Archive for the ‘My Crazy Family’ Category

“Is That Lassie?”

When I worked downtown at 360 Media, I would bring my dog Dewey to work, and taking him out to pee was ALWAYS an adventure, mainly because of all the homeless people that would yell at him/us. What would they yell, you ask? Always the same shit:

“Lassie!  Is that Lassie!?”

“Look at Lassie over there!”

“Is that dog named Lassie?”

Yes, everyone.  My dog is named Lassie. I couldn’t come up with anything better than that.

But, I always politely smiled and/or laughed at their comments, all the while trying to pull Dewey away from the tossed-away chicken wing bones that are so plentiful on the streets of downtown Atlanta.

When I left 360 and no longer had to walk Dewey around those parts, I thought the Lassie commentary would subside.

It didn’t.

The corner of Ponce and North Highland is where it happens the most, and there is a halfway house a block away which may have something to do with it. I’m just saying. A few weeks ago, a man called out, “Lassie!” while I was on the corner waiting to cross, and when I made it across, another person asked, “Is that dog named Lassie?”  What…a double header. And, just yesterday on the Freedom Park Trail, a homeless-looking man came running toward Dewey (BIG mistake) yelling out “Lassie!  Is that Lassie?” I had to drag Dewey away from that situation so quickly, you would have thought there were a dozen chicken wing bones on the path in front of him.

I just have to ask. What is the homeless population’s obsession with my dog, and more importantly, what is their obsession with Lassie? And MOST importantly, do they really think a witty girl like me would name her dog after the most iconic dog in the world? Okay, so maybe they don’t know I’m witty. Wait, am I?

And, to actually answer the question “Is that Lassie?”, the answer is NO. Lassie is a fictional character, and as for the dogs that played him on television and in movies, they are dead. All of them.

But still, maybe they’re onto something. Maybe Dewey REALLY does resemble the canine superstar.

You be the judge.

Ride It, My Pony

This is me when I was little.

You know how some girls are insecure about their looks so they end up being slutty to compensate?  Well, I’m not quite sure if that was my mentality when I was 7 years old, but I was definitely not so cute, and……the picture speaks for itself.

I mean, what mother thinks this is acceptable behavior for a child and then decides to photograph it?  Cindy Hesseltine, that’s who.  And, the booty shorts?!  Or is that just straight underwear?  As for that shirt, don’t even get me started.  Ok, fine, I’ll get started.  My dad used to have an employee that made spandex clothing (NOW I realize she was probably a stripper by night) and he would bring me home swatches of spandex and let me choose colors and designs and what kind of apparel I wanted.  I once “designed” a pair of pants that were one black leg and one hot pink zebra-striped leg and my parents let me wear that shit to second grade.  Cindy is currently on the hunt for photographic evidence of THAT fashion disaster.

But, what can I say?  They let me “be myself” whether I was going to be a horseback rider, fashion designer or exotic dancer and I thank them for that.  I could have turned out a whole lot worse.

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My Favorite April Fool’s Joke of All Time

My mom would wake me up every April Fool’s Day when I was a little girl and tell me that I had lost my front teeth or my hair had turned green in my sleep, before I could even process what day it was.  Then, there was the time she started screaming “There’s a dead body in that trunk!” when we saw one of those fake Halloween arms hanging out of a car in the parking lot of the Blue Hen Mall.  I was too old to believe it, but my brother started crying hysterically.  It was pathetic.  And priceless.  Anyway, my love for messing with people is clearly hereditary.  Which means I’m a damn good April Foolser.  At least I used to be.

Freshman year in college, I had my mom believing that my sketchy back-home ex-boyfriend was coming down to Clemson and planning on proposing.  Senior year in college I convinced both of my parents I had driven into a flooded area on a road trip to Atlanta and my car began filling with water.  Hearing my dad scream, “She just f*cking ruined her car!  Cindy, she just DROWNED her car!!!” in the background while I talked to my mom was priceless.  And just 2 years ago, I had a hell of a lotta’ folks convinced I was engaged just by changing my status and profile pic on Facebook.

But, sophomore year took the cake.

On spring break in Key West that year, I met a local boy named Jay and I was soooo in looooooove.  Can’t you tell?

We kept in touch after that and even made plans for me to come visit again after the school year ended (which I did).  My mom knew I was smitten with this kid, so once April Fool’s rolled around, I knew I had to get her.  I decided to have her believe I had basically quit school, packed my shit up and driven down to Key West to be with Jay.

I ignored my mom’s calls on my cell phone for a couple days in hopes she would call the apartment phone (yes, we had a landline) on April Fool’s.  And, she did.  Stephanie answered and when my mom asked for me, she pretended to cover up the earpiece and whispered to Bridget, “It’s Ashley’s mom; what should we do?!”  They left her hanging on the line like that for a bit, then Bridget took over.

