The Rescue Mission

My married sister’s hubby was off at a bachelor party this weekend, and having just seen the movie “The Hangover,” Oonagh didn’t want to stay alone all weekend and wonder how much longer before someone stole a baby and if their recent house purchase would get in the way of available bail money, so she headed out to the suburbs for a family reunion of sorts–Irish style!  There was roast for dinner (and plenty of leftovers for Saturday…), a bottle of wine (or 4…), and, thankfully, no noise complaints from the neighbors–but only because they are out of town!  The night was going great–no wine had been spilled, all the gossip had been shared, and the next day’s shopping trip was being planned, when suddenly disaster struck our screened in back deck.

No, we did not spill the Pinot Noir on the leftover roast potatoes–that lesson was learned the hard way and now all serving platters are kept far away from our clumsy crew after 2 glasses of wine–but this was almost as bad.  Oonagh, in some inspired need for who knows what, decided that the best time and place to take off her wedding ring and clean it was on our back deck, at midnight, after a glass of white and a bottle of red.  The ring, in it’s quest for a fuller life and grand adventures, flew from her grasp and bounced somewhere under the table–which cued a family panic.  Lights were turned on, flashlights were brought out, and my mom, Oonagh, and I began crawling around the deck on hands and knees, moving chairs and rugs as we went, hoping for a glimpse of shine off one of the diamonds.  My dad, ever helpful, sat out of the way in his chair nursing a glass of Cabernet and proclaiming “Oonagh, you’re an idiot” over and over.

We quickly determined the ring was not on the deck, but had fallen through one of the slats in the floor.  On some of our old decks, this would not have been an issue–you simply walk down the stairs and find the ring on the ground 10 feet below, no problem.  However, due to Murphy’s law or something equality annoying (but good for storytelling), our deck is only 2 feet off the ground, so getting underneath it meant crawling through the mud, leaves, snakes, and long lost frisbees, in the dark, at midnight.  To make matters worse, in order to ensure our screened in deck remains bug-free, my father installed screen mesh to the entire underside of the deck as well, so the ring was stuck somewhere on the mesh, under the deck, and therefore the location could not be seen without squirming around under there and looking everywhere first.

At this point, we all looked at Oonagh, still in her white skirt and white top from work today, fingers curled around her one remaining ring protectively, on the verge of impending divorce should she have to phone her hubby and tell him that even though he’s the one meant to be enjoying a weekend of debauchery, dinner with our parents has proved to be much more detrimental to their finances and social status.   The pity was impossible to stop, so in a moment of weakness (I blame the Sauvignon Blanc…), I gallantly offered to crawl under there for her and retrieve the ring.  (It was probably a smart decision too–none of us were capable of driving to the hospital should the need arise, and I’m sure I had the most up-to-date tetanus shot!)  I sent Oonagh to the garage to get an old tarp for me to lay on (there is a level to how dirty I’m willing to get in the name of sisterly-love), then with a giant flashlight in hand, and Oonagh standing behind me shouting encouragements like the nervous mother of little Jessica in the well, I began exploring the dark terrain that is our under deck.  I found lost toys, multiple pine cones (which hurt to crawl over, by the way), and when I reached the spot we thought the ring fell, I started looking up…nothing.  I crawling in farther…still nothing.  I crawled to the right some…still nothing.  And then, there was suddenly a little circle on the screen!  I put the flashlight closer, but it didn’t shine (might want to check the quality of those stones), so I poked at it, afraid of what else it could be, and the band shifted to show me that I had found it!  I popped it on my finger and yelled for Oonagh to pull me out, and as I was sliding backwards over the mud and pine cones, I suddenly realized, I could totally make this work for me…

I stood next to the deck, the ring safely on my finger, mud on my knees, and some pine straw in my hair, and started reminding Oonagh that I just saved her life and potentially her marriage…and then I held the ring hostage as I told her that she would be buying ALL of my drinks when we went out with our other sister in Midtown the next night!  I’m pretty sure this is going to be a top-shelf kind of night, who’s coming?!

The Great American Roadtrip Part 2

*To catch up on the story so far, first read: The Great American Roadtrip Part 1

Wednesday morning marked our first true day as adventurers.  We had a vague plan of lunch in Armadillo, Texas, and I started the drive so that Anna could Google other oddities along the way.  This is how we managed to tick off our list seeing either the “world’s largest” or “world’s smallest” something—in the middle of the deserted downtown of Wichita Falls, Texas, the world’s littlest skyscraper is for rent.  We were intrigued by the website’s proclamation that it stood just over 16 feet tall—I imagined plate glass windows only inches tall each, the rest of the street full of dwarf houses in order to create the illusion of this building towering over them.  Unfortunately, this is all a hoax, a money making scam by some hustler building developer who created blueprints for a regular two-story building, but scaled it in inches, not feet, and conned investors into believing otherwise.  Still, it’s a photo-op, so who are we to pass it up!

