I don't know about you, but Winter wreaks havoc on my sleep. I know that you are just dying to know what I'm talking about because you are here on this blog that clearly never goes anywhere and is simply a product of my over active imagination.
Anyway...
In the Winter, the heat is on (because The Mr. is a delicate flower and gets cold...big baby), since the heat is on, I get parched in my sleep. Yes, parched! I use big words now, big words are cool. When I get parched, I get thirsty and when I get thirsty, I cough. And this wakes me up. Still with me?
Good.
Last night, I woke up coughing and so I got up and went to the kitchen for a drink of water. Now, here is where the story gets fuzzy. I was sure that I went right back to bed and fell asleep. Sounds legit, right? According to The Mr, this was not the case. His version of the story goes like this...
I came back to bed and sat down on the edge. And didn't take that next critical step, the lying down step. Never one to miss an opportunity, The Mr reached over and, um...placed his hand on my northern regions. My response to this? "Why, hello there!".
Now, I can't testify to the validity of this event but in all honesty, it sounds about right according to the recent night time antics my brain has been playing on me. Greeting my husband's wandering hand with a suggestive and slightly shady, "Why, hello there!" pales in comparison to my recent dream in which I was in a McDonald's bathroom and the toilets where so high up off the floor, that I had to leap up onto it and then, when I managed to get up there, the toilet became a swing toilet and there was some sort of circus happening under me.
See? Winter + heat = havoc.
Saturday, November 24, 2012
Wednesday, November 14, 2012
Dishes, men and be kind to your nurse
I think The Mr. might be losing his eyesight. True story. Last night, I had the pleasure of having a celebratory glass of wine (okay, maybe several glasses of celebratory wine) with my very best friend, Tracy. We were toasting to the news that she was accepted into the nursing program. Not only am I excited because she's my bestie and this is her life's dream but because she will be an amazing nurse. Also, she might one day be the one to stick me with a needle and I don't know about you, but I prefer people with that kind of power to be on my side! Seriously folks, be kind to your nurses.
Anyway, before I left for her house, I made dinner, supervised homework and gave out instructions regarding showers and bedtimes. When I left, there were a few dishes in the sink, but not many. When I arrived home, about 3 hours later, it looked as if every cabinet in the kitchen had exploded and there was a pile of dishes a mile high. Not only were there dishes everywhere, but there were dishes with FOOD still on them. Really? You can't even rinse your dish off? Now, I get that men are completely unaware of where things are in the kitchen (as well as the rest of the house, apparently), but the sink is literally right next to the dishwasher. It's a one stop shop. Sink, soap, sponge, dishwasher. It's not rocket science. I know that it's not rocket science because I am not a rocket scientist and manage to do the dishes EVERY DAMN DAY.
I also know that my husband is not a completely incompetent person who would ignore the mess and go to bed and lie there with his laptop on his chest watching YouTube videos until he falls asleep. Riiiiiggghhhttt...
Therefore, the only explanation I can come to that would justify this behavior is that he's going blind. And because he's going blind, he couldn't SEE the dishes piled in the sink. And because he couldn't see them, he couldn't wash them.
See?
Anyway, before I left for her house, I made dinner, supervised homework and gave out instructions regarding showers and bedtimes. When I left, there were a few dishes in the sink, but not many. When I arrived home, about 3 hours later, it looked as if every cabinet in the kitchen had exploded and there was a pile of dishes a mile high. Not only were there dishes everywhere, but there were dishes with FOOD still on them. Really? You can't even rinse your dish off? Now, I get that men are completely unaware of where things are in the kitchen (as well as the rest of the house, apparently), but the sink is literally right next to the dishwasher. It's a one stop shop. Sink, soap, sponge, dishwasher. It's not rocket science. I know that it's not rocket science because I am not a rocket scientist and manage to do the dishes EVERY DAMN DAY.
I also know that my husband is not a completely incompetent person who would ignore the mess and go to bed and lie there with his laptop on his chest watching YouTube videos until he falls asleep. Riiiiiggghhhttt...
Therefore, the only explanation I can come to that would justify this behavior is that he's going blind. And because he's going blind, he couldn't SEE the dishes piled in the sink. And because he couldn't see them, he couldn't wash them.
See?
