Archive for the ‘Hesscapades’ Category

What…am I thinking?

Sometimes, late at night, when my 4 primary life advisors (Kate, Chesley, Cory and Mom) are asleep (or, um, busy), I am forced to make decisions on my own that I would typically consult one or all of them on.  Last night was one of those nights.

A friend told me he had an extra number for the Georgia Marathon THIS Sunday and (jokingly?) said I should do it.  I used to do about 99% of the things people challenged me to do, but ever since that naked-in-the-W-Hotel-lobby-covered-in-chocolate-sauce incident, I’ve taken more caution when making decicions based on challenges.

Ok, so there was never any naked-in-the-W incident.  At least not in the lobby.

But, I do think about things a little more carefully before saying “F*ck it, I’ll do it!” these days.  Just to update you on my running status, I DID run the Georgia half-marathon 2 years ago.  Ever since then, I think 6 miles has been my max and my longest distance in about the last year has been…wait for it….5 miles.  F.I.V.E.

So, yeah, the marathon was out.  But, could I do the half?  13.1 miles?  From 5 miles to 13?  Had anyone ever done it?  I mean, I’m sure people have DONE it, but they probably ended up walking, ran a couple miles, walked a couple, blah blah blah.  And, I just can’t roll like that.  To me, a race means running.  Call me crazy.

I checked out the course and noticed that it goes right by my house at mile 6.  Interesting.  I could just run home if it was too much.  I know what you’re thinking: Oh, really Ashley?  You’ll knock walking to get to the finish line, but would quit halfway through? Hey, no one ever said my standards were normal.

So, I agreed to it.  And, I’m pretty sure my advisory board would have encouraged the same thing (although they probably would have told me to do the full, so maybe it’s a good thing I didn’t consult them).  I’m already thinking about what miracle performance gear I’m going to buy, how I need to attempt a before-midnight bedtime on Saturday, and the superfoods I’m going to seek out for the night before and morning of.  If you feel like coming out and cheering me on (or poking fun, whichever), check out the course map.  But, I would advise picking a spot on the route before mile 7.  Juuuuust in case.
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Podcast Blast

Sully of Dave FM and I are back at it!   No, I don’t mean we’re hooking up (you guys and your dirty minds, I swear), but just that we got the ol’ podcast up and running again.

betty white snl radio

I’m sharing the latest we did last week and the 2 before that in case you’re interested in hearing us talk about sex and dating, social media, City of Atlanta being the fun police, how sick of Charlie Sheen we are, and much more. If you think my laugh is annoying, you might not want to listen. And, you can also go eff yourself.

First up:
1. Guys are the clingy ones these days! What….is up with that? Also, take our “quiz” to see if you are indeed…a Stage 5 clinger.
2. Who’s the next celeb to go off the deep end, Charlie Sheen style?
3. Sully shaves his head for a cause. ‘Nuff said.
Listen HERE!

Previous:
1. How soon should you text after a first date?  Should the girl even text first?
2. City of Atlanta shut down 2 awesome street food vendors.  Way to be lame, guys.
3. Listen HERE!

Even more previous:
1. Studies say texting/social media is leading to sex sooner!  AWESOME!  Or not?
2. Atlanta may get out of the dark ages and allow Sunday alcohol sales.  Sully updates us on booze in the news.
3. I announce my position as the new editor of DailyCandy Atlanta.  Woot!
Listen HERE!

Genuine thanks to everyone who listens!  And, ideas for topics are always welcome, so send ‘em if you have ‘em!

The Best Strip Club Delaware Has to Offer

Holy. Crap. 2 blog entries in 2 days.  I told you I’m back, and for good this time.  Juuust like a case of the herp.  Speaking of, let me jump right into this one:

STRIPPERS

Where….do I even begin?  Let me just preface this by saying that my family has a nice home in a nice neighborhood.  However, it just so happens to be less than a mile from one of the, uh, finest strip clubs in the Northeast, possibly in the world.  The Fairways Inn.