Back on the road, I realized that for as long as I’ve known Anna, I have been considered to be the bad driver of the group.  I know I have had a few reasons to earn that reputation along the way, but never in all those years did I attempt to whip the car around into an illegal U-turn in the middle of the road.  (Anna made at least five of these between New Orleans and Las Vegas.  I demand someone reevaluate these reputations!)  The reason for this sudden urge to backtrack was so that we could visit a junk shop on the side of the road.  It literally looked like a permanent yard sale with all the junk from your grandmother’s attic left out on the lawn for about fifty years until it all rusted beyond recognition.  Anna was apparently already looking for decorating tips for her new apartment…Pier One will give you all the same rustic looks, without the need for a tetanus shot, darling…

Safely back on the highway, the first place we made sure to visit based on our book of eccentric stops was Amarillo, Texas.  The beginning of our journey on Route 66, Amarillo housed two major attractions for us, and one included lunch!  This is how we ended up in the Big Texan Steakhouse—home of the 72 ounce sirloin.  Yes, we know everything is bigger in Texas, but that doesn’t necessarily make it better.  Thank goodness we had our physicals before clogging up the arteries!  This restaurant was like being inside a taxidermist workshop—every five feet along the walls hung some version of stuffed head and antlers.  All the tablecloths were cow print.  The waiters wore cowboy hats, bandannas, and over sized belt buckles.  It was a pile of Texas stereotypes, served to you with a side of beef!  But it was very good beef…

Fully stuffed from our grand lunch (we didn’t dare attempt the 72 oz. steak, but Anna had a rather “adventurous” bison burger to start getting used to Western cuisine–I’m pretty sure fried chicken and collard greens are in the past for her now!) and happy from a postcard shopping spree, we set out to find the quirky Cadillac Ranch, just down the road.  You could say this next leg of our trip was based around visiting the forgotten landmarks that make Route 66 so exciting–where else can you find a “sculpture” made from planting classic Caddies fins up and letting tourists spray paint them for years to come?  We climbed, we made photo ops, we left our mark on 3 separate cars, and we hit the road when other people started showing up–because what fun are forgotten landmarks when you have to share them with tourists?

We were almost fed up from counting the tumbleweed, our only landmarks in West Texas, when we crossed into New Mexico and had a chance for another “state line” photo op–except the fine people of New Mexico didn’t consider our “balance the camera on car, hit self timer, and run” method of taking these shots–there was no place to park the car near the sign, so we had to settle for individual shots instead.  Already this state was disappointing us–we ended our day an hour later at a La Quinta Inn and drown our sorrows with margaritas and a hot tub.  At least we would be relaxed for the next day’s adventures…

The next morning, we started making a list of upcoming sites and photo ops, trying to plan our remaining 800 miles out a bit.  First point: take a photo at the first green highway sign that says “Las Vegas: xxx Miles”.  We figured this would pop up on some lonely strip of desert in Arizona, so imagine our surprise when we saw the sign 20 minutes after starting our journey!  Anna parked the car on the shoulder and I started fiddling with the camera timer…and then we both realized that “Las Vegas 65 miles” was probably not the same city we were heading towards.  At least we caught on before taking that detour!

Speaking of detours, our next stop was definitely that!  We planned to see as many odd things as possible on this trip, but still had a destination to reach, so we limited our odd things to being on the route we were traveling–and being on Route 66, it wasn’t that difficult, except Anna really wanted to see the cemetery in Chilili, and after living in New Orleans, I had acquired an odd fascination for cemeteries too, so I agreed to help navigate her 15 miles down a dirt road in search of it…except with no cell phone signal, a VERY confused GPS, and 15 miles turning into more like 30, I really began to question if this wasn’t just some plot to dump me in the desert and steal my cool iPhone!

Finally finding the cemetery, I was initially disappointed that it looked so rundown and only had a few plots inside–did we really risk being stranded where even Triple-A couldn’t find us for this?  But, it is acutally incredible!  A local man named Horance McAfee recreated the wording of almost every headstone in tin, punching out the individual letters with a nail.  He welded protective frames around them all and wrote up his views of the after life (again, in tin) at the entrance.  It wasn’t quite family tombs and Jazz funerals, but it’s a seriously cool cemetery to see!

Adventures in Coweta County

I had only been at Krissy’s house for 30 minutes when I had a extra large glass of chardonnay in my hand and she was asking me “wanna do something illegal?”  This, ladies and gentleman, is why we venture west of the 285 every once in awhile!

Now that you are completely confused, let me tell you about my Friday afternoon.  A few weeks ago, I came across a website looking for 2 smiling faces with 67 days of vacation available to live in Orlando and play tourist, then blog, tweet, and post videos about what incredible adventures are in store for the future tourist who will be enchanted and flock here en mass.  Basically, my perfect job.  I immediately facebooked the link to Anna, because she is my logical partner in crime for any such adventures (see stories about Vegas, The Great American Roadtrip, and numerous camping misadventures for proof), but seeing as she is “gainfully employed” at the moment, and we were pretty sure the city of Orlando wasn’t willing to hold off for 2 or 3 years until she had some free time, I moved to plan B…aka plan Better! (Sorry Anna, but I’m pretty sure Coweta County is the key to winning this one.)

