Penis balloons and stripper heels

"Hello?"

"BAAAAABYYYYYYY!"

"Hey baby! How's the party going?"

"SOO GOOOOOOD. I JUST WANTED TO TELL YOU THAT I LIKE SPARKLY THINGGGGS."

"You do, huh?" 

"YESSSS. All the girls let me try on their wedding rings and they are SOOO SPARKLYYYY."

"Oh yeah?" 

"YESSSSSSS. I LOVE SPARKLIEEEEEES! I LOVEYOUSOOOOMUCH AND I WANNA BE YOUR WIFEEEEYYYYYYY!
(phone goes silent) ... Helloooo? Baaabyyy?"

You know, I'm thinking of turning this blog into an advice column. Because I hear that the best way to get your boyfriend to want to marry you is to drunkenly demand he give you very expensive diamonds.

He did not in fact hang up on me, but this ill-timed, epic iphone fail was really the epitome of my entire evening. Thank god K has a sense of humor.

This phone conversation took place at approximately 7pm Saturday during a bachelorette party, between a delicious wine tasting and going out to the bars.

The rest of the night was awesome, but it made me realize that I can't hang like I used to.

Remember when we could stay up for three days straight, do shots of cheap vodka, dance on tables, drink our faces off then wake up at 6am to start drinking again for tailgate? How the hell did we do it?

My girlfriend J put it perfectly when she suggested we kick off the night with a champagne toast, then we pop two advil.

Man, when did we get so old? One wine tasting and I was half in the bag. Guess I just can't hang with the kiddies like I used to.


Fun fact: If you Google 'penis balloons', Christina Aguilera comes up all over the place.

Put it on my tab.

When K travels for work, I have to figure out how to do shiz by myself. Like cook, shovel snow, and mow the lawn.

It's a sweaty, time-consuming job, but I thought I'd do K a solid and surprise him when he came home to a well-groomed grassy knoll. (Thatswhatshesaid)

I mowed the front lawn with little to no complication; circling the brick island in the middle of the yard with master precision. The lines may have been a little crooked, but at least the grass was cut.

The back yard was another story.

I did a precursory loop around the yard, outlining the surrounding lilac bushes. I was about to make my second orbit when suddenly a metal piece broke off, and the wheel flew right off the GD mower.

Really?

The list of shit I've broken since I moved in is thus:
- End table (fell and took a big chunk out of the kitchen island drywall)
- Closet door (fell off and took a big chunk out of the drywall)
- Coffee maker (juuuuust stopped working)
- Coffee mug
- Dinner plate
- Pan, when I burned chocolate to the bottom while watching gilmore girls
- Dishwasher (the spinny thing broke when I piled the dishes too high)
- Annnnnd lawn mower

Juuuust put it on my tab.

Thanks a pantload, Vera Wang.

I have hit rock bottom. Cheek-on-the-pavement, sucking-in-gravel, rock bottom. I went to a bridal shop to be fitted for the bridesmaid dress for my girlfriend's wedding next summer. I knew what the dress looked like (floor length, strapless, chiffon) and I had a BROAD guess at the size I'd need.

The lady at the shop had me try on the dress in the size I THOUGHT I would be. The gown was about SIX INCHES from closing in the back. Thankfully, my sister was there to help me out (and give me a paper bag to breathe into when I found out what size I would actually need.)

I had to go up four sizes. Into the PLUS sized section.

Devastating. And also the biggest punch in the face that I needed to get my ass in gear.

Apparently bridesmaids dresses are designed to make you want to slit your wrists. And after an extensive Google search looking for female consolance after my traumatizing experience, I discovered that this is actually very common. It appears that designers use an ancient size reference system, and women frequently have to order up several sizes from their typical size in order to fit into the gowns.

Why the HELL would they do this? Bridal shops are in the business of making girls feel beautiful in their dresses and building self esteem, not referring them to 1-800-94-JENNY.

Ladies, this bridal party is comprised of gorgeous girls I knew in high school that I haven't seen since I had a pixie cut. I cannot be the fattest girl in the wedding party. I CANNOT.

Operation Romy and Michelle is in full effect.

Pirates with penis envy

The ladies' room at any bar is a magical place of kinship, compliments, and catfights. Friendships are forged in the always-hefty line over cute shoes, matching bags, and mutual anger that men never have to stand in line. Sometimes we link up and form an army, comandeering the men's room like pirates with penis envy.

It starts off innocently enough, you pick your bathroom partner and politely join the end of the line (yes, we do always go in groups--would you enter into battle without your fellow soldiers?)

As the night wears on and seals are broken, the bathroom becomes a dangerous place. Women get drunker and sassier, and we have to pee a LOT more often, and more urgently. Irritation replaces politeness, and anger replaces compliments as elbows are dropped in the name of basic human need.