Why guys aren’t coming here for their bachelor parties instead of Vegas, I’ll never understand.

I lived in Delaware my whole life until I went off to college, so I have passed by this place thousands and thousands of times.  I remember learning to read and asking my mom what “go-go girls” were.  I remember passing by the green building each morning on the bus to school and just dying to know what was going on inside.  And, on my 16th birthday party, on the way back from the beach, all 6 of us gals in our underwear (don’t even ask), I remember us pulling up to Fairways, doing a Chinese fire drill in the parking lot, and me wondering what would happen if I went in and asked for an application.  Babysitting just wasn’t cutting it.

Just kidding. I used to make sick money babysitting.

But, strangely enough, I never made it here on a summer vacation or trip home for the holidays, so I decided that THIS Thanksgiving would be the momentous occasion:  my first trip to Fairways.  Our group of 5 hit another bar first, it sucked (hard to believe in Dover, Delaware, right?), and that’s when I made the suggestion…and it was well received.  We excitedly headed to Fairways, parked in the gravel lot, and right before walking in, Cory and I noticed the PERMANENT sign that said “Dancers Wanted.”  Help was always wanted?! Yes, always.  And, who says it’s a bad job market?

The actual bar wasn’t as grimy as I thought it would be, but I still stuck to bottled beer.  Something about mixed drinks at sketchy strip clubs just doesn’t fly with me and my immune system.  The bartender was a little scary and while she was wearing a top, I noticed her pull it up and grab a guy’s dollar bill between her, um, not-so-lovely lady lumps.  I would soon learn that this was standard tip-taking procedure.  Most of the the girls were not much to look at, although there was one with a cute little body that the guys in my crew were eyeballing.  Yet, she was walking with a limp (not so sexy in platforms) and appeared to be on something a liiiiittle stronger than alcohol.  Like Meth.

I spotted a man who I can only describe as a 40-year-old, overweight, homeless-looking former rapper taking the tips and pooling them in a bucket for the girls.  A wave of sadness came over me as I thought about what these girls probably made in a night for what they were doing.  I didn’t get it; why didn’t they just work at Applebee’s?  But, there was no time to get philosophical.  I had ones on me and I was ready to make it rain.  Or something like that.  A decent-looking brunette came off her pole in the corner and as she walked by us at the bar, I tried to slip her a couple bucks.  And……DENIED.  Apparently, the ladies had to go from the corner pole to ANOTHER pole behind the bar and complete both dances before taking tips between their nips.  What…an obstacle course.  I did give her the money after she came off pole #2, but I have to admit I was slightly embarrassed.  Who gets denied trying to give a stripper a tip?!  This girl.

The rest of the night proved fairly standard.  A couple more guys from high school showed up and one was bought a private dance in a back room which he later rated a 4 on a scale of 1 to 100.  And, when he emerged from the champagne, er, PBR room with his gal, we made him motorboat her.  So, that was fun.  I made a lot of other sad observations throughout the evening, but I won’t get into that because this blog is about laughs and partying and puppies, not unfortunate strippers and the pimps who, uh, pimp them out.

I don’t know that I’ll go back to Fairways anytime soon unless I can be SURE the infamous one-armed stripper will be working.  I’m serious.  She exists.  And, I’ve got to see her work that pole while missing a pretty important limb before I die.  But, otherwise, I may stay away.  Unless this whole writing thing doesn’t work out.  After all, they are always hiring.

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Tomorrow, we’ll be stuffing a turkey….on video. And, it may be X-rated.  Stay tuned, and as always, you can subscribe using the button at the top of the page!

About that whole football thing…

Well, let me knock the dust off the ol’ blog here and get started back up again.  Here’s the deal: I’m going to talk about Thanksgiving over the course of the next couple blog entries which, yes, I realize was totally 2 weeks ago and totally annoyingly irrelevant, BUT what I’m going to TALK about – football, strippers and stuffing turkeys – is totally still relevant.  Right? I mean, come on, strippers are always in season.  But, first up….

