Every Rose Has Its Thorn

It was right before Christmas and I was in New York with three of my favorite party gurls–Louisa, Brooke, and Cory. After racking up a huge dinner tab that was 86% alcoholic beverages and one other pitstop, we decided to end the night at Louisa’s #1 stomping ground: Planet Rose karaoke bar. One look around at the zebra-print couches, tacky Christmas lights, and overall “weird party in a friend’s basement” vibe and I knew I was going to love this place. Louisa grabbed us free beers from the bar (she knows people), promptly got on the mic (she can also, like, actually sing), and I put in my request to belt out Pat Benatar’s “We Belong.” Then we spotted these fellas:

We couldn’t tell if they were for real or dressed “ironically” (as Brooke put it) with their pants pulled up too high and one of them wearing a yamaka(ish). But before we could even figure it out, the more attractive one (thank God) pulled me onto the dance floor. Brooke got stuck with his not-so-cute friend (which is okay, because she has a boyfriend).

I’ll let the video speak for itself.

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And this is why you should only dance with people your own size.

 

A Killer Roadtrip

Oh. You guys didn’t know I took off the whole month of January from blogging? Well neither did I, but apparently…it’s my thing. Here is a story I’ve been wanting to share since my fateful road trip to Delaware for Christmas (I know, that was like, last YEAR!).

My good friend Kelley, my dog Dewey and I left Atlanta the Monday before Christmas for America’s First State: Delaware. Kelley was joining me in my hometown for a night, then I drove her to meet her family (also in the northeastern U.S.) the following day. Anyway, that’s why she was with me.

About halfway through our trip, somewhere in North Carolina, I stopped at a gas station to fill up. Kelley walked over to the McDonald’s next door for a coffee and a Big Mac. Ok, maybe just a coffee. Kelley is a skinny vegetarian.

Bitch.

While my car was fueling up, I noticed a wooded area a few hundred feet away and decided to take Dewey to pee. I left the car and walked him over to the area where I let him casually sniff and lift his leg, while I (with a light grip on the leash) most likely daydreamed about how much I was going to eat in the next 10 days.

And suddenly…I heard a rustle in the bushes and before I could process that there was a cat or some other small animal in our midst, the leash was yanked out of my hands. Dewey had taken off into the woods.

Mother. F*cker.

I tried to go in after him, but it was all bramble bushes and he was getting farther and farther away. So because I’m such a genius, I decided to get the car and maybe lure him in by opening the car door. (He’s fallen for it before.) I sprinted across the parking lot, got in my car (luckily, I remembered to take the gas hose out and put the cap back on) and gunned it across the parking lot. In the meantime, Kelley was walking back over and saw me speed across the parking lot like I was in a high-speed chase. And a truck driver had also pulled up right alongside the wooded area in that 1.5 minutes.

Dewey was deep in the woods, running around like a lunatic.

“There he is!” yelled the truck driver.

I stopped dead in my tracks. What the f*ck was this truck driver doing here and why was he stating the obvious?

“Yeah I know, I can see him,” I said as politely as I could.

“I bet there’s an animal back in there!” he exclaimed.

No shit.

I opened the car door and called Dewey’s name to no avail. It was time to take action. I attempted to make my way into the woods and promptly got caught in the sticker bushes. As in, the hood of my hoodie was literally attached to the thorns and I was on my knees yelling, “Help, I’m stuck!” Kelly had to come recue me. She finally pried me loose, thorn by thorn, and I embarked on my capture mission.

And the truck driver took it upon himself to commentate the entire time like he was a sportscaster and this was March Madness.

“Oh there he is!”

“He’s killing something back there! I know he got hold of an animal!”

“Oh snap! Look at him go!”

It got so bad, Kelley had to interject with a “Sir, can you please stop saying that?”

I was running around in the woods, trying not to fall, mumbling obscenities, and I finally got close enough to get a good look at Dewey and saw what I had been afraid of: he was dripping blood from the mouth like some kind of vampire werewolf hybrid (take that, Twilight).

I didn’t know if he had killed an animal that quickly and dove right in or just found a bloody carcass and decided to motorboat it. Whatever it was, it made me spring into action even more and finally lasso him with his leash and bring him back to the car.

There was blood on his paws and face and of course, dripping from his mouth.

“Ash, do you want a baby wipe?” Kelley called out. The truck driver had offered it to her.

I don’t even remember if or how I responded to that ridiculousness. And I don’t even want to know why that truck driver had baby wipes on hand.