Wednesday, November 7, 2012
In which parents do the stupidest things
My 10 year old came home yesterday talking about the election. They voted in their classroom and talked about the election process. Good stuff.
However...
She also reported that she heard the following:
Some kids said they didn't want Mitt Romney to win because he is LDS. Because he is LDS, if elected, he might "do" one or more (Please note that I have added my very own commentary. You're welcome):
However...
She also reported that she heard the following:
Some kids said they didn't want Mitt Romney to win because he is LDS. Because he is LDS, if elected, he might "do" one or more (Please note that I have added my very own commentary. You're welcome):
- Ban all coffee and caffeinated drinks. Because you know, caffeine is such a hot button issue and presidents are SUPER concerned with what you drink.
- Ban the wearing of tank tops. This one was my favorite. Every president that has ever been in office has been asked the question, "Women wear too many tank tops, how are you going to use your term in office to solve this heinous and rampant crime?"
Tuesday, November 6, 2012
An open letter to Bank of America
Dear Bank of America,
How are you? Good? That's nice. Let me tell you how I am. Better yet, let me tell you a story.
Once upon a time, a family bought their first home and they said, "It's good." The years went by and America began to fail. The jobs went away, the money went away and the government turned a blind eye. Then, in what seemed like a miracle, the government said, "We'll help you, Americans!" We thought, "Finally!". Sadly, the government only had eyes for you, the Big Bank. You got your bailout and we got...nothing. No jobs, no money, no bacon. Then, the government said, "The banks will help you, Americans!". You were supposed to help us keep our homes. You were supposed to do the right thing and help our economy get back on its feet.
But you didn't. Shame on you.
The government enacted programs like, Making Homes Affordable and The Hardest Hit Fund. Your job was to work with homeowners that wanted to keep their homes. But you know what? You suck at your job. As it turns out, you were only interested in "helping" homeowners who had crazy interest rates or adjustable rates or balloon payments or in other words, homeowners with bad loans that banks like YOU gave them in the first place. Your plan of action? Foreclose on the house and write it off for your own benefit. It's a win-win for you, isn't it? You write off the loss and then sell the house at a ridiculous price.
Shame on you.
My family wasn't one of the favored ones. Our loan was a good loan. A fixed loan with a low interest rate. Seems pretty great, right? Not so much. Remember the part about no jobs? My husband was in danger of losing his job, so we took a huge risk and opened our own business. By the grace of God, our business was successful. I can feed my kids and pay our bills but there's a little, tiny problem. It's a stretch every month to do so. We looked at our finances and thought, "This is not good.", so we asked for help. For the next 2 years, we "worked" with a Bank of America agent. And by "work", I mean submitting our paperwork and then waiting for an answer. Guess what our answer was? "Your paperwork has expired, you need to resubmit it." For 2 years we did this, because your agent would wait for the paperwork to expire and then ask for it again. In the meantime, we were getting phone calls, 4 or 5 of them a day asking when we were going to make a payment. It's kind of hard to make a payment with no money. As our business improved, we were able to catch up on payments until we were again current. Then, one day, our credit companies started sending us ominous letters in the mail. Things like, "Your credit limit has been reduced" and "We are closing your account". Once we got over our shock, we discovered that Bank of America was accepting our checks every month, cashing them and sending us new statements, but were not applying them to our account. The result? Our credit score showed that we were 5 months behind on our mortgage payments. 5 months! In the meantime, your agent still hadn't gotten our paperwork together enough to be reviewed.
Shame on you.
After many phone calls, our credit was repaired but we were removed from the modification program, ironically called, "The Hope Team" or some such nonsense. But guess what? We still couldn't afford the house. About 6 months ago, we decided to try again, but this time, we hired someone to work on our behalf. We experienced an all too familiar process. Submit, re-submit, re-submit. Wait. Re-submit. Until we finally received our modification letter in the mail. Hallelujah! Let me share with you what I opened...
"We are pleased to tell you that you are approved to enter into a Trial Period Plan under the federal government's Home Affordable Modification Program." Phew! I breathed a sigh of relief. Maybe we can finally get some help! Well, guess what? Bank of America is nothing if not predictable. Want to know how much you are willing to "help" us with?
$30.00
Yep, your grand gesture is $30.00 a month less than what we currently pay. I'm feeling overwhelmed by your generosity. How could we ever repay you?
