It’s a Friday afternoon and I get this text from my friend Lis:  “I just got several tix to the Bud suite at the Braves game 2night.  Bad weather, but we’ll be indoors with free beers.  Dan Aykroyd may be there 2.  Need to know if you want to go (Congrats, you’re in my A-list of peeps to invite…if you’re out, I move to B-list).”  What….an honor.  “Duh,” I reply back.  Lis recently started a gig doing marketing for Twisted Taco Midtown, so she got the sweet (and, suite) hook-up from the owners.  So, 6 of us pile into Lis’ Nissan Rogue and head to the stadium, and on the way, she informs us that Dan Aykroyd will most definitely be hanging in the suite.  As we walk up the suite level, the jokes are endless:  Should we bust into the suite Ghostbusters-style? Should we walk in singing a Blues Brothers song? Should we have picked up some Conehead hats on the way?  We get up to the suite door, and are ready to bust in the place….and the door is locked.  Womp, womp.  We have to go get someone to open it, and when we walk in, we are the only people there.  Well, this is the most anticlimactic entrance ever.  Where…is Dan and Co.?  Whatever – the suite is fully-stocked with every Budweiser beer you can think of and fully catered, so we’re not too disappointed.  Apparently, Dan is hanging out in the Crystal Head Vodka suite down the hall (the vodka brand he started), so once Lis, Chesley and I have slung back a few beers and are ready for a liquor drink, we head down there.  I call my mom on the way to let her know I’m hanging with a celeb from her generation. “Oh, how exciting!” she says.  ” Tell him I said hi!”  She’s serious.  Really, Mom?  You really want me to go up to Dan Aykroyd and tell him, “Hey, great to meet you, love your movies.  My mom says hi by the way.”  I don’t think so.

Upon entering the suite, Lis’ boss at Twisted Taco picks up the phone on the wall, hands it to Lis and asks, “Who you gonna call?”  We lose it, of course.  We see Dan, he’s hanging out, taking photos with people, etc. and then someone brings out a bag of Ghostbusters DVDs?  Seriously? And THEN, Dan starts signing them and giving them to people!  If I wasn’t so intent on fixing my Crystal Head Vodka and soda at the time, I would have shimmied into the crowd of people waiting for those puppies and snagged one for myself.  But, as a rule:  alcohol comes first.  So, Dan leaves the suite to go watch some of the game and the girls and I are left in the suite with only a few stragglers.  Then we spot them:  two empty Crystal Head Vodka bottles signed by DA.  Now, these aren’t just any regular bottles; they are seriously cool.  Take a look:

Should we? we ask ourselves.  And then, without any hesitation, Chesley snatches up one of the bottles  (cue sound effect:  Yoink!) and we bolt from the suite. The second we step outside, we hear, “Hey!  Hand that over!”  Shit.  Buuuuuusted! But, it’s just a random, ghetto vendor lady who wants it for herself.  Phew.  We laugh nervously and hustle it back to our suite, where we have a few more drinks and then head to Twisted Taco, where Dan is headed next, so Lis can snap some photos of him for the bar.  We park in a lot where the attendant tells us that it’s $5 until 3 a.m. and $8 if you’re going to keep your car overnight.  So, we play it safe and pay the $8.  We head into the bar, take a car bomb or two, and wait for Dan’s entrance….which was worth waiting for.  Upon his arrival, the DJ played “Soul Man” by the Blues Brothers, and he struts in as people high-five him, take pictures and hot girls hug him.  Must be nice to be pushing 60 and still get that kind of attention.  He goes behind the bar, starts pouring Crystal Head drinks, posing for numerous pictures, etc., when Chesley snaps this gem of a photo:

Chesley:  “If Dan is ever a topic on “Chelsea Lately” for doing something scandalous, we are totally submitting this photo for them to show on-screen during the Round Table.”  I couldn’t have said it better myself.