I left Dewey with Kelley and walked back into the gas station for a jug of water so I could attempt to clean off my bloody dog. While I was paying, who came up beside me but the truck driver, still chuckling from the incident. I was just glad he found it so amusing. Then he actually put his hand on my shoulder and said, “That was one of the funniest things I’ver ever seen.”

I was stunned. Mostly because he was physically touching me. But at least I could assume his hands were clean from the baby wipes.

When I finally got Dewey to calm down from his killing spree and drink, his mouth was blood-free, and most of the blood came off of his face and paws. Luckily he didn’t smell like animal guts or the remaining 6 hours in the car would not have been pleasant.

I learned a lot from this experience:
Hold Dewey’s leash tight at all times, especially while out-of-state at a gas station.
If a truck driver is being obnoxious, he most likely has a baby wipe you can borrow.
And lastly….no matter how crazed you are, don’t forget to take a photo of your dripping-blood-from-the-mouth dog for your blog.

Sorry guys, this will just have to do.

 

 

Horses Hate Me

I’ve never been much of a horse person. I never asked for a pony as a child. As for My Little Pony, I think I had like, two of them. And they played second fiddle to my Barbies any day. I dreaded the times when I would have to accompany my cousin Lindsay to the stables where she rode competitively when we were young. Once when I was a kid, my dad hoisted me up on a random horse at one of our farms (no saddle, no riding professional around, no nothing) and it bucked me right off. Talk about great parenting.

One time, I did bond with a horse during a fraternity mountain weekend in college. But obviously, it was because of the booze.

That being said, I was mildly excited to see Cavalia: Odysseo on opening night last week. When Cavalia was in town in 2010, I actually worked on the account at 360 Media, and while I did enjoy the show, I saw it about four times too many and would actually hear the music in my sleep while dreaming that I was a horse-riding acrobat. Ok, that part wasn’t so bad.

I was more excited to take Chesley because she’s a crazy horse person. She like, brought her horse to college. And I think he had a more extensive application process than she did. So the day I got the invite in the mail, I immediately texted her with “Mark your cali, gurl!” and she wrote back “Neigh!”

Just kidding, she wrote “Yay!”

So we went. And let me just tell you…I was blown away. This show is incredible. I swear the horses had more pep in their step this time around. They had a whole new troupe of acrobats (little men from New Guinea who could each do 587 backflips in a row). The music was different (thank goodness). And the special effects were on a totally different level than the last show–not even comparable. Oh, and there was pole dancing (sorta). Let’s just say the Cavalia girls would give the fine ladies at The Pink Pony a run for their money. (See what I did there?)

Afterward, we got to tour the stables. I had my eye on one specific horse during the show that I wanted to say hello to. While I knew these animals didn’t really warm up to me, I was hoping since I had such a newfound love for them, maybe the feelings would be mutual.

Of course, they loved Chesley.

What…a showoff.

And I’m pretty sure if I got that close to a horse, it would bite my face off. Not try to make out with me. But I went over to one anyway and tried my luck.

Just as I suspected. No love.

I saddled sidled up to another stable and before I could even get my talking-to-animals voice ready…

Even a horse named Nugget wouldn’t give me the time of day. What an ass.

That was it. I wasn’t going to get turned down anymore. I get enough of that in my romantic life.

Even though I got dissed by every horse in the stable, I still highly recommend the show. Actually, I think the quote they used in the Cavalia ad that ran in the AJC was “It would be a crime to miss this show”…..

Yeah…I was quoted. Kinda’ a big deal.

But I still can’t get a horse to acknowledge me.

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Recommend this story for a free horse (maybe).

 

The War of the Towel Animals

Anyone who’s been on a cruise knows what the best part is. No, not the round-the-clock, endless supply of pizza, pasta, ice cream, sandwiches, etc. plus 4-course meals every night (unless you’re on a weight gain mission). Certainly not formal night in the dining room. Absolutely not the Internet connection, speed or cost to use it. And no, it’s definitely not the opportunity to meet a young, single person of the opposite sex…because that opportunity actually doesn’t exist on cruises (except the Titanic, but you know what happened there).

The best part is…..the towel animals. To retreat to your room after a long day of eating, drinking, swaying and sunning and find that expertly crafted critter made of terrycloth is just magical.

Most of the time.

The first night on our Holland America cruise, my cousin Lindsay and I didn’t even get a towel animal. What the shit? Yet my brother claimed he received a giant stingray that took up almost his entire bed. Now, my brother is the golden child that would get an amazing gift like that, but since he conveniently didn’t take a photo to prove it, I’m calling bullshit.