FOOTBALL

Yeeeeah…about that.  I said I hated it (here), but it turns out, I like football.  A lot.  Something came over me during Thanksgiving break and all I wanted to do was watch this exhilarating game of hot asses in spandex, er, I mean, talented athletes proving their skills.  I found myself waking up, coming downstairs and hoping Sportcenter was on before the first game started.  I know.  What…the EFF was going on?  Don’t get me wrong: I am never going to get all crazy talking sports and/or get overly loud and manly and yell during a game, but I liked it.  I was into it.  And for the record, girls that are actual football fanatics and talk about it nonstop, especially via the social media outlets on the Interweb still creep me out.  Stop trying so hard…girls.

After all the football watching, I wanted to try out this game for myself.  Luckily, my mom’s 6-year-old sorta-Godson, Hayden, was coming over and was ready for some football.  I thought we were playing two-hand touch; he wanted to play tackle.  Of course he would.  Look who his teammate was.

Shit was about to get real.

It was Hayden and my brother (who is a former college football player if you’re new to this blog) against me, Cory and my Dad.  Ok, so MAYBE it was 3 against 2 and maybe I was up against a 6-year-old, but I pretty much dominated that field, er, backyard.  To be honest, I didn’t know what I was doing and when technical talk came into play (what’s a “line of scrimmage” anyway?), I was lost, but I DID score all of our 3 TDs.  See, I know the lingo.

Even during our winning team photo….my dad was apparently still shocked.

Don’t look so surprised, Dad.  Football is in our genes, and I don’t mean your sketchy Levi’s from the ’80s.

Bottom line, consider this a mild “apology” for my earlier blog post about most girls disliking sports and/or football.  But, I can still easily sniff out those girls who are faking a passion for football to get a guy’s attention.  And, I’ll take those bitches on the field any day.

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Next up: strippers.  And, don’t forget to subscribe using the button at the top, so you don’t miss it.  Please?

(Almost) Dead on Arrival

Something horrible happened this Halloween.  I  know what you’re thinking.  Oh, Ashley, I’m sure you just took too many tequila shots, lost your car or forgot a step to the Single Ladies dance just like any other night.

But, this was worse.

This Halloween….my girlfriends and I got attacked.  And, I don’t mean by a frat-type guy who had too much to drink and started grabbing our asses at the bar.  And, I don’t mean by a group of angry homeless people on the rough streets of Buckhead.  It was more gruesome.  More bloody.  More…fatal.

We got attacked…..BY A SHAAAARRRRKKK!!!

There we are.  Just a pile of bloody bodies while the SHARK swims above his wreckage.  Right before this, we were just happily surfing along on our mini surf boards…when we saw him approach!

Why are you already bloody?, you ask.  Don’t worry about that.  What are you, some sort of crime scene investigator?

After he mauled us at the pre-party, just doing enough damage that we were still able to make it to BOOnanza at Buckhead Theatre, he resurfaced and attacked again!

Hey, jackasses working the door:  thanks a lot.

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Ok, ok, the jig is up.  Those were just our costumes.  We didn’t really get attacked.

I DO have to take credit for the costume idea, but can’t deny that I drew inspiration from our 2008 costumes, where Andrea made Thad (aka the SHARK, who was then her boyfriend and is now her husband), accompany us in our “runners struck by lightning” theme.

Yes, Thad was the lightning bolt, complete with “cloud”  on his head, and notice the “rain” coming down from his arms.  THIS one was Andrea’s idea.  Maybe it’s the fact that her and I have spent every Halloween together for the past 7  years that explains how we’ve become so in sync with Halloween costume ideas that involve us looking like a dirty/bloody mess and forcing her significant other to wear a stupid costume.  Or maybe it’s the fact that we’re so anti- sexy nurse, kitten, cop, school girl, etc. costumes that we feel the need to take it to the other extreme.  Whatever it is, we plan to keep them coming.