Shame on you.
And as an added bonus, if we decide to make these super affordable "trial payments", you are going to be reporting to the credit bureau that we are only making partial payments. So, not only have you slapped us in the face with your ever so generous $30.00 savings, you are going to spank our credit in the process.
So thanks, Bank of America. Thanks for proving once again that Middle Class America will always get shanked and that your Big Bank and all it's executives will continue to profit from our loss. I hope you enjoy your dirty money, you earned it.
Very Truly Yours,
Middle Class America
How are you? Good? That's nice. Let me tell you how I am. Better yet, let me tell you a story.
Once upon a time, a family bought their first home and they said, "It's good." The years went by and America began to fail. The jobs went away, the money went away and the government turned a blind eye. Then, in what seemed like a miracle, the government said, "We'll help you, Americans!" We thought, "Finally!". Sadly, the government only had eyes for you, the Big Bank. You got your bailout and we got...nothing. No jobs, no money, no bacon. Then, the government said, "The banks will help you, Americans!". You were supposed to help us keep our homes. You were supposed to do the right thing and help our economy get back on its feet.
But you didn't. Shame on you.
The government enacted programs like, Making Homes Affordable and The Hardest Hit Fund. Your job was to work with homeowners that wanted to keep their homes. But you know what? You suck at your job. As it turns out, you were only interested in "helping" homeowners who had crazy interest rates or adjustable rates or balloon payments or in other words, homeowners with bad loans that banks like YOU gave them in the first place. Your plan of action? Foreclose on the house and write it off for your own benefit. It's a win-win for you, isn't it? You write off the loss and then sell the house at a ridiculous price.
Shame on you.
My family wasn't one of the favored ones. Our loan was a good loan. A fixed loan with a low interest rate. Seems pretty great, right? Not so much. Remember the part about no jobs? My husband was in danger of losing his job, so we took a huge risk and opened our own business. By the grace of God, our business was successful. I can feed my kids and pay our bills but there's a little, tiny problem. It's a stretch every month to do so. We looked at our finances and thought, "This is not good.", so we asked for help. For the next 2 years, we "worked" with a Bank of America agent. And by "work", I mean submitting our paperwork and then waiting for an answer. Guess what our answer was? "Your paperwork has expired, you need to resubmit it." For 2 years we did this, because your agent would wait for the paperwork to expire and then ask for it again. In the meantime, we were getting phone calls, 4 or 5 of them a day asking when we were going to make a payment. It's kind of hard to make a payment with no money. As our business improved, we were able to catch up on payments until we were again current. Then, one day, our credit companies started sending us ominous letters in the mail. Things like, "Your credit limit has been reduced" and "We are closing your account". Once we got over our shock, we discovered that Bank of America was accepting our checks every month, cashing them and sending us new statements, but were not applying them to our account. The result? Our credit score showed that we were 5 months behind on our mortgage payments. 5 months! In the meantime, your agent still hadn't gotten our paperwork together enough to be reviewed.
Shame on you.
After many phone calls, our credit was repaired but we were removed from the modification program, ironically called, "The Hope Team" or some such nonsense. But guess what? We still couldn't afford the house. About 6 months ago, we decided to try again, but this time, we hired someone to work on our behalf. We experienced an all too familiar process. Submit, re-submit, re-submit. Wait. Re-submit. Until we finally received our modification letter in the mail. Hallelujah! Let me share with you what I opened...
"We are pleased to tell you that you are approved to enter into a Trial Period Plan under the federal government's Home Affordable Modification Program." Phew! I breathed a sigh of relief. Maybe we can finally get some help! Well, guess what? Bank of America is nothing if not predictable. Want to know how much you are willing to "help" us with?
$30.00
Yep, your grand gesture is $30.00 a month less than what we currently pay. I'm feeling overwhelmed by your generosity. How could we ever repay you?
Shame on you.
And as an added bonus, if we decide to make these super affordable "trial payments", you are going to be reporting to the credit bureau that we are only making partial payments. So, not only have you slapped us in the face with your ever so generous $30.00 savings, you are going to spank our credit in the process.
So thanks, Bank of America. Thanks for proving once again that Middle Class America will always get shanked and that your Big Bank and all it's executives will continue to profit from our loss. I hope you enjoy your dirty money, you earned it.