Enter Krissy, my adorable ex-resident (who made dorm life a constant adventure) who recently found herself tangled up in a bit of a …tricky… work situation.  (Wow, I have never linked back to so many of my own stories in one post….)  Needless to say, she seemed to fit in the requirement of 67 available days–now all we have to do is film our entry video.  The video sounded simple enough, you have 1 minute or less to show and tell why you would be the best duo to take on Orlando…while showcasing genuine smiles!  (Thank goodness Danny and Marian invested so much in the required middle school orthodontia, my pearly whites were about to make their big debut!)  But, this is where we ended up clueless in Coweta County, with juice boxes of wine and no idea what to film…until Krissy said those magical words: “wanna do something illegal?”

All of a sudden the ideas were flowing–we would do a tour of Coweta County, and discover the fun, pretty, and slightly odd that it had to offer.  We wouldn’t be the boring people standing in their house telling you they are adventurous, we would show you (in 7 craftily edited video clips) exactly what we can bring to the table–it would be “60 Seconds of Smiles in Coweta County!”  (I know, I know, 67 is the magic number here, but I wasn’t about to get disqualified by a technicality of running over by 7 seconds…)  We started racking our brains, making a list of what we could do–dad has a trampoline, there’s a waterfall beyond that fence, someone mentioned a park once with really tall slides…and then Krissy jumped up, careful not to spill the wine, ran out to the shed…and reappeared with a pink bicycle-built-for-two!  It was perfect–we had our opening scene, and then we could stick it in the car and take it along to all the sites, it would be our thing–like the Doublemint twins, only instead of looking alike in height, hair color, or anything really, we would be matched by our pale, freckled Irish skin…and our winning smiles of course!

We pumped air in the tires, dusted off the seats, and recruited Krissy’s mom to film this first segment for us…and then we fell.  Krissy was apparently a tad too short to reach the pedals up front–not a problem, I’ll steer the bike!  (We were safe, there were no curbs or gutters in sight, so the arm breaking incident of 1994 was unlikely to be repeated.)  Take 2–I steered us into a ditch.  Take 3–Krissy’s head rammed into my back while trying to pedal harder.  Take 4–I figured I could edit something out of this one, but the bike was cut from any further sections of the video…I was not in the mood for a third broken arm!

The video clips were running along pretty smoothly…no one yelled at us when we jumped the fence, Krissy didn’t fall into the water when I kept telling her to “move back a little more” trying to frame up a shot, I did a flip on the trampoline without bouncing completely off the side, and after 10 minutes of bribery, we got the 3 year old to let us use the slides for one take!  We were on a roll…and then we came across “Barbie Beach.”  Apparently, this famous Coweta County “landmark” has been around for almost 15 years…and is regularly redecorated to reflect the season, holiday, or gay pride celebration (the rainbow flag flies year round alongside the American flag…) and this month, it was “Barbie’s on (nude) vacation.”  Hoping to bring a little local Georgia color to our video, I started looking for the best place to set my camera so I could push the record button and run, when on of the owners of “Barbie Beach” came walking out to chat…with a Miller Lite in one hand, Virginia Slim in the other, there was no way to stop her torn NASCAR t-shirt from flapping open, and revealing to us both that it was “bra-free weekend” on this side of town.  She offered to shoot the video for us, and seeing that as the quickest was to get our clip and run (you know, to gouge our eyes out…) I directed her on where to stand and the one button to press.  After 3 takes and a rundown of the next few themes, where her 2 boys were going to be spending the weekend (note to self: AVOID), and how darn hot it was, we hopped back in my car and went to film our last few necessary seconds…in the safety of Krissy’s yard!

Today, the video has been submitted (and could end up on Orlando’s facebook fan page if they liked us enough!) but instead of posting it here for you all to critique, I’ve decided you’d be much more entertained by our “blooper reel”…so, for your Saturday night viewing pleasure, may I present the footage that Krissy thought I deleted!

The Saga of the Leftovers

In our household, we have a strange attachment to our leftovers.  I think it’s because my mom is one of the last living kickbacks to June Cleaver, who still makes Sunday night roasts, gravy with no lumps, and mashed potatoes from actual potatoes instead of those boxes.  There’s really no telling when she might figure out that even Martha Stewart has frozen dinners now, so we’re are happy to enjoy every made-from-scratch meal twice!  This being said, there really wasn’t much discussion of who got the leftovers because there was always plenty to go around…until my sisters moved away for college.  This right of passage which most parents wait 18 long, teenage angst filled years for was the beginning of the darkest time in my father’s life–the end of the leftovers!

Although my sisters only went 45 minutes away to school, my mother worried about them, and since she was always cooking none of us ever needed to learn how, so every time one of them came home for dinner, they would bring with them an ice chest and 5 to 10 tupperware containers, which would promptly be filled after dinner with every remaining morsel of food in the house.  My father would watch in horror as his plans for a roast beef sandwich for lunch or Irish stew for dinner the next day got neatly packed away and taken to Athens.

After all of us completed college and moved some more, these visits home became scarcer and my father was able to enjoy his leftovers once again…until a tragic event last night.  The following is an e-mail he sent out the the family, please keep in mind that he is just now recovering from 6 years without any leftovers, so his strange attachment is justified.