Hopefully some pro athlete will impregnate a bunch of women next year and we can all go as his baby mamas.  Or maybe a zoo tiger will maul his handler and we can play off of that.  Ok, so I hope that doesn’t happen.

Until next year….

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Drinks, Dinner & Dessert in the Dirty

My best friend Cory (get to know her HERE and HERE) came down from Wilmington, Delaware for her annual Southern visit last weekend.  I reflected on the other times she’d visited and realized that: A) I had never taken her to a true Southern restaurant to eat (although we’ve probably hit up every Mexican place in town) or  B) really shown her a wild time in Atlanta (last time she visited, we went to Seaside, the time before that, we ran a half-marathon).  It was time to step it up and give her a true taste of the dirty South.  Literally.

So, we had drinks, dinner, and, um, let’s just call it “dessert.”  You’ll see what I mean.

First up: WHIPPETS.  No, I’m not talking about a balloon filled with nitrous oxide.  For the record, I did do one of those in summer of 2K2 (sorry, mom and dad) but that’s not the point here.  These Whippets are different – it’s a shot of Pinnacle Whipped Cream vodka dropped in Whynatte, Atlanta’s own chocolaty delicious coffee energy drink.  Whynatte has even produced some special cups for this liquid amazing-ness and I was lucky enough to have some on hand at my apartment.  It was go time.

It’s scary how easy they do down.  On Friday night, after we took these shots, I realized I had no other liquor in my house besides the whipped cream vodka, so I made a Whippet cocktail to sip on.  As in, I just mixed the vodka and Whynatte in a glass.   So, that works, too.

Next up: DINNER.  I brought Cory to my favorite restaurant in the city, which also happens to be my next door neighbor: Wisteria. And, in true boyfriend style, I ordered for her.  Pimento cheese deviled eggs and Southern Fried Okra to start, and we’d share the Skate wing over stone ground grits for our entree.  It was a true Southern eat-off and Cory loved every minute of it.

The deviled eggs:

Cory’s mobile upload of the skate (which mildly translates into a form of stingray):

We couldn’t help but sing “Awww skate skate skate skate skate” in true Lil Jon/Yin Yang Twins fashion while we devoured our meal.  We’re just hood like that.

Intro to Southern food: complete.  We met up with Kate and Tope, hit up Sound Table and Noni’s because we love those places (and also, so Cory could get a glimpse of Atlanta’s finest street dwellers on Edgewood) and then, it was time for dessert…..

At the Clermont.

The Clermont Lounge is arguably Atlanta’s most famous landmark (but, who’s arguing?).  Sure, people call it “the place where strippers go to die,” but I think that’s a little morbid.  I prefer to call it “the place where your grandma could making a living showing her T&A.”

Kate’s “friend,” who we will refer to as “Edward,” was also in town and we wanted to introduce both of these out-of-towners to the infamous Lounge.  We walked in, grabbed a drink at the bar while taking in the plus-size stripper dancing on the “main stage,” then decided on a table in the corner.  And, that’s when Little Bo Peep approached us.  And by that, I mean, a not-so-little 64-year-old stripper in a Little Bo Peep outfit.  We asked her how much for a dance, she said “20 in the garter,” and Cory whipped out a bill before Edward could even protest.  Bo Peep slid Kate and Edward”s chairs together so they could both enjoy the show, then bent right over so her frilly skirt flew up and her 64-year-old ass was right in Edward”s face.  And, then she slapped it with both hands.  We were in the company of a true professional.

Bo Peep never got naked, but she didn’t need to.  Her next move was lifting up her skirt in the front (I had to do a double take to realize her, um, kitty cat, was on display) and asked Edward if he wanted…..

…wait for it….

…her peach cobbler.  Yup, she asked him if he wanted some of her peach cobbler while she waved her lady parts in his face.  In fact, she asked a couple times.  Little Bo Peep, or rather, Little Bo PEACH had a signature move and signature line and she wasn’t afraid to use it.