Very Truly Yours,
Middle Class America
Friday, October 26, 2012
In which I ease my mom's worries
We are leaving for a Disney Cruise in 2 days! I'm super excited about it...so excited, in fact, that I decided to make a schedule for my mom because as moms are wont to do, she likes knowing where we are and what we're doing. I think this should ease her mind and allow her to know that we are safe and having fun!
The Sique’s Epic Adventure at Sea or…In Which We Run Away to be Pirates
Day 1 - October 28, 2012
All Aboard by 4:00 pm (Tito mentioned something about a strip poker game. But I’m sure he was kidding.)
Day 2 - October 29, 2012 (at sea)
Today is “Swim With the Dolphins” day. I hope we can keep up with the ship because according to the Pirates Code, “Whoever falls behind, stays behind.”
Day 3 - October 30, 2012 (at sea)
Today is “Job Switching” on the Disney Wonder. It’s a special time in which the guests and the crew switch places for the day. It should be a real learning experience! I hope they make me Captain.
Day 4 - October 31, 2012 (Puerto Vallarta)
Today we have planned a great day at a spa. It’s called “Cosechamos los órganos de forma gratuita!”. I think it means, We play organs while you harvest your free spirit! Sounds pretty amazing, right?
Day 5 - November 1, 2012 (Cabo San Lucas)
Today we plan to drop the girls off at a local school so they can learn something new and appreciate what they have at home. Then, Tito and I plan to see some local color. This may include the nearest cosmetic surgeon, a brothel and possibly the dentist. Super excited!
Day 6 - November 2, 2012 (Cabo San Lucas)
This is our “Anything Goes” day. Discuss.
Day 7 - November 3, 2012 (at sea)
This day is solely reserved for drinking, dancing and carrying on. And some water skiing. But that’s not definite because the waters may or may not be shark infested.
Day 8 - November 4, 2012
All ashore by 9:30 am. I’m sure we will have made some new friends. Looking forward to sharing our trip with you but I hope you won’t need a kidney anytime soon because Tito is a little unsure about the spa. I bet it’s fine though.
The Sique’s Epic Adventure at Sea or…In Which We Run Away to be Pirates
Day 1 - October 28, 2012
All Aboard by 4:00 pm (Tito mentioned something about a strip poker game. But I’m sure he was kidding.)
Day 2 - October 29, 2012 (at sea)
Today is “Swim With the Dolphins” day. I hope we can keep up with the ship because according to the Pirates Code, “Whoever falls behind, stays behind.”
Day 3 - October 30, 2012 (at sea)
Today is “Job Switching” on the Disney Wonder. It’s a special time in which the guests and the crew switch places for the day. It should be a real learning experience! I hope they make me Captain.
Day 4 - October 31, 2012 (Puerto Vallarta)
Today we have planned a great day at a spa. It’s called “Cosechamos los órganos de forma gratuita!”. I think it means, We play organs while you harvest your free spirit! Sounds pretty amazing, right?
Day 5 - November 1, 2012 (Cabo San Lucas)
Today we plan to drop the girls off at a local school so they can learn something new and appreciate what they have at home. Then, Tito and I plan to see some local color. This may include the nearest cosmetic surgeon, a brothel and possibly the dentist. Super excited!
Day 6 - November 2, 2012 (Cabo San Lucas)
This is our “Anything Goes” day. Discuss.
Day 7 - November 3, 2012 (at sea)
This day is solely reserved for drinking, dancing and carrying on. And some water skiing. But that’s not definite because the waters may or may not be shark infested.
Day 8 - November 4, 2012
All ashore by 9:30 am. I’m sure we will have made some new friends. Looking forward to sharing our trip with you but I hope you won’t need a kidney anytime soon because Tito is a little unsure about the spa. I bet it’s fine though.
Monday, August 6, 2012
Shoplifters, Yoda and The One
Today is a special day. Today, I'm giving a big shout out to all the thieves and shoplifters out there. Now, before you become indignant, let me tell you a little story.