The next night, we got this:
I mean…whatever. It’s a swan and you can’t really diss on a swan. We were fine with it.

Until we found out what Matt received the same night.
A PENGUIN!? With EYES!? I didn’t even know eyes were an option. Matt’s steward was putting in WORK. Linds and I were jealous, but still hopeful for what we’d get the following night. Maybe our guy was rushed the night before and just threw together that swan.

Boy, were we wrong.

THIS is what we got the following night:
I’ll wait while you digest that.

This was just unbelievable. I could have made that whatever-it-was with my eyes closed. A 3-year-old could have done a better job. A blind 3-year-old with one arm. I mean, these cruise ship people take classes to learn how to make towel animals. It’s part of their job description. And they give us a scrunched up hand towel and try to pass it off as some sort of acceptable creature?

Hell…no.

So the next night, we left a note.

We figured by asking for something elaborate like eyes, we couldn’t go wrong.

And we were finally right. Presenting….Walter.

And he even had GOOGLY eyes! Not paper eyes like Matt’s. We couldn’t have been more excited. We even put him aside on top of our suitcase pile, hoping to keep him safe and intact for the rest of the trip.

Sadly, they removed Walter the next night, but left us with THIS! We screamed like 12-year-olds girls at a Bieber concert when we saw him.
We called Matt up to our room immediately to show off our….monkey? He came in and was mildly impressed, but being the mean-spirited competitive brother he is, he casually busted out a photo of the animal he had just received.


A f*cking elephant. With a trunk, eyes, floppy ears, and two full towels making up it’s body. Even our hanging monkey (or whatever) couldn’t compete with that.

We were trunked, er, trumped again.

Maybe the best part is the food after all.

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Cruisin’ for a Losin’

Tomorrow, I’m going to Miami for Thanksgiving with the fam, then Saturday, we leave for a cruise to San Juan, St. Thomas, Turks and Caicos, and the Bahamas. Here we are in our vacation attire and drinking heavily (ie. this photo is pretty indicative of what’s about to go down):

The last time we took an international trip was to Italy in 2002 and it was quite…an experience. Aside from my brother and I making fun of my dad the entire time and telling him we got pick-pocketed every other day (which he believed about 60 percent of the time), I stayed out so late one night in Rome that I got locked out of the hotel (apparently, they close up shop in Europe?) and had to climb in my brother’s window on the first floor. And when I say “climb in,” I mean that I fell in, woke up the 3 dudes in the room and probably broke a lamp.

So anyway, this trip should be interesting.

In case you didn’t know, when you leave the country, you need a passport. My passport expired in February so my  mom started hounding me back in August/September to get a new one for the cruise. Of course I didn’t take action until mid-October and at that point, marched my ass down to the post office on Briarcliff without showering or brushing my hair, took a heinous passport picture (standard), then paid to have the passport expedited JUST to be safe ($186 total to be exact). I was teetering right on that standard 6-week delivery mark with the departure of the cruise and I knew with my luck, it wouldn’t arrive in time and I’d disappoint the family yet again.

It arrived a week later. Of course it did.

On Tuesday, November 8, my mom called me at the crack of dawn (9 a.m.) to get the passport info so she could check us in online for the boat. I sleepily reached over into my bedside table (where I thought I remembered placing it) and didn’t feel the smooth little book amongst the lube, breath mints and prescription drugs in the drawer.

I’m kidding, you guys. I keep my prescription drugs in the bathroom cabinet.

I got up and rifled through the nightstand. Nothing. Hmmm, that’s weird, I thought.

I realized maybe I hadn’t moved it from my desk to the bedside table like I thought. I went into my “office” and checked my desk. Not there either.

“Ugh, Mom, let me call you back.”

A slight panic set in, but I still felt like there was no way it could have disappeared.

Well…it had. I searched my apartment high and low and could not find the thing. I looked all day Tuesday and half of the day Wednesday, the whole time understanding the meaning of insanity: doing the same thing over and over and expecting different results.

On Thursday morning, Trey alerted me: “You threw it out. I know you did. I’ve done the same thing.”

I hate him.

I decided I would forget about it while traveling to Charleston that weekend for a wedding, and (per Kate’s genius suggestion) have my cleaning lady and her crew (don’t judge) come on Monday and try to find it. They were always finding random things I had misplaced (Dewey’s bones, headphones, vibrators, etc.) when they cleaned so I thought they might be able to use their powers on the missing passport.