“Cindy, I don’t know how to tell you this, but Ashley went down to Key West to be with Jay.  She came into my room last night at 2 a.m. and said she just needed to be with him.  Her car was filled with clothes and everything else she could fit in there.”

My mom freaked, of course.  Who knows exactly what she said while I was sitting there on the couch, trying to stifle my hysterics.  Bridget continued.

“We don’t know what to do.  She has, like, 3 exams this week, too.”

That did it.  Skipping exams.  We knew it would put Cindy over the edge.  She hung up with Bridget and sprung into action.  Meanwhile, I was getting a play-by-play via Instant Message from my brother who was at home.

“Ashley, mom is freaking out.  She is running around the house.  Ohmygod, wait a minute.  She’s calling Aunt Penny.”

F*ck.  She was calling my aunt in Miami to see if she knew anything.  This….was going too far.  Exactly as it should have.

I let her freak for what I want to say was a couple hours, but it was probably only another 30 minutes.  My aunt called me after my mom called her and I had to tell her the truth (she’s way too sweet to prank), so I figured I may as well give it up before I put my mom in an early grave.

But, honestly, that’s what she gets for all those tricks she played on us as kids.  Justice…was served.

Rim Job

I know this may come as a shock because of my prim-and-proper, squeaky-clean image, but….I kinda’ used to be a thug.  In college, I listened to mostly rap and hip-hop music, owned a powder blue Baby Phat velour jumpsuit, and used to drop it like it was hot at frat parties and at Overtime in Clemson like no other white girl could.  I also interned at Hot 98.1, and they called me A-Dizzle.  Although, that was only one time, and I think it was just a joke.  But, anyway…

You can imagine my excitement when my brother “outgrew” his almost-brand-new Nissan Xterra during my senior year of college and my parents decided to give it to me and get him an SUV that could accommodate his oversized frame.  The best part:  the Xterra was sitting on shiny, 20-inch rims and had 2 12-inch subwoofers in the back.  That’s right: I was rolling back down to Clemson for my last semester in a ride that could compete with the football players’.  In fact, a couple football player friends even stopped by our crib, er, apartment and gave it their seals of approval.  Gangsta.

But, let’s back up.  No offense to my brother, but who puts anything larger than a 16-inch rim on a Nissan Xterra?  It’s embarrassing, really.  If you’re going to bling out your truck, get an Escalade.  A Tahoe.  A Durango.  But, not a whip that is made for off-roading instead of blunt cruisin’.

Regardless, I still loved it so I was devastated when, a few months into the car exchange, my brother decided he wanted his shit back!  My dad “just so happened” to be driving through South Carolina for something (don’t even ask) so he decided to casually swing through Clemson and snag the goods.  I came home from school with Bridget and there was my dad.  In the parking lot of my apartment.  Taking off the rims and taking out the subwoofers.  In a one-piece mechanic’s jumpsuit.  Talk about…a car jacking.

I’m sorry, but if that happened in Compton instead of Clemson, he would have gotten arrested.  It just did not look good.

So, I was back to the factory rims and sans speakers.  It just wasn’t the same riding Downtown on Thursday night in a regular ol’ silver Xterra with nothing tricked out except for the tint.

Why am I telling you this?  Because I saw an Xterra sitting on what looked like 22s riding down Piedmont the other day.  Although I realized how ridiculous it looked, I felt a wave of nostalgia.  I wanted my 20s back.  I wanted those speakers back.  So what if I’m bumping Mumford and Sons instead of Yin Yang Twins these days?

I was stopped at a light next to the Xterra (which was HUNTER GREEN, mind you), and slyly (or what I thought was slyly) brought out my phone to snap a mobile upload.

And….BUSTED!  The driver caught me.  And so did his passenger, whose seat was so far back, he was basically looking at me from the backseat window.

“You like dem rims?!” he yelled to me.

Mother. F*ck.  I’m trying to get a picture of this dude’s car because it is just so ridiculous that he has 22s on a hunter green Xterra and now he thinks I’m admiring his ride.

“Yeah!” I yelled back.  And, then, because I couldn’t control myself: “I used to have some myself!”

Oh, yes…I did.

With that, he rode off and I was so flustered, I could barely snap a photo in time.  This is all I got.

Alright, so maybe I do like dem rims just a little bit.

The Fake ID Chronicles: Volume 1

I have to visit the DMV today to get a replacement license.  Or, are they calling it the DDS these days?  Eh, who gives a f*ck.  But, anyway, it got me thinking about IDs and all the joy they’ve brought me and trouble they’ve gotten me into over the years.  So, I’m starting a lil’ something called the Fake ID Chronicles.  I have more fake ID stories than most, hence, the need for a series.  Let’s do this.

I got my first fake ID when I was 15.  My cousin Lindsay and I were heading down to Miami for a summer vacation to visit my aunt, uncle and cousin Scott, who’s 3 years my senior, and we decided that we needed IDs saying we were 18 to attempt to get into some classy 18-to-party establishments.  But, when we got to the guy’s house who was making them for us…I got greedy.