It starts innocently enough, the family and I headed out to the Mall to do some back-to-school shopping. We found a great deal on backpacks. Yay! As usual, The Mr. escaped to the TV section (the big baby), which happens to be right next to the bra section. In hindsight, I realize that this is, in fact, great marketing at work. Think about it, you're a man, your lady wants to look at pretty panties, "Babe, aren't these cute?". You're as cornered as a rat in a barrel. Suddenly, you see out of the corner of your eye, your White Knight. He beckons you, "Come toward the light!" You find yourself drawn like a moth to a flame, "Yeah, those are great. I'm just going to look over here...". Your lady is blissfully unaware that you have abandoned her (cardinal sin, gents) and you get to stand, slack jawed before a huge bank of TV magic.
It's a win-win.
Anyway, I left The Mr. drooling over TVs big enough to fill a wall and went in search of the ever elusive Comfortable, yet Flattering Bra. Perhaps you've heard of it. I've heard whispers, rumors..."It's true, I say. My mother's cousin knows a bartender that has a roommate who met a girl at the bank who swears that she has one! It's real!" I decided that today was my day, I was going to find this Mythical Beast. Onward!
I searched high and low, pulling style after style, color after color. The tags shouted at me, "Best Bra Ever!", "No Pinch Underwire!", "The Best Kept Secret!", "Mega Pushup!". Oh, the sensory overload. I gathered my wits about me and headed to the fitting room with an armload, thinking, "One of these has to be The One."
Things started out fairly tame. Not The One, but nothing weird either. Which, ladies, you KNOW is important when we are seeking the Care and Maintenance of "The Girls". Then, it happens.
The security device.
Don't get me wrong, I completely understand stores using these and don't disparage them for it. However, I definitely have a problem with where they have decided to attach them. Could it be on the strap, where it wouldn't interfere with the fit? No. How about on the upper area of the cup where, while it may feel awkward, wouldn't really be that big of a deal? No.
No.
The security device is on the back. Right on the clasp. Because that's THEE perfect spot to put a large, bulky plastic thing. It's so incredibly easy to reach behind you and blindly try to fasten your bra clasp when there's a plastic bulge the size of Australia. Not. If, by some miracle, you get the damn thing fastened against all odds, now you're faced with a different problem. When a woman is trying on her most important piece of clothing, it's important that it be seamless and comfortable, right? Well, nothing says comfort like Australia digging into your back. I wish ALL bras had Australia somewhere on them, it would make life much more interesting and our clothes would look just that much better on us.
So, while I was trying to appreciate the bra that may well be The One, I was also cursing shoplifters everywhere because thanks to their errant ways and general misbehavior, I got to stand in front of a fitting room mirror (or as it's more commonly know, the Fun House Mirror) and try to ignore Australia hunching on my back like Yoda. So thanks, all you rotten shoplifters, you made my day,
I did prevail, I found The One. I skipped back over to the TV section where not only was my husband still drooling over the big screens, my daughters were standing in front of a 3D TV with 3D glasses on looking like little zombies. As special thank you for "shopping" with me, I let The Mr. pay for The One. Good times.
Remember ladies, when you're faced with roadblocks on your search for The One. Don't despair. Don't give up. You too, can conquer Australia.
"Do or do not, there is no try" - Yoda
It starts innocently enough, the family and I headed out to the Mall to do some back-to-school shopping. We found a great deal on backpacks. Yay! As usual, The Mr. escaped to the TV section (the big baby), which happens to be right next to the bra section. In hindsight, I realize that this is, in fact, great marketing at work. Think about it, you're a man, your lady wants to look at pretty panties, "Babe, aren't these cute?". You're as cornered as a rat in a barrel. Suddenly, you see out of the corner of your eye, your White Knight. He beckons you, "Come toward the light!" You find yourself drawn like a moth to a flame, "Yeah, those are great. I'm just going to look over here...". Your lady is blissfully unaware that you have abandoned her (cardinal sin, gents) and you get to stand, slack jawed before a huge bank of TV magic.
It's a win-win.
Anyway, I left The Mr. drooling over TVs big enough to fill a wall and went in search of the ever elusive Comfortable, yet Flattering Bra. Perhaps you've heard of it. I've heard whispers, rumors..."It's true, I say. My mother's cousin knows a bartender that has a roommate who met a girl at the bank who swears that she has one! It's real!" I decided that today was my day, I was going to find this Mythical Beast. Onward!
