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.