And if you're lucky enough to get the stall that still has toilet paper on the roll and minimal urine on the seat--you better go buy a lottery ticket. Because the ladies room is where the sweet and dainty become savage beasts with no manners.

You'd think that bar owners would take this into consideration, and provide more than two stalls. If they were REALLY smart, they'd also fashion the bathroom door to open outward, so the poor lass unfortunate enough to take on the spot in line behind the door wouldn't get body slammed as she waits patiently to enter the stall. Word to the wise: save the money you spend on bouncers and invest in your restrooms. Lives will be spared, and peace will be restored.

What's next? Depends and a Hoverround?

I am 90 years old. No, seriously. Ask me what my interests are. I enjoy a good novel, talking to my cats (PLURAL), baking banana bread, and last night I found myself outside in the garden for HOURS weeding and planting, knee deep in dirt, Willie Nelson bandana around my head.

Seriously... 90.

When did my life go from beer bongs to garden hoes?

But the weird thing is... I LOVE IT. I am not sad about this transition. Of course I miss the party days and all the crazy things we did in college (like ride a waterslide down the staircase of a frat house), but I LOVE this new stage too. Am I crazy?

What a strange age this can be, your late 20s. You find yourself somewhere between daisy dukes and bermuda shorts, between glowsticks and Netflix nights, pre-Pampers and post-keg stands.

And the circle of life goes on. Meanwhile, I'll be doing jager bombs Saturday. Guess I'm a walking conundrum.

Bachelor Pad 2: Slutty Girl Scout Camp

Jake and Vienna's epic public breakup.

Bachelor Pad 2 is chock full of crazy skanks with a few hotties thrown in. Jake and Vienna are douchebags, Kasey is whipped, and I've been praying for poor Ames to finally lose his v-card.

If you've never seen the show, think Paradise Hotel with discarded contestants of the Bachelor/Bachelorette and a touch of girl scout camp. Really slutty girl scout camp.

On last night's episode, the most romantic intimation rose out of the backstabbing, conniving ashes of the show. In a touching show of affection (and blatant disregard for the cash prize that he obviously didn't need) once his lady friend was voted off, Ames galloped toward the departing limo in slow motion and waved goodbye, too. I admit it--I teared up a bit.

See ladies? Chivalry isn't dead. If you're a reality TV star with plenty of money and a knack for grand gestures.

But now that my favorite couple is gone, I am hanging my hat on the drama queens that remain. Dance, puppets, dance.

Bad boys, bad boys

I felt like I was 17 again this weekend. We had 2 BBQs on Saturday, and since we arrived late to the second (and had imbibed in a few drinks) we decided to stay. We awoke the next morning to the sounds of a fierce, persistent knocking at the door around 8:30am. (Jesus, is that you? We're on our way to church, we swear.)

I grumpily peered out the curtains to see who was gracing us with their early and unwanted presence. To my surprise, it was a burly, balding police officer. And he wasn't bearing coffee and donuts.

I craftily hid behind the curtains to watch the magic unfold, because that is my sneaky secret detective way. I had been to parties when the cops had arrived DURING the festivities, to address a noise complaint or arrest underaged drunkies, but never the morning AFTER. This had to be good.

Apparently, a neighbor had complained that a partygoer had ridden a bike down the street and wiped out on their lawn, a-la America's Funniest Videos, causing divots that were irreparable and emotionally damaging. Which is totally understandable, because grass doesn't grow on it's own. Oh, wait.

What party?

Anyways, our gracious hosts talked to the police officer and worked out the issue at hand. The cop asked if there had been a party the night before, and he admitted as much. Good thing he didn't try to lie, because this was right about the moment that I realized how the cop had found the house:

All was settled and nobody was arrested. And the moral of the story? Doesn't matter if you're 17 or 27, you can still get a laugh (and an unwanted visit from the cops) with a beer box. Also, don't ride your bike down the street and wipe out on your neighbor's lawn.

Rollin on dubs

I knew it was low when I pulled out of the garage. Probably a long-term consequence of my fucking tack debacle. By the time I got to the bank, I could hear the grinding as I drove on the rim.

Cringing, I thanked the man who got out of his vehicle in line behind me to notify me of my already embarrassing tire situation.

I crawled at a snail's pace to the Stewart's in town, which carries free air. Thank G, because I'm not paying for shit I can breathe in for free.

Sheepishly, I pulled into the parking lot in front of my neighbor (of course, small town living!) and three punk kids on bikes eyeing my disabled mobile. I was half a mile from the house, and my mind filled with visions of having to leave my car at Stewart's until K got home from work and walking home to the taunting of the Stars Hollow Bicycle Gang.