I searched high and low, pulling style after style, color after color. The tags shouted at me, "Best Bra Ever!", "No Pinch Underwire!", "The Best Kept Secret!", "Mega Pushup!". Oh, the sensory overload. I gathered my wits about me and headed to the fitting room with an armload, thinking, "One of these has to be The One."
Things started out fairly tame. Not The One, but nothing weird either. Which, ladies, you KNOW is important when we are seeking the Care and Maintenance of "The Girls". Then, it happens.
The security device.
Don't get me wrong, I completely understand stores using these and don't disparage them for it. However, I definitely have a problem with where they have decided to attach them. Could it be on the strap, where it wouldn't interfere with the fit? No. How about on the upper area of the cup where, while it may feel awkward, wouldn't really be that big of a deal? No.
No.
The security device is on the back. Right on the clasp. Because that's THEE perfect spot to put a large, bulky plastic thing. It's so incredibly easy to reach behind you and blindly try to fasten your bra clasp when there's a plastic bulge the size of Australia. Not. If, by some miracle, you get the damn thing fastened against all odds, now you're faced with a different problem. When a woman is trying on her most important piece of clothing, it's important that it be seamless and comfortable, right? Well, nothing says comfort like Australia digging into your back. I wish ALL bras had Australia somewhere on them, it would make life much more interesting and our clothes would look just that much better on us.
So, while I was trying to appreciate the bra that may well be The One, I was also cursing shoplifters everywhere because thanks to their errant ways and general misbehavior, I got to stand in front of a fitting room mirror (or as it's more commonly know, the Fun House Mirror) and try to ignore Australia hunching on my back like Yoda. So thanks, all you rotten shoplifters, you made my day,
I did prevail, I found The One. I skipped back over to the TV section where not only was my husband still drooling over the big screens, my daughters were standing in front of a 3D TV with 3D glasses on looking like little zombies. As special thank you for "shopping" with me, I let The Mr. pay for The One. Good times.
Remember ladies, when you're faced with roadblocks on your search for The One. Don't despair. Don't give up. You too, can conquer Australia.
"Do or do not, there is no try" - Yoda
Monday, June 25, 2012
In which we narrowly escape the black market
I went away this weekend and almost didn't make it back. True story.
A girlfriend of mine, Lulu, is turning 30 and so her hubby aranged for a surprise weekend away for her and some girlfriends at a beach condo. Awww. We whisked her away and headed for a weekend with no men, no kids and if we played our cards right, copious amounts of alcohol.
We made a stop on the way to get a snack and pee. We thought it would be a perfect moment to take a picture so that our trip could be enjoyed for generations to come. My bestie, Tracy, approached a normal looking guy and asked him to take our picture. Now, this seems innocent enough, right? How many times have you asked someone to take your picture or been asked to take a picture? It's not like we were asking him to donate a lung or solve world hunger. Nope, it was just a picture.
Tracy: Excuse me, can you take our picture?
Man: No, I don't have time.
*crickets*
Now, intrepid readers, if you had just told a group of women that you didn't have time to take a picture (because let's face it, that's some hard, time-consuming shit right there), wouldn't you make an effort to walk away? Perhaps whip your phone out of your 80's throw back denims and start madly texting or talking or...something? Not our new friend. Nope, he just stood there. And stood there. And stood there. He stood there while we asked a woman to take our picture. He stood there while we laughed maniacally about people who "don't have time". He stood there until his wife/girlfriend/babysitter/parole officer/dominatrix came out of the bathroom and they walked away.
Shit. You. Not.
We made it to the condo in one piece and had some wine while watching the ocean. We walked down to the beach and wiggled our toes in the sand and picked up shells. Good times.
As the day wore on, we decided that we should adhere to the "Safety First" rule and called a cab to take us into town for dinner. Charms specified that there were 6 of us (twice), could they accomodate that? Yes, ma'am, be there in 20 minutes. Yay, let the party start!
We should have known that the driver was a whack job when he couldn't find his way through the parking lot to the unit we were at. When he finally arrived, he pulled up in a mini-van. Looks promising, right? Oh, you optimistic little ray of sunshine.
He opens the door and there, where the middle seat belongs is...nothing. That's right, folks, there was no middle seat. Why? Who the fuck knows. He says he took it out but doesn't know why.
Alrighty then.