“Just in….coleslaw gives life to save kitchen floor from serious wine damage. Wine glass dies in this tragic accident but brisket and spuds saved.

Tonight during a romantic dinner (alone and platonic) while over reacting to a mosquito in the kitchen, subject hit wine glass with right hand. The expensive riddell wine glass dropped one level breaking in many pieces…..the subject, our hero, tried to save the glass but in vain. The blood flowed freely but upon closer inspection it turned out to be the wine….a nice 2004 Napa Cabernet, blood like color, mild tanins and smooth on the counter top.

Our hero rushed for the towels, new and white unfortunately, but couldn’t stop the flow quickly enough, it looked like a scene from chainsaw masacre. Then out came the broom and pan. Meanwhile the brisket and spuds were getting cold…..dilemma, eat first or clean first. Needed a new glass to ponder that decision……vision of the (mother) appeared, so clean first was the obvious choice.

Brisket and spuds great, cole slaw tragically missing due to death (note to recepie file: no red wine in cole slaw).

For more details go to www.tragiceventinsnellville.com“

Please note: website doesn’t actually work.  I’m still trying to teach him how to record shows on the VCR, web design will need to wait about a decade.

Life lessons in job hunting…

Forgive me Father, for I have sinned.  It has been…months since my last story.

A million apologize for that, but in April I made a big decision and, to quote the Fresh Prince, “my life got flipped, turned upside down.”  I quit my job, turned in my minivan full of candy, and moved to Atlanta.  Then, there was that joyful process of buying a car, some time spent reacquainting myself with my family (from 6 years of living 250+ miles away to living across the hall…it’s been a rocky re- acquaintance to say the least), and my life since has been devoted to finding a job.  I can tell you from my daily pursuit in the world of online unemployment that there are WAY too many blog posts out there already about job hunting tips, bitter unemployed people complaining about the lack of jobs, and 20-somethings bragging about how they found a job and promoting the “self-help” book they published on the topic.  Needless to say, I didn’t have a lot of fresh material…until my friend got involved in a pyramid scheme!

It’s not often that I write about other people’s lives on here, primarily because I’m selfish and I don’t like to share the spotlight (they say honesty is my best quality…), but there are just some occasions where I cannot ignore a story–it needs to be told.  One of my college friends has been job hunting for awhile…like the rest of the country.  The problem here is she graduated with a degree in Biology and decided against Med school, Dental school, or 8th grade teacher, so she has had the challenge of convincing corporate America that her extensive knowledge of animal skeletal systems would be useful in growing their customer base and negotiating contracts.  I’m with HR here, I just don’t see it.

Regardless, things started looking up a few weeks ago when she got an interview, then a second interview, and then a job offer with some up and coming company doing “Entry level Marketing”…yes, any job seeker out there immediately saw the red flags on that one I know, but my dear friend was so stoked for an offer that she decided to ignore the Negative Nancy voice in her head and go for it–straight down I-16 for “training.”

Now, this training should have shot another red flag into the eyes of my friend–she was being put up in a hotel in a middle of nowhere Georgia town, paying almost all her own expenses, and working with 6 other new hires from 7am to 8pm…and to make matters worse, the cult leader, excuse me, I mean Sales Trainer, in charge of them declared the training “alcohol free”–they weren’t even allowed a beer at dinner on their own expense.  She did kindly offer to sponsor anyone unable to handle this abstinence at the local chapter of AA, but I’m pretty sure that would only drive them all to drink more.

Needless to say, after 2 weeks of this South Georgia exclusion, with no alcohol, no paycheck, and 2 broken pairs of heels, my friend decided it was time to hit the road.  The only upside to the entire visit into the world of “grown up jobs” was when a store owner she had been soliciting (the broken shoes came from 10 hours a day of walking from store to store selling something useless) gave her a free mini-bottle of gin, saying “here, you look like you need this.”  Let this be a lesson to us all: any job in corporate America which restricts the ritual of happy hour is just not worth the hassle.

Rebel without a cause…

Friday, to kick start Bad Decision Easter with a bang, I decided to learn how to be a badass. Granted, the day began at a hair salon, but a key factor to being a badass is simply looking the part-so I got darker hair and vampy bangs, a consultation on some red lipstick, and went home to dress in my darkest jeans, black pointy tall boots, and a long chunky silver necklace. All that was missing was my black leather jacket, but it’s April, we’ll call this the “Badass Spring Line.” Now that I looked the part, it was time to confirm my badass plans for the day. A friend of mine has cornered the market for badass behaviors (but without the sleeves of tattoos and multiple facial piercings that make them terrifying to the general population)-owns a few motorcycles, enjoys shooting guns, tells his dentist he won’t be flossing every day (…I have no idea if that’s true…) and by some stroke of fate (or temporary insanity) decided to impart his wisdom and skills upon me this afternoon by teaching me how to shoot a 9mm…and riding to the shooting range on a motorcycle! Before you even begin to worry, my parents had left at 6am for a couple nights in Kentucky, so unless the neighbors start talking, this secret rebellion should stay just that!

