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.