If we were smart, we would have sent him packing and found a van with ALL its parts. But not us! We said, "Fuck it!" and off we went with Lulu and Charms sitting on the floor of the van. On the FLOOR of the van. From this vantage point, they were able to see that our driver had a cooler between the 2 front seats. Obviously, he was going to smuggle us out of the country, steal our organs and sell them to highest bidder. Beacause really, could it get any weirder?
Yes, yes it can.
After dinner, we called another cab to take us downtown (for 6 please, with 6 seats!), hopefully for drinks and dancing! While we waited, we went into a little gift store and looked at all the crap that tourists absolutely insist on buying while on vacation but almost always turns out to be something like, "What the fuck was a thinking?" We came around a corner of the store and there was the tallest chick I've ever seen with a pelican at her feet...biting her hand. Seriously, a pelican. One of these...
Except without the birds and about 75 more colored scarves and electric blue paint and glitter around her eyes. And she sang. Why yes, I did have nightmares.
And we called another cab (for 6 with 6 seats). This guy was younger than the other two and the ride started out without incident. Until he informed us that he was a 3rd degree black belt and if anyone was to ask, he was a fighter not a lover. Oh and he didn't seem to like it when Lulu asked him if he was going to steal our organs and then kill us. Touchy, touchy.
He dropped us off at a "club" where there was supposed to be good music for dancing. There was dancing alright...there was the guy that was just DYING to dance and looked like he was about to bust a move at any moment. The chick who was either dancing with an invisible friend or had dropped some very pretty acid before she left the house. Although our personal favorite was a couple who we don't think was really a couple that was either having a dance off or this was their version of foreplay. They were running into each other and flinging each other around. At one point, she ended the dance by falling slowly to the floor and then just laid there.
Best entertainment ever.
And we called another cab (for 6 with 6 seats). Apparently, the reason downtown was so quiet is because cab driver #4 thought the party was in his van. I'm pretty sure each and every one of my organs was vibrated to within an inch of their lives (it's a good thing cab driver #1 didn't try to sell any of them then because I think they were damaged) and I think I'm clear on how it feels to have heart palpitations. And did I mention he thought he was in the Indy 500? At one point, while trying to enter the condo address (which Bre had to google on her phone because he didn't know where in the hell he was going), he nearly plowed into an off-ramp guard rail. But don't worry girls, "I got you!" But I'll tell you what, Kristin and DanceBoy were dancing and singing like it was 1999!
Thankfully, we made it home alive (and with all our organs) and had dessert and more wine.
This is where we get to the sad part...we're old. I hate to admit it but we are. Give us a warm blankie and a glass of wine and we'll fall asleep on the couch.
No one lost a kidney or got stung by a jellyfish or was dry humped on the dance floor. But it was amazing and unforgettable and I can't wait to do it again.
I would tell you more, but I don't have time. *wink wink*
A girlfriend of mine, Lulu, is turning 30 and so her hubby aranged for a surprise weekend away for her and some girlfriends at a beach condo. Awww. We whisked her away and headed for a weekend with no men, no kids and if we played our cards right, copious amounts of alcohol.
We made a stop on the way to get a snack and pee. We thought it would be a perfect moment to take a picture so that our trip could be enjoyed for generations to come. My bestie, Tracy, approached a normal looking guy and asked him to take our picture. Now, this seems innocent enough, right? How many times have you asked someone to take your picture or been asked to take a picture? It's not like we were asking him to donate a lung or solve world hunger. Nope, it was just a picture.
Tracy: Excuse me, can you take our picture?
Man: No, I don't have time.
*crickets*
Now, intrepid readers, if you had just told a group of women that you didn't have time to take a picture (because let's face it, that's some hard, time-consuming shit right there), wouldn't you make an effort to walk away? Perhaps whip your phone out of your 80's throw back denims and start madly texting or talking or...something? Not our new friend. Nope, he just stood there. And stood there. And stood there. He stood there while we asked a woman to take our picture. He stood there while we laughed maniacally about people who "don't have time". He stood there until his wife/girlfriend/babysitter/parole officer/dominatrix came out of the bathroom and they walked away.
Shit. You. Not.
We made it to the condo in one piece and had some wine while watching the ocean. We walked down to the beach and wiggled our toes in the sand and picked up shells. Good times.