After a couple more ass slaps and peach cobbler offers, the dance was over.  Phew.

We had had our share of peach cobbler for the night.

And, that’s how you experience Atlanta, folks.

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Deviled eggs photo courtesy of Wisteria.

Turning Heads

As if Justin Bieber isn’t young enough, there’s a new tween dream on the scene.  Actually, make that pre-tween.  Willow Smith, Will Smith’s NINE-YEAR-OLD daughter has apparently been signed by Jay-Z’s label (WTF, Hova?) and has a song out now about whipping her hair around.  I have not heard this song, nor do I want to, but I came across this VERY interesting news piece on MTV.com that proves whipping your hair/head around while dancing can, in fact, result in injury.

But, I already knew that.

It was my senior year in college and I was home for winter break.  I woke up on one of the last days of vacay and prepared to head up to my swanky Wilmington, Delaware hair salon for a cut and color (God forbid I get my hair done in Clemson, South Carolina).  While driving my mom’s Mini Cooper the 40 minutes to the salon, I started to notice a tightness in my neck.  I could turn my head, but the more I did  (you know, to check my blind spots and whatnot), the more it started to hurt.  What…the eff was going on?

By the time I got to the salon, I was definitely in mild pain, but knew I had to suck it up.  I was a blond at that point (weird I, know) and skipping this touch-up before going back to school was not an option.

When I leaned back into the sink for my shampoo, I almost cried.  This was not going to be easy.  I alerted my stylist and she promised to take it easy on my head.  The shampoo was definitely the worst part, but the “mild” pain got progressively worse throughout the process.  But, I survived.  Because I’m a Survivor.  (Yes, that was a Destiny’s Child reference and not the first one in this blog entry.  So read on.)

On the drive home, I could not turn my head at all.  When two 18-wheelers had the Mini Cooper and me in a truck sandwich on the highway, I saw my life flash before my eyes.  I didn’t want to call my parents because they were at a special weekend with my brother at the University of Delaware for his football scholarship and I didn’t want to worry them.  But, after the near-death experience, I made the tearful phone call to my mom.

“Oh my gosh, you might have Spinal Meningitis.  I’m coming home,” she decided.

Mom would be  missing some swanky banquet with the coaches, new team, etc.  Way to ruin everything, stupid NECK.

I made it home and proceeded straight to the couch until mom made it home and could take me to the emergency clinic.  This just kept getting better.  After a good hour in the waiting room, pain increasing and mom swearing I might die at any moment, we saw the doctor and she questioned me about what I did the night before.

And, that’s when it hit me.  Corey and I had been at “the club” (oh yeah, Bubba’s in Dover, Delaware) and I was dancing and swinging my neck around like a maniac.  Whooooopsiiiieee.  I had thrown my neck out while trying to imitate Beyonce when “Lose My Breath” came on.

What…an asshole.

I came to this realization under the watchful eye of the doctor and  my mother, confessed what had happened, and I vaguely remember the doctor rolling her eyes, while my mom expressed her relief that I didn’t have a deathly illness.

I laid on the couch for the next couple days, icing then heating my injury.  Was the night out worth it?  Probably not.  But at least now I know to stretch my neck before hitting the dance floor.

Especially if a Beyonce song comes on.

Hit-and-Rum

This is a story I always debate telling because it involves drinking and driving, but then again, drinking and driving was one of my best talents in college.  I have since learned my lesson the hard way (and by hard, I mean the Fulton County Jail way), which is why I feel entitled to be able to talk about my previous track record.  PSA to follow this blog entry.

It was senior year in college and the morning of the Spring Game (when the football team scrimmages each other).  My 2 BFF roommates, Alex and Bridget, and I were planning on putting on some “traditional-tailgate-meets-spring-break-slutty” outfits (which I’m sure included Abercrombie denim miniskirts), making some cocktails, heading to the game, then hosting a party at our house afterward.  It was going to be a good day.