My friend rolled up around 3pm on a blue sports bike with matching helmet, jacket, and riding gloves…it was all very Speedracer and the Mach5 (yes, I know that was a car, but the image works anyway.) He had a helmet ready for me, this giant black contraption designed to flatten my hair in 3.7 miles or less…why didn’t I agree to extra hair spray from Michelle earlier?? The only problem? I was wearing a short sleeve, button down blouse (who says biker chicks can’t have a little class?) and on the off chance we fall, covered arms tend to get less road burn. Here’s when I became glad my family never gets rid of things-after a 2 minute search of our 8 closets (4 women in one house…there were all necessary for a time) I came up with an old red ski jacket of my sisters. No, it didn’t really help my badass image, but it wasn’t as bad as the blue and white patterned and belted trench coat I started off wearing, and the red and black color scheme with the helmet canceled out the Georgia Tech key chain. (Go Dawgs!) Being properly outfitted, it was time to load my ruffled madras print clutch purse into the backpack (complete with deadbolted gun case and many boxes of ammo…it’s all about balance) and go through my 40 second riding safety crash course. Highlights: don’t let go, keep your feet up, don’t let go, and I can hear you scream if necessary. Just a thought, but if you can hear my screaming, won’t it already be too late?

I hopped up on the back of the bike and said a silent prayer, then listened to the engine rev and wondered how many of my neighbors were taking pictures to show my mother what kinds of hooligans broke in and stole beer this time (because those missing six-packs when I was in high school were clearly not my fault!) We headed out of the neighborhood going about 27 mph and I realized I had about 1.4 miles to get used to this entire riding a motorcycle thing before we entered the highway and started driving at an actual speed…and instead, all I could think about was if I fly backwards off this thing and land on the backpack full of ammo and guns, how hard can I hit the pavement without causing something to explode? I closed my eyes…and then opened them right back up–I am not a chicken, I can handle this, it’s just like riding on a (very skinny) convertible…with no doors…or seatbelts…or 4 wheels to balance…hell, who was I kidding, I was terrified and my friend knew it, considering that he lost the ability to inhale after the first 1.4 miles!

The ride was…uneventful. We didn’t crash, have to lean really far to one side to make a sharp turn, or pop a wheelie while peeling off from the rival gang in a race for pinks. (Okay, so I was a little disappointed about the last one…) But I did feel like a genuine badass when we pulled up to the shooting range with the motor still revving…until I proceeded to fall sideways off the parked bike and get the helmet stuck over my big hair. But I was pumped–I was about to venture into the big, bad world of shooting guns! We walked inside the building, and I was certain we were in the wrong place. Perhaps this was a bowling alley? The clientele was old. Lots of gray hair and a couple women in denim pinafore dresses. There were no thugs, no hooligans, and I had more tattoos than a single person there! This isn’t right–theses people looked like my parent’s church dinner club, what were they doing with guns??

We got assigned a lane, earplugs, science class worthy safety goggles, and entered into the “danger zone”…where I started to shake. Yea, so much for being a badass, I was apparently terrified at the simple sound of a shot being fired…this might be a very long afternoon. My friend did the obligingly gun safety course (“this is a bullet, this is a trigger…if one of these is in the gun and you pull the trigger, something ends up holey…”), taught me how to load the magazine (the clip? I forgot which was which already…), and then handed me the 9mm with instructions to aim at the notebook paper sized target 10 feet in front of me…so I did…7 times. And I missed…7 times. He seemed confused about what went wrong. I was just happy to hand the gun back and go stand by the far door with my tail between my legs. Being a badass is completely overrated!

I sucked it up for a few more rounds, and actually managed to hit the target a few times (when my friend held my shoulders down to stop the shaking and reminded me that breathing is a good thing…), but once the man over in lane 3 started shooting his bazooka (it was shaking the walls–whatever he had was a hell of a lot bigger than a .22 revolver!) I decided to take my chances with the open road again and head on back to the motorcycle. Which we road home…in the rain…Okay universe, I understand. From now on, I will stick to the more civilized forms of reckless behavior, like sky diving!

The Drunk and Stumble Easter Egg Hunt

I know I haven’t been around to regale you with my stories in awhile…but try not to hate me, my life has simply been *that* boring.  Fear not though, as I write this, I am at the airport waiting to go to Atlanta for “Bad Decision Easter”!  This means that Sunday (…or Monday…maybe Tuesday, depending on the level of hungover I am) I will have new amazing stories up!  Try to contain yourself, because I will also be offering an award to anyone who can top my adventures with some of your own.  That’s right—if your Easter story is better than my own, you will be honored with it written up here and a spot on that coveted dedication page of my first book!  To inspire you (and give you some idea of indication of what level of BDE we are talking about here) I’m going to tell the story of Easter last year…which was spent at “The Drunk and Stumble Easter Egg Hunt (because that’s how Jesus would do it).”
 