As the day wore on, we decided that we should adhere to the "Safety First" rule and called a cab to take us into town for dinner. Charms specified that there were 6 of us (twice), could they accomodate that? Yes, ma'am, be there in 20 minutes. Yay, let the party start!
We should have known that the driver was a whack job when he couldn't find his way through the parking lot to the unit we were at. When he finally arrived, he pulled up in a mini-van. Looks promising, right? Oh, you optimistic little ray of sunshine.
He opens the door and there, where the middle seat belongs is...nothing. That's right, folks, there was no middle seat. Why? Who the fuck knows. He says he took it out but doesn't know why.
Alrighty then.
If we were smart, we would have sent him packing and found a van with ALL its parts. But not us! We said, "Fuck it!" and off we went with Lulu and Charms sitting on the floor of the van. On the FLOOR of the van. From this vantage point, they were able to see that our driver had a cooler between the 2 front seats. Obviously, he was going to smuggle us out of the country, steal our organs and sell them to highest bidder. Beacause really, could it get any weirder?
Yes, yes it can.
After dinner, we called another cab to take us downtown (for 6 please, with 6 seats!), hopefully for drinks and dancing! While we waited, we went into a little gift store and looked at all the crap that tourists absolutely insist on buying while on vacation but almost always turns out to be something like, "What the fuck was a thinking?" We came around a corner of the store and there was the tallest chick I've ever seen with a pelican at her feet...biting her hand. Seriously, a pelican. One of these...
That's right, in the store, biting her hand. But it's okay because it's a baby, it's been there for 2 days and birds poop all the time. Phew, thank goodness Tall Chick was an expert on birds.
Our cab arrives. Yay!
We count the seats, yep all there...and we're off! This driver seems normal enough until we notice a bottle of...something between his legs. "Whatcha got there, O'douls?"
Driver: No, no, this is just Ginger Ale.
Riiiigggghhhhhttttt.....
He drops us downtown and we go looking for trouble. I mean dancing. For a beach town, it was damn quiet. The most excitement we found was at the pizza parlor where the staff was doing a floor show. A little Greased Lightning and some flying pizza dough makes for a damn good time. We did find a slightly frightening person that looked like the Bird Lady from Mary Poppins...
Except without the birds and about 75 more colored scarves and electric blue paint and glitter around her eyes. And she sang. Why yes, I did have nightmares.
And we called another cab (for 6 with 6 seats). This guy was younger than the other two and the ride started out without incident. Until he informed us that he was a 3rd degree black belt and if anyone was to ask, he was a fighter not a lover. Oh and he didn't seem to like it when Lulu asked him if he was going to steal our organs and then kill us. Touchy, touchy.
He dropped us off at a "club" where there was supposed to be good music for dancing. There was dancing alright...there was the guy that was just DYING to dance and looked like he was about to bust a move at any moment. The chick who was either dancing with an invisible friend or had dropped some very pretty acid before she left the house. Although our personal favorite was a couple who we don't think was really a couple that was either having a dance off or this was their version of foreplay. They were running into each other and flinging each other around. At one point, she ended the dance by falling slowly to the floor and then just laid there.
Best entertainment ever.
And we called another cab (for 6 with 6 seats). Apparently, the reason downtown was so quiet is because cab driver #4 thought the party was in his van. I'm pretty sure each and every one of my organs was vibrated to within an inch of their lives (it's a good thing cab driver #1 didn't try to sell any of them then because I think they were damaged) and I think I'm clear on how it feels to have heart palpitations. And did I mention he thought he was in the Indy 500? At one point, while trying to enter the condo address (which Bre had to google on her phone because he didn't know where in the hell he was going), he nearly plowed into an off-ramp guard rail. But don't worry girls, "I got you!" But I'll tell you what, Kristin and DanceBoy were dancing and singing like it was 1999!
Thankfully, we made it home alive (and with all our organs) and had dessert and more wine.
This is where we get to the sad part...we're old. I hate to admit it but we are. Give us a warm blankie and a glass of wine and we'll fall asleep on the couch.
No one lost a kidney or got stung by a jellyfish or was dry humped on the dance floor. But it was amazing and unforgettable and I can't wait to do it again.
I would tell you more, but I don't have time. *wink wink*
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