But, instead of the morning starting off with my normal ritual of stumbling into the kitchen for a glass of water where I would bump into Alex and we would immediately start giggling and trying to piece together the night before, I was awakened by  a frantic Bridget shaking me and yell-whispering “the cops are at the door!”

“Shut uuuup,” I said, before probably rolling over and trying to get in one more hour of snoozing.

“Ashley, seriously wake up.  The cops are at the door saying that your Xterra ‘was involved in something last night.’”

Damn.  If this wasn’t a buzzkill then I didn’t know what was.

I went outside, still in my pajamas, and 2 cops were standing next to my beloved Xterra, which looked like it had been parked by a blind Asian student driver.  This wasn’t looking good.

They proceeded to tell me that they had been looking for my car all  morning.  I had no idea what time it was.  Apparently, MY Xterra had wrecked into a Honda the night before and someone had left a note on said Honda’s windshield with my license plate number on it.

“Officer, I don’t even seen any dents on my car,” I said, although I did notice one TINY scratch that I had never noticed before.  I guess Officer Asshole didn’t like my tone, because he told me he could take me to jail right then and there.  That shut my hungover ass up, but looking back, there’s no way that mother effer could have cuffed me and taken me in based on a damn note.

I told him I was pretty sure they had the wrong girl to which he countered he was pretty sure he didn’t.  He gave me his info and said he would be calling me or stopping by again after further “investigation.”  I couldn’t wait.

I ran in the house and asked Alex if she remembered us hitting someone the night before.

“I don’t know.  Maybe…?”  She was right.  It sounded like something we would do.  But, there really wasn’t time to worry about that now.  It was time for the Spring Game.

The rest of the weekend was a blurry blast per usual, but come Monday, I was worried about facing the cops again.  I had planned on finishing senior year with straight As, not a criminal record.  But, the more I thought about it, I started to get pissed.  They had absolutely no proof I had hit anyone and for all they knew, I could have…been framed.  I got pretty ballsy when I finally spoke to the cop again, and in our conversation, I picked up one crucial piece of the puzzle.  I had supposedly hit this Honda in a parking lot behind the church, yet the owner didn’t call in the police report from that parking lot.  She called it in from an apartment across town.  Verrrry interesting.  She left the “scene of the crime” which you just don’t do.  You know what I think really happened?  The bitch didn’t even realize her car had been hit on the passenger side OR see the note until she got home.  She was as drunk as me.

As the “case” proceeded more, I could tell the cops were realizing they had no legs.  They came by once more to “investigate” and then I never heard another word.  That’s what happens when two drunks get in an accident.  The case just dissolves because no one REALLY knows what happened.

I liked to think I never hit that girl.

Until a month later.

Somehow, in conversation with Bridget, our friend Kevin mentioned that he had seen and heard a silver Xterra totally bash into a Honda the night before the Spring Game behind the church and then drive off.  Whooopsiiiie.  I doubt there was another silver Xterra parked back there with my license plate number.  It was official.  I was the culprit of a hit-and-run.

Sorry, Honda girl.  If I ever meet you one day, I’ll buy you a bunch of drinks.  As long as we cab it home.

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PSA:  Drinking and driving is not good.  I got in trouble for it and wish I would have learned my lesson before I had to deal with a whole lotta stress, money and tears.  It’s truly not worth it and as shitty as the cab situation is in Atlanta, you just have to put up with it because you could hurt yourself or others when getting behind the wheel after a few too many drinks.  We’ve all made mistakes (especially in college) and I like to share those mistakes for the sake of comedy, but want to be clear that in no way am I condoning drinking and driving.  Drinking, on the other hand, yes, I fully support.  Like I even have to say that.