Last Easter, I was also in Atlanta (because it’s a holiday built around family bonding and lots of liquor…) and I decided to spend Saturday night in Atlanta with my sister Sinead.  Sinead is an accountant, as are most of her friends, but they have defied the odds and managed to have both personalities AND lives…as well as incredible tolerance!  When I heard some high school friends of her friend Rebecca were hosting a drunken Easter egg hunt at their house, I knew there was no other way I could spend my holiday…so I put on my cutest sundress (or potentially just jeans and a top because Easter in Atlanta is usually freakishly cold…) and headed over to make new friends.  The party was hosted by a couple guys who lived together, none of who’s names I remember, but one wore a kilt and 2 others wore extremely pastel outfits…needless to say, they make an impression even without a houseful of Cadbury Crème Eggs (I stole a few, I admit it, but an addiction is a disease, it cannot be helped!), multiple kegs, and the most disturbingly overgrown backyard I’ve ever seen…in which they hid 100s of Easter eggs. 
 
The rules of the event were that anyone could hunt, provided they were drunk before go time.  Figuring the easiest way for me to do this would be drinking games, I signed up for the Beer pong bracket tournament (NCAA sanctioned, I swear…) with Rebecca as my partner.  Now, keep in mind, I’m a dancer, as well as clumsy as all get out and lacking in most amounts of hand-eye coordination…I generally suck at beer pong.  Like, drink all 6 cups before I sink a single shot.  I had been playing for 7 years, the skill level had not improved.  This is how I am certain Rebecca is some kind of wunderkind—we won the ENTIRE tournament!  Don’t get me wrong, I was still drunk, but that was thanks to my drink on the side, not the game cups.  Tragically, I did not have time to gloat and sit in shock, my victory was timed almost exactly with the start of the hunt, so it was time to switch gears and revert to childhood for a new kind of competition!

And what a competition it was–there were about 20 of us searching, falling down, fighting over colorful plastic eggs (which weren’t even filled with candy, what a gip!), and ultimately giving up and being scolded by the party hosts because collectively we found about 75 eggs…they hid several hundred in that yard!  Note for next year fellows: drunken hunts require MUCH more obvious hiding spots… Now came the prize portion of the event.  There were awards for finding the most eggs, the least eggs, best fight obtaining an eggs, and then each egg held a raffle ticket, so there were prizes called out by number.  I didn’t win anything, but considering the prizes were gay porn videos, edible underware, and vibrators, I’m pretty sure I’m better off (you know if those were in my luggage, I would have been selected for that random airport security screening the next day–TSA has special powers like that!)

After we had our hunting fun, and floated the keg, Sinead and I went over to Fado’s in Buckhead with a few of the party goers, including one of the pastel wearing hosts.  We had a reserved booth (It’s almost as good as the Vegas trip!) and were having a great time drinking vodka and Club Orange, when I got grabbed by the guy next to me and kissed out of the blue.  He then stood up and walked away.  I stared after him and figured he was pastel boy, but couldn’t figure out the why at that point, although I let it slide being as drunk as we all were.  I barely had time to regroup when he came back to the table followed by 2 very large, Irish accented men.  Apparently, they were the owners.  Apparently, he needed to step outside with them.  We were attempting to figure out what he did with some fighting, until the Irish men mentioned arrested, and then like the good friends we all were (…knowing him 5 hours and 1 kiss is not long enough for jail time) we let him go outside to be handcuffed.  It took a minute, but we polled the table to find the least drunk person, then sent them out to figure out what happened…turns out, public urination doesn’t have to be outside to be illegial.  Peeing in the sink of the brand new bar in front of the owner is a crime too!

That pretty much killed the party for the night, so we all headed home, but beer pong, eggs hunts, and arrests are definitely the key for a warm and fuzzy family Easter celebration!  Let’s just hope this year’s events can live up!  Happy Bad Decision Easter everyone!

I want to buy a convertible…you know, those cars where the top goes up and down?

Lately, I have been thinking about buying a new car…even though I love my mini-van of gum, complete with fake wood paneling, there are just some weekends when I would rather not drive around inhaling the scent of Hubba Bubba Bubble Tape or listening to the continuous rattle caused by having half my car filled with candy racks (or maybe that wreck I got in last year…)…and I think after 2 years, my friends have finally realized I have yet to play the role of DD because I claim “no passenger space” and they are either going to make me empty out the gum every Friday afternoon, or find another way to pull my weight.  This is how I found myself wasting the entire beautiful Saturday afternoon touring the Westbank’s car dealership district (hey, if NYC can have a fashion district and meat packing district, LaPalco totally counts as NOLA’s car district…even if 6 of the 7 dealerships are owned by the same guys…)

I went into this process with no plan–excellent way to look at a $30K investment, I know, but today was meant to be all about walking around the lot, deciding what cars looked cute, and eliminating any cars that reminded me of my current old before my time soccer mom image.  Basically, I was a car salesperson’s worst nightmare–I had no plans to buy and they couldn’t change my mind, but I would let them talk to me anyway…when I was ready for them.   Thank goodness for the crappy economy resulting in desperation among the men wearing plaid sports coats, otherwise I would have been booted out of most places today!

