Lit a campfire in the bottom of my oven. Second time in a month--I'm better at camping than I thought, apparently.
Would you say that I'm a little "out of sorts" when LB isn't around...or that I'm just plain special like a three-legged giraffe?
Saturday, May 9, 2009
Strawberries and Champagne...For One
Well, after two days away from home, hoping to be mistaken for Questicle's younger sister so that I could play with the 21-year-olds without anyone calling me Mrs. Thoreau, I have returned from Clemson, Home of El Tigre, to the mayhem that I call my everyday life.
And Lord, what mayhem I returned to. But first, to quench your obvious and borderline insatiable thirst for tales of my fumble-tastic exploits south of the border: I have to explain all that to you in several separate posts, because frankly, there is so much that is worthy of sharing with you, my loving public/cult, that if I were to post it all at once, you'd kill me...or just not read it all, the knowledge of which would then kill me, so really, you'd kill me.
Right, so this morning began with Mom and I pounding Hampton Inn Specialty Roast and bombing our insides with gummy, undercooked biscuits from the "Complimentary Diarrhea" continental breakfast to fuel up for the seven hour drive home. Really, I just had to jack myself up enough to be more than a semi-conscious body in the seat next to her, so I could keep her company while she piloted us safely home. I had offered to drive, but since her Tahoe is smarter than I am (including one of those Harry Potter back gates that you just wave at and it closes, magic-like), we decided it was in our best interest if I just played delirious and drooled copiously in the passenger seat.
And thus began our trip back through both Cackalackies, back to the Capitol of the Confederacy. We stopped for gas at one point in a townlette best described as Trailer Trash West, and if there had been any question that we were in the Bible Belt, it was dispelled by a gas pump that tried to show us the light: The computer display had been programmed to spell out "HE IS RISEN" at the end of every statement that punctuated the transaction.
"Would you like a car wash today? HE IS RISEN"
[no]
"Is your transaction complete? HE IS RISEN"
[yes]
"Would you like a receipt? HE IS RISEN"
[no]
"Seriously? HE IS RISEN"
[yes, seriously]
"But HE IS RISEN and He really feels you should keep a balanced checkbook."
[YES]
"Thank you for your patronage today SEE YOU IN HELL HE IS RISEN"
Seven hours and six bouts of Sleeping Buttcheek Syndrome later, we arrived home. My first hint that something was wrong was that the moment I unlocked the door, Mango wasn't immediately humping my legs, so excited to have me back that he morphed into a sex-crazed teenage boy. He was slinking around, looking at me sideways like he knew what I did back in '98, and yowled like Tina Turner if I tried to pick him up. I knew something was wrong with the local LoveSlut, and so after much uneducated evaluation and discussion with Lawyer Boy* of the brutal wound to the checking account that I knew a vet visit would be, I wrestled the cat into the cat carrier, which is as much fun as wrangling Ozzie Osbourne into sobriety, and shuffled him to the vet.
Before I ran off with the cat and the bank account balance, however, I checked with our neighbors, Erin and Edward,** who had graciously agreed to watch over our flock while we were gone, and apparently Sir Bleeds-a-Lot had decided to spend Friday night outside. He had bolted when they weren't looking, and the little fatty had come back just in time for breakfast the next day, after having tried to convince the whole city, unsuccessfully, that he was a badass. Just like every other man I know.
Two hours and TWO HUNDRED FORTY-FOUR DOLLARS*** later, the vet had determined that our little furry rebel had, in fact, gotten in a fight with the neighborhood feline Greaser, and was in need of antibiotics and having a thermometer shoved up his reckless ass. So, pumped full of fluids and delightful drugs, I took him home, unhappily in his plastic cat-taxi, and deposited him inside the front door, before I realized something important: I hadn't left that CD in my passenger seat. Or that set of directions to a house on Lake Anna. Or that cup from Chipotle.
Someone had ransacked my car! And thrown all the contents of the console into the floor! And had taken nothing! HOLY CRAP WHAT?????
This happened to LB a few months ago, when he accidentally left his car open and the neighborhood friendlies opened his door, roughed up his console, and eventually walked away with the 27 cents in his cup-holder. This time, it was particularly obvious that the friendlies had just been looking for cash and not a car or black-market goods, since the car itself was unharmed and none of the contents of the console was missing. I can't imagine why. They had their pick of:
After all that, I eventually unpacked my huge amounts of unnecessary luggage and reclined with dinner: a pint of strawberries and a bottle of champagne (because I love it, and it is cheap). I had entertained grandiose fantasies of making myself shrimp scampi and jasmine rice while LB was gone, but the utter chaos and mayhem of my actual life had rendered me incapable of doing anything other than washing a plastic container of fruit.
And for all the romantic evenings that it implies, this is the first time I have ever had strawberries and champagne together. And you know what? It is DELICIOUS.
*LB is at JMU with his family to celebrate his sister's graduation, which was the same day as the Festival of Questicle. His family doesn't drink, and yet he was good and tipsed last time I talked to him. Thoughts? I feel a coping mechanism on the rise.
**PS to Erin and Edward: It's not your fault that our cat is an idiot. I love you. Also: Can I have your children? We would bake cookies all the time.
***Apparently I love the cat extensively. That is a LOT of shoes, amigos.
And Lord, what mayhem I returned to. But first, to quench your obvious and borderline insatiable thirst for tales of my fumble-tastic exploits south of the border: I have to explain all that to you in several separate posts, because frankly, there is so much that is worthy of sharing with you, my loving public/cult, that if I were to post it all at once, you'd kill me...or just not read it all, the knowledge of which would then kill me, so really, you'd kill me.