I prejudged. I totally did. But I shouldn't have, because one of the punk kids got off of his bike and helped me fill my tire.

I made it home in one piece, thanks to the kindness of my neighbors. And I learned once again that small town living can sure be a blessing. But if you like to live an incognito lifestyle, it's definitely not the place for you.

So honored!

An ah-MAZING thing happened two weeks ago. I sent a Tweet to Erin, a former ELLEgirl and Glamour writer whose work I've been in love with for years, to let her know I'd miss her Glamour blog posts. To my utter shock and gushing appreciation, she wrote back letting me know she had written a blog post with a shoutout to ME. 

I'm so honored!

So thanks for making my day, Erin, and giving me the boost I needed to keep blogging!

All the single ladies (allthesingleladies!)

I'm not even embarrassed to admit that I am an avid fan of the show 'Single Ladies' on VH1, starring Dee from Clueless and "Girl in the black cap trying out for cheerleading" from Moesha. (Not even kidding, check Wikipedia.)

I'm sure I'm nowhere near the target demographic for this soap opera, since I'm the whitest white girl you'll ever meet, but I. LOVE. IT.

It's Tyler Perry meets All My Children with a token white girl thrown in. The acting is bad, the storyline predictable, and it makes you want to lay on the couch for eight hours eating ice cream right out of the box.

They are all dating hot, rich, black men who enjoy taking their shirts off at any opportunity and drive really expensive cars. And sometimes they give each other bubble baths.

If you haven't seen it already, I suggest you do. It's so good that K watched it himself, without any prompting from me, from his hotel room at work. He'd kill me if I told you that, but it was too hilarious not to mention.

Million Dollar Enchiladas

After a long week of entertaining houseguests, my sister and Johnny Bananas decided to order in from the new Mexican place instead of cooking. Even Betty Crocker needs a day off, right?

After a grueling half hour of deciding whether they wanted to go chimichanga or hot tamale, JB went into the other room to place the order.

Time ticks by slowly when you're salivating at the mouth. My sister wondered where the hell JB had gone. To spy on the hog through the bathroom window? Maybe he fell in the toilet?

Finally, he bounced back into the room, declaring that he had placed the order. My sister asked why it took so long. 

He couldn't decide on just one item, so he got a few things they could share. The list entailed:
- Guacamole and chips
- 2 chicken burritos
- 1 veggie burrito
- 2 enchiladas
- 1 taco order

Holy hell. How much was this going to cost?? They decided it was too late to cancel the order, so they'd just find out when they got there.

When they arrived to pick up the order, the lady behind the counter grinned Grinchily at the two of them. "Wow! This is the biggest take-out order we've had yet!" She declared.

Uneasily, JB took the oversized box from her arms, and they awaited their fate. She read the total, and the box shook as he fished out his wallet to pay his penance.

ONE HUNDRED DOLLARS. $100.12, to be exact.

Turns out, each of the items they ordered came as a meal. Which left them with 6 sides of rice and beans.

They didn't have the heart to tell her it was only for two people.

Looks like they'll be having Mexican for breakfast and lunch, too. For the rest of the summer.

The Strap Perfect is a two-man job.

The strap perfect is a genius invention. Especially considering racerback tanks are in this summer. But the adherence of the SP isn't a solo mission, unless you want to end up ass over elbows on your closet floor.

I tried unsuccessfully to put the strap perfect on by myself several times before I gave in, unpretzled my arms and humbly requested assistance. The problem is: I'm not double-jointed. Or a contortionist.

And let's face it: you don't want to walk around looking like white trash with your straps all hangin' out. And if you're an ample-busomed lady such as myself, you can't go commando. Maybe back in my skinny days, but certainly not now.

Thankfully, K is very helpful when it comes to the SP. He's also good at tucking the boob pads back into my bathing suits when they come out in the wash. Coincidence? I think not.

So we've negotiated a Strap Perfect Assistance contract through racerback season, and hopefully I won't need to pop and lock my way through dressing myself each morning.

How the mighty have fallen (off their pedestals)

Oh, the irony. Mr. To-Catch-A-Predator himself has been caught in a scandal all his own. Except nobody is confronting him in the kitchen with a plate full of cookies, three cameras, and an underaged decoy in the back room.

Chris Hansen was allegedly caught cheating on his wife in a sexting scandal with a fellow news anchor.

Haven't we learned anything from the scumbags we've been accosting all these years? Not that pedophilia is the same as a consensual adult relationship, but I'm just sayin'. It's like Joey Greco getting caught cheating on his wife.

We want to see the naughty pics, Chris. And if you're lucky, when you run out the back door, we'll have a gaggle of police officers tackle you to the cement for adultery.