They didn’t find it. And the more I thought about it, I probably shouldn’t have mentioned there was a passport up for grabs to 2 ladies that may or may not be illegal immigrants.

So with less than 2 weeks until cruise time, I finally came to terms with the fact that I may have thrown it out while cleaning (idiot) and made an “emergency” appointment at the passport office downtown. It was actually a very easy procedure, but the folks down there mean business and they didn’t find it amusing that I had just lost a passport issued to me 4 weeks prior. And then I had to pay $195 for this one. (In case anyone is wondering, I was able to pick it up 3 days later.)

Just to recap:

Passport #1: $186
Cleaning crew: $65
Passport #2:  $195

This trip better be f*cking priceless.

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(Super)Bad to the Bone: A Celebrity Encounter

I don’t know if you guys know this about me but Superbad is my favorite movie of all time. I actually screen guys by whether or not they love Superbad. Sometimes I’ll ask on the first date, sometimes the second, sometimes within 5 minutes of meeting them. And if it’s a cute, cool guy I like, I always make the ask then hold my breath, because if he says he hasn’t seen it or, EVEN WORSE, doesn’t LIKE it, I know the relationship will never work. I also like to watch it with dudes to gauge their reactions and see if we laugh at the same stuff. When Superbad came out on DVD in ’07, I think I watched it with 3 different dudes in a 6-week period. Wow, was I a player?

But that’s enough of me giving away my dating/guy screening tricks of the trade.

I heard Jonah Hill was in town filming a movie and just knew I’d  run into him eventually. How did I know that? Fate. That’s how. Even though he’s no longer the chubby and curly-haired Seth I love, he’s still the same guy that would make obscene gestures behind a hot girl in Home Ec class, kick a soccer ball into the bleachers, and tap you on the nose and say, “Boop, boop, boop” (I think).You Superbad superfans know what I’m talking about.

Wednesday night Thursday morning at 1 a.m., I get this text from Kate:

So yeah, I had to go.

I walked in and there they were–just hanging out like old buddies. Kate introduced me to Jonah and he said hello, then went back to trying to get with girls. Told you he was still the same Seth.

He came by to chat later and I knew I had to put my I-Never-Get-Starstruck ego aside, act totally uncool and get a picture, at least to send to my brother. Here’s how that went down.

Me: “So…hey. Can I get a picture with you?”

Jonah (gives me an annoyed sigh): “Ugh, then you’re going to put it on Facebook and all that.”

Me: “No, I won’t I swear. I’m just going to send it to my brother. We’re big fans.”

Jonah (softens up a bit): “Okay, that’s cool.”

And we snap this gem.

Then he was really nice and wanted to see the pic and said we looked good, blah, blah, blah. So because of that, I will respect his wishes and not put the photo on Facebook.

I never said I wouldn’t put it on my blog.

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Primpin’ Ain’t Easy: 3 Beauty Tips for the Ladies

I’ve been getting a lot of compliments lately. And also more attention from the fellas.

I know what you’re thinking: “Ashley, you are ridiculous to start a blog entry like that, or even a conversation for that matter. What are you, some kind of stuck-up, self-obsessed prima donna?”

Maybe.

But I can’t take the credit for this newfound beauty boost. I must introduce you to 3 of my favorite things, 2 of which I had to feature on my CBS Better Mornings segment to spread the word. Check it out below. And yes, I did ask the anchor to smell me. That was a little awkward.

Now, on to the “need to knows.”

1. Eyelash Extensions. Warning: ladies, you WILL get addicted to these and will not be able to stop stealing glances at yourself in the mirror when you have them. Instead of texting sexy photos of yourself in lingerie (or naked, whichever) to your man of the moment, you’ll be sending him pictures of your eyes. Not that I did that or anything. I just heard it happens.

I got my lashes done byRaney O’Keefe (makeup, eyelash artist extraordinaire) at WAX in Inman Park (they also do the best waxing in town from brows to bush). The extensions take about 2 hours to put on and are actually attached to your real lashes. She literally puts 90ish individual lash extensions on you and they look 100% natural. You’ll get your full set and then go back every 3 weeks or so to get refills (which only take an hour) if you want to keep them up. Or you could just let them all fall out, which is super depressing. Every time I see one on my cheek or in the sink, a little piece of me dies inside. Mention Better Mornings Atlanta to get $50 off your first set through Jan. 31.

Before:

After:

Yes, my nose is one giant freckle.