What the Eff Have I Been Doing: Volume 65

It’s been over a week **wince** since my last post.  This is not the first post where I make excuses for my blog slacking.  Or the second.  But, feel free to read those if you want. So, what the EFF have I been up to?  Let me share…

1.  Hanging out with my new bestie, Tope (short for Babatope).  Got a text from a college girlfriend after seeing pics of us on Facebook that read: “who is the new BFF? He may (from the pics) be a Taye Diggs lookalike.”

Whaaaa??  Alright girl, I guess I can see that.  Ladies, take note – Tope is single and now, obviously famous from appearing on this blog.  Yeah….

Here we are with Tope’s new bar stools that we picked out together at CB2:

We also picked out that knit ottoman in the bottom right corner.  What…a decorating team.  And what….an interracial Christmas card.

2.  Trying out new restaurants (ok, so one). Last Friday, Tope and I (surprise surprise) tried out Ziba’s Wine Bar in Grant Park, solely because my friend Liza, the editor of Scoutmob, told me it was awesome, and….we had a Scoutmob deal for it.

The place is super cool and has delicious Mediterranean tapas.  We ordered the yucca frites, stuffed medjool date, clams, persian meatballs, and something else that I forget but I’m sure was awesome.  Also, my friend Emily informed me of the “dinner party roulette” at Ziba’s and in her words:   “The coolest thing! On Saturday’s, 4 parties of 2 are seated together at one big community table, so you eat together/meet random people! They also comp a hookah and a glass of wine for everyone. It’s dependent upon other people booking for it, but it’s so cool!!!”

Thanks….for the tip, Emily. I know what I’m doing next Saturday.

3.  Going to NETHERWORLD Haunted House with my fellow superfan, Meghan.  This year’s theme is Gargoyles, and I have to admit that I was strangely attracted to the actual Gargoyles.

I mean, is it just me, or are they hot?  They are ALL tall and broad-shouldered (although maybe that was just the costume?) and from what I could hear while chatting with them at the haunt, they have hot voices.  I heard from an inside source that they are Scandinavian, but that source could have just been f*cking with me.

Yes, we were flirting with them.  I don’t know if I should be proud of that…or embarrassed.  Probably a little of both.

4.  I started going to yoga again, but I can’t tell you where because I’m scared too many people will join and then the classes will be crowded and they’ll raise their prices.  Sorry.

5.  Being pissed about a speeding ticket. Back in July, I got a speeding ticket about an hour outside of Nashville for 70 in a 50….in a construction zone.  Whoooppsiiiie.  In my defense, I seriously had no idea it was 50 mph.  That’s just dumb for the highway at night with no workers present.  I also had no proof of insurance or registration on me and Dewey violently barked at the cop the whole time I was being ticketed.  It wasn’t my finest moment.

Anyway, the cop told me to DEFINITELY show up to my court date because the judge would probably let me do driving school and drop the charge so I wouldn’t get points on my license.  I think my driving record is fairly clear right now (for once), but I still didn’t need those damn points on my license.  I mean, I could pass a stopped school bus tomorrow and immediately be thrown into “high risk driver” category.  I needed to keep my record as clean as possible.  Like my reputation.

I went to Nashville Monday night and spent the night with my friends that live there, so I could go to Hillbillyville the next morning and try to sweet talk my way out of this.  I have sweet talked my way out of so many situations like this that I’ve lost count.

But, for the first time….I lost.  There was a “stand-in” judge who wasn’t making any exceptions.  I had to pay a $250 ticket and I don’t even want to know about the damn points.  F…ML.

And, now I’m all pissed off again.

Time for a drink, a tryst with a Scandinavian gargoyle and yoga at an undisclosed location to cheer me up.

Recovery Plan

I think we all know I’m notorious for saying something was stolen, but in fact, I just lost or misplaced it.  For example, my car.  This would be embarrassing for me…if I actually got embarrassed.

Thursday afternoon, I realized I had nothing to wear for The Reserve opening that night, so instead of doing laundry, I would go shopping for something to wear.  I grabbed my Louis V., my black Amex, strapped on my shopping stilettos, and headed to Neiman’s to meet with my personal shopper to pick out the perfect ensemble.