My first stop was Toyota/Scion/Saturn…which was also my first venture onto a car lot, ever, so like any good Southern girl, I called daddy to find out what to do!  He told me to just walk around and look, and some one would come find me, so I chatted with him for about 2 minutes when I spotted a car I liked.  I started to walk around it, looking for the window sticker listing the price and mpg (all the other info on those pages is Greek to me…) when I noticed a large “Baby on Board” window cling…I was car shopping in the customer parking lot!  I glanced around to make sure no one noticed this, and moved 2 rows over to the shiny models in place.  I was actually surprised, not a single salesperson came over to bug me while I walked the lots here–but as soon and I went into the Saturn showroom and started pushing the buttons on the Sky Roadster (I just wanted to see how much room the truck had…) 3 people ran inside from all different directions…apparently, I’m not allowed to play with the machinery…oops!

I headed on down the road to another dealership, and once again found myself doing the walk around a nice car in the customer parking lot…they should really put up signs or something!  I successfully avoided all salespeople at Ford/Lincoln/Mercury and Buick/Pontiac/GMC by staying on my cellphone the entire time, but when I attempted to check out the “Certified Pre-owned” lot across the street, all 6 salesmen were outside the entrance way playing football, so I couldn’t avoid talking to them.  I decided to allow Adam to escort me around the lot, figuring he could point out which ones were actually for sale.  He asked me the dreaded question, “What kind of car are you looking for” (dreaded because I either want an SUV, convertible, or cute sedan, and they have a hard time understanding how those relate to one another, so I deal with lots of funny looks…) and I decided to start simple–I want a convertible, what do you have?  Apparently, even this was too much for Adam, I can see why he was sent over to the used car lot…”When you say convertible, what do you mean?”  Umm…a car that has a top that goes up and down…He then proceeded to show me a Camry, Taurus, 4-Runner, and Accord.  I don’t think he got it.  I shook his hand and got back in my minivan…all of a sudden, it wasn’t looking so bad…

My last dealership of the day was Nissan, a dealership that FINALLY labeled the customer parking lot!  Feeling confident in knowing which cars were the ones for sale, I once again got on the cell phone and began to wander (I had this salesman avoidance technique down to an art form at this point), making note of the cute cars along the way.  Halfway through the lot, my technique failed me and Red started walking over, waving and smiling, asking me what I was looking for.  I smiled and pointed at my cellphone, hoping to deter his rudeness, but he just kept trying…these men should really be required to wear those ugly plaid sports coats again, just to remind them of their behavior…I finally just walked away, leaving him next to the rows of Maximas (I didn’t like those cars anyway…) and went off to find an SUV…when pushy salesman #2 rolled by…and yes, I do mean “rolled”.  Apparently, his shift had finished for the day, but he couldn’t risk missing out on one more sale, so he pulled up beside me and started talking loudly over my cellphone conversation, trying to shove his business card in my hand.  Really?  I stared and him and then brought out my inner bitch “Can’t you see I’m on the phone here?”  I walked away once more…scratch the Rouges from my list of cars…things aren’t looking good for Nissan…

When it was time to head inside, I dreaded which salesman was going to pounce, and although Red got that look in his eye, he was too far away, so Steve got there first.  I was standing by the Z350 Roadster (I would look very good in a convertible…), so I asked him to pop the trunk…weird I know, but I have to have a space to transport my shoes!  Unfortunately, the battery was dead, so he had to get cables and jump it.  Call me crazy, but if you are trying to sell a fancy, new $40K car, shouldn’t you maintain it a little better?  Steve was actually decent, not too pushy, and I almost changed my opinion on car salesmen in general…and then he became the first of the day to inquire where my husband was.  Steve, does your brother work in the power tools section of Home Depot by any chance??

Such an exhausting Saturday afternoon, I think I will be stuck driving this damn minivan for a long, long time…

The Great American Roadtrip…Part 1

My friend Anna and I had a goal in life—to take a road trip across America visiting as many of the weird, wacky, largest, smallest, <insert your favorite adjective here> attractions along the way, basically, just to be able to one day say we’d seen the world’s littlest skyscraper (located in Wichita Falls, Texas). We vaguely discussed this during college, I once gave Anna a book full of such places so we could stick post-it notes on the “must sees” (like the Jailhouse hotel somewhere in Nebraska…or Idaho…maybe Iowa…), and yet we both entered the “real world” and got involved with moving to new cities and renting apartments and using our vacation days to go home for the holidays. This wasn’t the way to collect excellent stories to share with our grandchildren. (Yes, we did have excellent stories from college, but our grandchildren were definitely not allowed to hear those!)

One day, several factors of the real world, which would have been upsetting and annoying had they happened separately, all occurred around the same time, and fate put into place a chance of a lifetime—a road trip from New Orleans to Las Vegas, much of it along historic Route 66, over the course of a week in September. I know what you’re thinking: why didn’t we book the 4 hour plane ride and spend the week seeing all the weird, wacky, and potentially illegal sites in both New Orleans and Las Vegas, collectively the mother-load of all things weird and wacky? Because, we wanted to visit the obscure weird and wackiness in America, the stuff that wasn’t seen by millions of tourist and convention goers each year.

Also, one of those upsetting events leading up to this trip was the fact that Anna had to move to Las Vegas, so we needed to get her car there somehow.