2. Organic Sunless Tanning. RAW Bronzing Studio, conveniently located right next to WAX, is the best sunless tan in town for just 35 bucks a pop. Tiffany, the owner, will airbrush a gorgeous, natural-looking glow on your bod and it will last a good week or so (provided you don’t go hot tubbing or jello wrestling or anything else along those lines). One time this summer, I may or may not have had Tiffany spray tan just my ass. But that’s a story for another time.

No offense to the other girls, but I like to think my RAW tan stood out the most at this wedding (with the exception of the bride who may as well be half black. Lucky bitch).

(They’re also doing awesome Pilates classes at RAW now, so get in on that for the abs/ass/arms of your dreams.)

3. Chuice. This stuff has changed my life. I like…don’t even know where to start. Basically, it’s raw food that you half-drink/half-chew. Sounds weird, looks even weirder, but it’s incredible. 45 good-for-you ingredients go into it and it’s made fresh every day and you can drink it as a meal and be completely satisfied. It helped me lose those pesky 5 pounds that just wouldn’t go away, but that’s not even necessarily why I started getting into it. It’s just so freaking healthy and (infomercial speak in 3….2…..) you will feel great on the inside and look great on the outside once you start Chuicing regularly. Half gallons are available at Highland Bakery (Old Fourth Ward, Midtown, and Buckhead). Oh, and feel free to read this little nugget, too. **If you pick up Chuice at Highland Bakery, they’ll ask you how you heard about it. Just say my name say my name (Ashley, that is), and I’ll be forever grateful!**

So there you have it. Don’t worry, I’ll be back next time with a story about how I got dumped, embarrassed myself in public or threw away my brand-new passport 2 weeks before an international trip. That did just happen. See, I’m still the same hot mess…just maybe a tad more hot than mess at the moment.

 

Guys Who Take Their Shirts Off at Concerts: Exposed

Monday night was the Foo Fighters concert, which was amazing. They seriously put on THE. BEST. SHOW. I would have Dave Grohl’s babies (multiple ones) and I don’t even want kids. Also we took a Fur Bus there. If I didn’t sneak in that plug, Allyson (Ms. Fur Bus herself) would not be pleased.

So the show is incredible. But is it really THAT incredible that you have to rip off your shirt in an indoor, public space? I have never understood this phenomenon and as far as I know, indoor concert venues have a strict “no shirt, no shoes, no service” policy (with the exception of the band) so it’s also a violation of conduct. I mean, the concert was at The Arena at Gwinnett Center, so we were dealing with a lot of suburbanites and I know they tend to take their clothes off in public places more frequently than us city dwellers, but still.

Another thing that baffled me was not only did these three fellas take their shirts off, but they held them up as if to say to Dave Grohl, “Hey look! We took our shirts off! And here they are!”

This photo was snapped during the boys’ final strip session. That’s right. There were more than one. They probably took their shirts off and put them back on at least three times during the show. I think that’s awkward. If you’re going to take your shirt off, at least rip it off, twist it around your head like a helicopter, then keep it off. Own it, dudes.

I mean, when Dave did an acoustic version of “Best of You” and I took my underwear off and threw them on stage, I didn’t try to get them back and put them back on.

Some people just don’t know how to keep it classy.

Balls to the Wall

On Friday night, I went to dinner with Chesley, Mary Lorraine and Sarah (whom I just met) for Mary Lorraine’s birthday. Let’s just call her ML to keep things efficient. We went to one of my favorite places and because I love this place, I don’t want to reveal what it was because this story is not so complimentary. But just in case you do guess it, let it be known that this incident is not going to keep me from going back. Everyone makes mistakes. Some of us more than others (you know who you are). Let’s begin.

I ordered the lamb meatballs, one of my favorite things on the menu. They arrived and there were four of them. Perfect–one for each of us. I speared one first (typical), put it on my plate and cut it in half.

And…we had  a situation.

It was just a little (read: a lot) too rare. What…a disappointment. We summoned our server, showed her said situation, and she immediately took the plate away and promised she’d be back with fully cooked balls. Phew.

She came back with three. Piping hot.

Ok. So they had just thrown the remaining three on the grill, in the oven or (heaven forbid) in the microwave and tossed the raw one. Had there been three of us, this may not have been an issue, but it just wasn’t acceptable. We shouldn’t have had our appetizer compromised because of their cook-through snafu.

ML, being the birthday girl and few drinks deep, took it upon herself to alert the server (politely) of what had happened. It went something like: “Hi, we hate to be ‘those customers’ but see, this item came with four balls and as you can see, you just brought it back with three and there are four of us.”