Ok, so I actually just grabbed a random Urban Outfitters handbag, my blue Visa and prepared to hit up H&M.

After parking in the hot mess parking deck of Atlantic Station and entering H&M (which, even on a Thursday afternoon is annoyingly crowded with rude customers), I picked out a few items, including a new pair of skinny jeans to replace last year’s pair that split in the crotch after a “stretching” incident.  I left the dressing room, and while heading to the register, I reached for my cell phone in my bag and realized it was gone.

Mother. F*cker.

I hightailed it back to the dressing room and breathlessly asked if my cell phone had been found.  The attendant hadn’t seen it.  I almost beat down the door of the dressing room I had been in, literally catching the girl that was in there with her pants down.  Whooopsiiie. No phone.  Or, so she claimed.  But, I detected a suspicious look on her ass, er, face.

I retraced my steps to no avail, got the manager to walkie-talkie every employee in the store asking if they’d seen it, and finally came to terms with the fact that it had been stolen.  I debated not buying the clothes in retaliation….but then I wouldn’t have a cell phone OR an outfit to wear that night.

When I got home, I called my cell phone from my computer and it went straight to voicemail.  It was officially stolen, and the thief had turned it off.  Awesome. I activated my previous ancient BlackBerry to use in the interim, and told my story to anyone who would listen, even referencing the “c-word” in the dressing room who I believed had stolen the phone.

On Friday, my dad and I decided that maybe it was time I get off the family share plan, sign a new contract with Verizon, and in turn, get a new phone at a discounted price.  I couldn’t believe it.  27 years old and my parents were kicking me off the family plan?!  Ok, so I could believe it.  It was confirmed.  I was supposed to be an adult.

Saturday morning, I was awoken by a call from a random number with a 706 area code that I silenced, then a text from dad:  PHONE FOUND.  Call me ASAP – don’t text.

What….the eff.

I called him immediately and he informed  me that an Asian girl had just called the house, claiming she had my phone.  He said she didn’t speak English very well, and that he told her to take my phone to the nearest police station (really, Dad?!), and she immediately panicked, saying “I not steal phone, I not steal phone!” and hung up.

Way to go, Dad.  Way….to go.

But, luckily, he used *69 to get her number (remember *69….from the 90s?), and gave it to me.  But, I already had it (ie. the random 706 number that had woken me up).  I called her back and after a lot of “what?” and “can you spell that?”, I gathered that she went to Georgia Tech and wanted to meet me the following day because, as she stated, “Today, I go to football game.”  Oh, hell, no.  I asked if she could meet me in the next 20 minutes and after another frustrating exchange, “Starbucks at 10am” was decided upon.

I headed to Midtown, sans bra, in my pajamas and with Dewey in tow (just in case this was a set-up, I’d need protection).  Somehow, I hadn’t stopped to think that the football game she had spoken of could be a 12pm gametime and I’d be hanging out amongst throngs of people, looking like a disheveled mess with my high beams on.

And, that’s exactly what happened.

I couldn’t just be in the Starbucks vicinity without getting a coffee, so I tried to slip in and out as quickly as possible among all the Tech football fans in their gameday garb.  After that, I had to wait outside for my Asian sensation to meet me and she was a good 20 minutes late.  Not that I was complaining, but I couldn’t ignore the confused stares of the passersby who were probably wondering why a walk-of-shamer was hanging out at Starbucks and not hoofing it home with her head down.

When my girl showed up, I offered to buy her coffee, pastries, whatever she wanted from Starbucks, but she declined.  I tried to get her to tell me exactly WHERE she found the phone (ie. outside, in a store, etc.), but my attempt proved futile.  We weren’t communicating.  She gave me the phone and hurried off and I could only imagine someone witnessing that exchange would have assumed that the tall, braless girl was mugging an Asian student half her size for her BlackBerry.

But, I would never do that.  At least not without putting on a sports bra first.

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