I wanted to be 21.

When my slightly blurry, yet somewhat believable 21-year-old New Jersey ID popped out of the dude’s printer, I felt like I was holding a winning lottery ticket in my hand.  Lindsay’s came out looking like her face had been digitally  scrambled and our ID dealer explained that some turned out better than others.  That truly solifidied my feelings of luck.  What if MINE had been the shitty one?!  I couldn’t even imagine.

Once we showed cousin Scott our IDs, he laughed in our faces and just took us to house parties all week.  But, don’t feel bad; partying with hot 18-year-old dudes was perfectly suitable for us, regardless of location.

When school started up again, I was a 16-year-old junior and the “girl with the fake.”  People started catching wind of it and the senior soccer guys we hung with were the first to “make the ask.”  They knew of the smallest, shittiest liquor store in the smallest, shittiest town right next to ours and convinced me I’d “be fine.”  I breezed in confidently, picked up some Popov vodka, cheap beer and wine and walked out with my purchases, feeling like the most badass girl in the world.  And, I was.

We boozed it up that night, probably cruised around in the Texaco parking lot, got late-night WaWa hoagies and went home.  I woke up the next morning, still reeling from my new badassness and came down to the kitchen where my parents were waiting for me with concerned faces.

F*ck.

“What’s up, guys?” I asked.

My dad spoke first.  “Ashley, we know you have a fake ID.”

My heart stopped.  This wasn’t happening.  I would do anything to protect my new identity.  I would lie.  I would cry.  I would say I had a change of heart and threw it out.  I would run away.  There was no way they were getting their hands on my winning lottery ticket.

He continued.  “And, all I’m going to say is that if we ever find bottles of Boone’s Farm in the trash again, you’re going to be in trouble.  You know better than that.”

And, he walked out.

I was stunned.  But, lesson learned.  No more Wild Berry wine for this girl.  Looks like it would be vodka and Mike’s Hard Lemonade from here on out.

That…was a close one.

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Happy Birthday Dewey!

I realize I haven’t blogged since December 14.  That. Is. Just. Pathetic.  And, don’t worry….I’m going to address that…later.  You see, procrastinating is an art form, folks, and I hope one day you are able to master it as well as I’ve done in regards to this blog.  In the meantime, I had to give Dewey a dedicated blog post for his birthday-slash-our-anniversary.  Two years ago, I brought him home after he was found roaming our neighborhood simply to “foster” him for a few days.  Yeah. Effing. Right.  He was mine the second he walked in the door, and ever since, he has brought me nothing but joy, more joy, aaaaand, even more joy.  Coincidentally….Joy is my middle name.

Since I don’t know how old he is, I decided he was one year old the day I got him and that’s why his birthday doubles as our anniversary.  I’ve never made it past 6 months with any guy before, so this is quite…a milestone.  Also, since he’s 3 today, that is 21 in people years, so you can guess what we’ll be doing tonight.  Bring on the Salty Dogs.

I bought Dewey his very own iPaw for his birthday, which is like an iPad, but it has a bigger screen and keys for his paws.  I also pre-downloaded Angry Cats on it for him, which is like Angry Birds…but with cats.

He was so excited that this is what happened.  Happy Friday, loyal readers.  I would turn up the sound on this one.

Stuff Her Like a Lady

It should come as no surprise that I come from a long line of dirty minds.  And by that, I mean….my dad.  I’m pretty sure my brother is a close second when it comes to inappropriate matters of the mind, but proving this on film was truly not my intention when I snuck up on him stuffing our Thanksgiving turkey.  I honestly just wanted to get some nice, wholesome video that I could post on this blog for the whole family to see and remember the special times we shared over the holiday.

I should have known better.

Dirty Happy Holidays from the Hesseltines, everyone.

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?

Turkey Tiiiime!

It’s Thanksgiving – the day when we reflect on all that we’re thankful for.  I’m thankful for, of course, my family, friends, my dog,  and my health, but there are a lot of other things I’m thankful for.  Like Kellan Lutz’s abs.

I’m currently gathering major material for my post-Thanksgiving blog entry (I swear!) including a trip to one of the most infamous strip clubs in the country (besides the Clermont, of course).

In the meantime, take a listen to the latest podcast I did with Sully of Dave FM (please?).  We talk about TSA fondling (total BS, by the way), a party that I missed last night (ps: Big Boi showed up and did a surprise performance), aaaand, my knowledge (or lack thereof) of Delaware history.  And, history in general.  It’s my favorite podcast we’ve done so far.  Although, we have only done 3.  Click HERE to listen, then click on PLAY.

CHEERS and Happy Thanksgiving to all!

Dewey’s Dog Days Are Over

Dewey and I spend a lot of time at the Oakhurst Dog Park, and he always makes new friends.  Until the day when one of these said “friends” turned on him.  Take a look.

He’s coming in……. (notice Dewey’s skeptical look).

HE ATTACKS!

His work here is done.