The American Apparel-clad server apologized profusely and said she would return with our missing item. I thought that they might just bring us a whole ‘nother set of lamb meatballs to make up for the TWO mishaps.

Nope.

One. Lone. Ball. Also known as: the Lance Armstrong special.

This was especially interesting because one of us (who will remain nameless) had told a story earlier in the evening about a fella with one testicle. Talk about a theme night.

But it was fine. We weren’t going to be greedy. We asked for the missing ball and we got what we asked for. Sarah (who hadn’t gotten one before) took it and dug in.

And….this.

Well there you have it. We basically spend our entire evening going back and forth with the server about cooked balls and just when we finally think we have the issue resolved, we find out we are sorely mistaken.

We had to summon American Apparel over again. For no other reason than to try to get her to see the hilarity in the situation.

ML: “So…take a look at this rogue ball.”

American Apparel: “Oh wow. The rogue ball. Too rare again. So sorry about that. I’ll get the manager over right away.”

We made it clear we didn’t need to see a manager. We just wanted cooked meatballs. And if that wasn’t a possibility, free drinks would be a nice alternative. But the manager came over anyway and we did get a complimentary round of perfectly mixed and delicious cocktails.

But still not the fourth ball.

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How I Ruin My Pantyhose Every Halloween

If you know anything about my Halloween costume choices, you know that I typically always show some leg and therefore, purchase a pair of “magic pantyhose” in the Hooters handicapped bathroom stall each year (here’s a video). And every year, I ruin said ‘hose. In 2009, I can’t quite pinpoint what happened, but I think it may have had something to do with me dressing up as Beyonce, learning the entire Single Ladies dance and doing it every chance I got. I didn’t walk anywhere. I danced. And my tights paid the price.

In 2010, not only did the pantyhose rip at some point, but they were covered in fake blood from my “mangled surfer” getup.

This year was a little different. I had plans to do a group costume with Andrea and Co. (a safari massacre if you must know) and was actually going to go bare-legged since I just got a spray tan. But since my group wasn’t showing up to the party until later, I figured I would whip out the ol’ Sasha Fierce ‘stume, wear it until they arrived, and then do a switcheroo. Well Beyonce requires a leotard and I just couldn’t go full retard leotard with no tights. But, unfortunately, I had no time on Saturday to trek downtown to Hooters and pick up a pair. What…was a girl to do?

So I went to the stripper store: Looks of Atlanta, conveniently located next to Tattletales on Piedmont Road. I was SURE they would carry some form of tan, Hooters-esque stockings, alongside their “evening wear.”

Nope.

What I ended up with was a pair of black, “One Size Fits Most,” $15 pantyhose with rhinestones up the backs of the legs. No, they were not crotchless.

I got home, pulled them on very gingerly (stripper gear is not of the highest quality, contrary to popular belief), put on my leotard and the rest of my getup and headed to the party.

The pantyhose were holding up well and a couple slutty-looking girls even complimented me on the rhinestone bedazzling. I was hopeful. I thought I might make it through my favorite holiday this year with a pair of tights I might actually be able to wear again (at least for a future Halloween or amateur night at the Pink Pony).

But then, it happened. I found a megaphone (a real, professional one) and it catapulted me into “I-must-get-up-on-every-possible-stage-at-this-party-and-yell-ridiculous-things-from-the-megaphone” mode. I went upstairs, danced on and yelled from the stage successfully, then beelined outside to the tent where DJ Madflip was spinning. I got up on the stage once. Success. I got down, danced on the floor, ate a grilled cheese from the Tastee Truck, yelled “Joel Darby is fat” into the megaphone (which is especially F’d up since he bought me the grilled cheese), and then decided I wanted one last hurrah on the stage.

I put one leg up on the platform, and….RRRRRRRIP. Right in the crotch-slash-inner-thigh.

It was awkward. It was even more awkward because I immediately had to bring my leg down and scurry away with my head hung low to check out the damage.

Now let it be known that I’m totally ok with my body (most days), but if there is one problem area I’m not crazy about, it’s my inner thighs. So to have that part of my body completely exposed for all to see was not exactly how I wanted to end the night. I was definitely going to need to drink more. And apparently spill on my tights.

I drank some more. And the hole got bigger.

After the party was over, I shut down Pool Hall where the rip got even larger (sorry, no photographic proof of that). Then after that, I ate at Landmark Diner where I remember looking down and pretty much seeing my entire right leg exposed.

The final look when I got home:

Welp…now they’re crotchless.

Next year, maybe I should just wear pants.

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