Right, so this morning began with Mom and I pounding Hampton Inn Specialty Roast and bombing our insides with gummy, undercooked biscuits from the "Complimentary Diarrhea" continental breakfast to fuel up for the seven hour drive home. Really, I just had to jack myself up enough to be more than a semi-conscious body in the seat next to her, so I could keep her company while she piloted us safely home. I had offered to drive, but since her Tahoe is smarter than I am (including one of those Harry Potter back gates that you just wave at and it closes, magic-like), we decided it was in our best interest if I just played delirious and drooled copiously in the passenger seat.
And thus began our trip back through both Cackalackies, back to the Capitol of the Confederacy. We stopped for gas at one point in a townlette best described as Trailer Trash West, and if there had been any question that we were in the Bible Belt, it was dispelled by a gas pump that tried to show us the light: The computer display had been programmed to spell out "HE IS RISEN" at the end of every statement that punctuated the transaction.
"Would you like a car wash today? HE IS RISEN"
[no]
"Is your transaction complete? HE IS RISEN"
[yes]
"Would you like a receipt? HE IS RISEN"
[no]
"Seriously? HE IS RISEN"
[yes, seriously]
"But HE IS RISEN and He really feels you should keep a balanced checkbook."
[YES]
"Thank you for your patronage today SEE YOU IN HELL HE IS RISEN"
Seven hours and six bouts of Sleeping Buttcheek Syndrome later, we arrived home. My first hint that something was wrong was that the moment I unlocked the door, Mango wasn't immediately humping my legs, so excited to have me back that he morphed into a sex-crazed teenage boy. He was slinking around, looking at me sideways like he knew what I did back in '98, and yowled like Tina Turner if I tried to pick him up. I knew something was wrong with the local LoveSlut, and so after much uneducated evaluation and discussion with Lawyer Boy* of the brutal wound to the checking account that I knew a vet visit would be, I wrestled the cat into the cat carrier, which is as much fun as wrangling Ozzie Osbourne into sobriety, and shuffled him to the vet.
Before I ran off with the cat and the bank account balance, however, I checked with our neighbors, Erin and Edward,** who had graciously agreed to watch over our flock while we were gone, and apparently Sir Bleeds-a-Lot had decided to spend Friday night outside. He had bolted when they weren't looking, and the little fatty had come back just in time for breakfast the next day, after having tried to convince the whole city, unsuccessfully, that he was a badass. Just like every other man I know.
Two hours and TWO HUNDRED FORTY-FOUR DOLLARS*** later, the vet had determined that our little furry rebel had, in fact, gotten in a fight with the neighborhood feline Greaser, and was in need of antibiotics and having a thermometer shoved up his reckless ass. So, pumped full of fluids and delightful drugs, I took him home, unhappily in his plastic cat-taxi, and deposited him inside the front door, before I realized something important: I hadn't left that CD in my passenger seat. Or that set of directions to a house on Lake Anna. Or that cup from Chipotle.
Someone had ransacked my car! And thrown all the contents of the console into the floor! And had taken nothing! HOLY CRAP WHAT?????
This happened to LB a few months ago, when he accidentally left his car open and the neighborhood friendlies opened his door, roughed up his console, and eventually walked away with the 27 cents in his cup-holder. This time, it was particularly obvious that the friendlies had just been looking for cash and not a car or black-market goods, since the car itself was unharmed and none of the contents of the console was missing. I can't imagine why. They had their pick of:
- seventeen paper napkins
- one used lip gloss
- one Subway sandwich card with 8 stamps remaining
- five tampons
- one pamphlet on "How to Pray the Rosary"
- one plastic rosary
- directions to "Casa del McD," my friends' parents' lakehouse; and
- a CD Shelley made for me composed mostly of Carbon Leaf interspersed with Alvin and the Chipmunks
After all that, I eventually unpacked my huge amounts of unnecessary luggage and reclined with dinner: a pint of strawberries and a bottle of champagne (because I love it, and it is cheap). I had entertained grandiose fantasies of making myself shrimp scampi and jasmine rice while LB was gone, but the utter chaos and mayhem of my actual life had rendered me incapable of doing anything other than washing a plastic container of fruit.
And for all the romantic evenings that it implies, this is the first time I have ever had strawberries and champagne together. And you know what? It is DELICIOUS.
*LB is at JMU with his family to celebrate his sister's graduation, which was the same day as the Festival of Questicle. His family doesn't drink, and yet he was good and tipsed last time I talked to him. Thoughts? I feel a coping mechanism on the rise.
**PS to Erin and Edward: It's not your fault that our cat is an idiot. I love you. Also: Can I have your children? We would bake cookies all the time.
***Apparently I love the cat extensively. That is a LOT of shoes, amigos.
Thursday, May 7, 2009
Tiger Beat
Well amigos, I'm off for a road trip, down through two states and countless miles of cow-speckled highway, to Clemson University, where Questicle will at long last glide triumphantly across the civic center stage to snatch his B.S.* before the registrar tries to take it back for extra verification.
We'll also drink lots of cocktails, toast lots of...toasts, and generally cavort about in a way that will allow me to pretend I'm still in college, aided by the fact that I'm staying at Questicle's apartment, which will either turn out to be the best idea ever or WORST IDEA EVAR.
Upon my return this weekend, I promise a full recap, complete with pictures and embarrassing stories of which stranger I tried to drink under the table this time.
*So true on so many levels!
We'll also drink lots of cocktails, toast lots of...toasts, and generally cavort about in a way that will allow me to pretend I'm still in college, aided by the fact that I'm staying at Questicle's apartment, which will either turn out to be the best idea ever or WORST IDEA EVAR.
Upon my return this weekend, I promise a full recap, complete with pictures and embarrassing stories of which stranger I tried to drink under the table this time.
*So true on so many levels!
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