Thus began the greatest adventure of our young lives…we set out early on a Tuesday morning, armed with a blank notebook (to record all the event written about here), two digital cameras (to prove that I actually hiked in the Grand Canyon), a rough map of our route (1,700 miles), a GPS (in case we couldn’t follow the straight highway), the previously mentioned book full of potentially weird and wacky stops to make, an iPhone (proven to be invaluable in planning along the way), and only 2 requirements: reach Dallas by nightfall and get to Las Vegas by Sunday.

The journey started across Louisiana, but the most exciting thing we witnessed was a shirtless Cajun man being pulled over on the opposite side of the highway, with a state trooper searching his car. This led to a discussion of if he happened to be a descendant of the great pirate Jean LeFitte, earning his money these days by smuggling bootlegged Mardi Gras beads and gator skulls across the state. Clearly, New Orleans is the only interesting place to visit in the bayou, we weren’t worried though—this was the great (Southwest) American Road Trip. It’s common knowledge the Southwest starts in Texas, so this was simply time for us to catch up on new business in each other’s lives and prepare our bodies to remain in a Ford Focus shaped sitting position for most of the next 6 days…

One of our goals for this trip, besides getting to Vegas by Sunday and experiencing the strangeness that is Route 66, was to avoid all chain restaurants for the week and only eat at local diners and dives, in hopes of discovering some new gem to send into the Food Network or Rachel Ray Magazine. Lunchtime Tuesday found us in Shreveport, Louisiana, the epicenter of Suburbia, or at least that’s how it seemed as we drove past Applebee’s, Subway, and two McDonald’s…we were just about to give up and start our exploration of “road food” tomorrow when we spotted a sign for Podnuh’s BBQ, “slow cooked, served fast!” A hearty lunch was exactly what we needed for the fuel to travel the next several hundred miles…hopefully we could also find some caffeine to keep us awake!

Our first night was the only one along the way where we didn’t have to scramble to find a hotel room, or decide how far to keep driving. We made plans months before to stay with some old family friends of mine in Arlington, Texas. The night was relatively quiet. We had wine, went out to dinner, and completed the apparently required physicals to travel across the U.S. I know, it sounds strange, and believe me it was, but the son of my family friends is in school to become an EMS, and needed to complete practice physicals on 20 people before he could do his clinical hours. Having spent several years as Anna’s practice subject (I had my blood pressure checked more times a day at 20 years old that a transplant patient does in his lifetime!), I happily volunteered us both as test subjects for him. While he was looking in my ears and attempting to find my pulse, I remembered our childhood years when he regularly tried to drown me in the pool, or beat me up with one of his numerous toy weapons. Being the youngest of three girls, and a proud supporter of the Barbie franchise, I was the first to scream for help when he came near. It took a lot of restraint not to revert back to those old ways when he pressed two fingers along my neck and cuffed my arm in extreme pressure. Some days, I’m amazed about the stuff I put up with in the name of my friends learning medicine!

Million Dollar Idea…

Tonight I was having a discussion with a friend about how boys tend to get fat and lazy once they are in a serious relationship…don’t bother to deny it lads, you know it’s true.  Usually, this is the plight of the 20-somethings, out in the real world for the first time–the appeal of free gym membership living in the college dorms have been replaced by $40 a month fitness clubs you actually have to drive to and all those intermural sporting events on Tuesday nights have been replaced by trivia night/happy hour/DVR catch up time.  And, by that time, most boys have either kept on dating the sorority girl they hooked up with at Junior year’s crush party, or have started something hot and heavy with the office receptionist.  There is no longer a need to run across campus to class or impress the ladies at spring break with your killer abs–they can switch away from light beer, order that King sized Double Whopper Extra Value Meal, and still have a cute girl waiting at home for them each night.

I find this horrible–girls are still expected to stay cute and skinny and be that trophy wife at the office Christmas party each year, kick our yogalates classes up to 5 a week after childbirth to get back into our skinny jeans in 8 weeks or less, and love you just the same even though your extra 30 pounds are smooshing us!  And on top of that, we want to stay cute and skinny…we have some pride, and some bitchy friends to face at those high school reunions down the road.

This led to one incredible solution…a million dollar idea, perhaps.  I know, I shouldn’t share it here, I should take the initiative, write a business plan, find investors, and cash in on this, but let’s face it, I’m too lazy to even write a daily blog, I’ll never keep up with a start up company.   So, I’m sharing this idea, in hopes that someone will make it happen, and, as a thank you, send me lots and lots of free samples so I can get all the boys in my facebook albums looking fit and cute.  I have a rep to maintain here…

Introducing:  The Get Fit Koozie (copyright pending…as soon as I apply for one…)

Ladies, we know how much your man enjoys a beer (or 10) after a long day of work, at that excellent tailgate, or while riding in his golf cart during his Sunday morning “physical activity”.  But all of that time spent boozing is keeping his butt out of the gym.  Finally, there’s a way to combine the two–The Get Fit Koozie is a super insulating Koozie which will keep his beer cold and make him do arm curls for each sip!  This simple koozie will feature slim lead weights that can be added in intervals of 5 pounds, allowing him to work his way up to drunk.  We recommend starting at 5 pounds, and adding additional weight for every 6-pack he consumes.  After he drinks from this for several years, he will either have a super strong right bicep, or have switched to wine…either way, it’s a fitter fellow for you to enjoy!