We meet him, and I am so tempted to say, “My Mom says hi!” just to laugh about it later, but I refrain.  One more car bomb and it probably would have been on, but sadly, Cindy Hesseltine did not get a shout-out.

It kinda looks like…he’s checking out Lis’ rack.

A little while later, we decide to head to another bar, Tin Roof, and Lis says she’s fine to drive, so we head to the car, where we realize we want our $3 back as we’re not parking the car there overnight.  “Go get it,” she orders me.  So, I head over to the parking attendant and explain the situation.  “No,” he says.  “I can’t give you your money back.”  Sigh. You know, I TRY to be nice to cab drivers and parking attendants, but they bring it on themselves.  I don’t WANT to go into bitch mode, but they force me into it.  “Sir, we’re not staying here overnight.  Give me back the $3 right now.”  He gives me a look of death and reluctantly reaches into his pocket and hands me $2, then jets off to move a car before I can protest.  Oh, hell no. It’s now no longer about the money; it’s the principle.  “Excuse me!” I yell.  He acts like he doesn’t hear me.  So, I go and stand in front of the car he is trying to move with my hands on my hips Wonder Woman-style until he realizes it’s either run me over or give me the $1 back.  So, he gets out of the car, snarls and hands over the buck.  I win.  So, we head to Tin Roof, autographed Crystal Head safe in the glove compartment.

Once inside Tin Roof, we post up by the bar and Chesley disappears to the opposite end of the bar and comes back a few minutes later.  “I gave them the bottle,” she says.  “What!?  How could you?!” I shriek.  I didn’t even see her bring it in.  “What, Ashley – what were YOU going to use it for?”  I have no response.  I just wanted us to have it as a keepsake, but I back down anyway.  I guess since it we stole it, it would only be fair to donate it to someone else to avoid bad karma.  We wouldn’t want the ghost of Dan Aykroyd coming back to haunt us a few decades from now.  Because, then….who would we call?

So, Andrea (see engaged friend in Labor Haze) decided to throw a surprise 30^th birthday party for her now fiancé, Thad, and was toying with a bunch of themes (you know, the typical ’80s theme, tacky formalwear, everyone just wearing a T-shirt with Thad’s face on it, etc.) when she came up with the brilliant idea of….drumroll please….Senior. Prom.  It couldn’t have been more perfect.  While most of the other E-vited guests’ minds wandered to ‘80s proms and overall tacky, thrift store digs, my immediate thought was, I’m wearing my Senior Prom dress.  I will get my mom to dig it out of the closet and I will Astroglide myself into that thing if I have to, but I am going to keep it real for this party.  Luckily enough, I stopped at my parents’ house for Labor Day weekend and my mom already had the dress laid out on my bed in all of its red, sequined, slutty glory: still in the hanging Caché bag I stuffed it in the day after the prom in 2001, and complete with sash and handbag.  Perfect.  I stuffed that sucker in my suitcase and brought it down to Atlanta for its Southern debut the following weekend.

I tried on the dress the night before the party and it would have been fine, except for the cutouts on the side.  I just wasn’t comfortable with what those cutouts showcased after my 4-day Labor Day eating and drinking binge that seemed to continue for another 3 days after I got back.  So, it was a little touch-and-go there for a while, but when my guy friend, Foley, called me the next day (Prom Day) and asked me to be his date, I realized I couldn’t let that insignificant “too tight” mishap stop me; it had to be worn.  So, that night, I put it on and realized if I just unzipped it a LITTLE bit in the back and safety pinned it, I had enough wiggle room to look OK.  Talk about….a custom-made gown.  So, I put it on, curled my hair and pinned it back old-school style and headed out the door.  First, I had to stop at Tin Roof (read: dive bar) for my friend Jim’s Ironman celebration party.  Needless to say, no one else was in formalwear.  That was interesting.  So, I left and was on my way to the Prom, when I realized, Only LOSERS drive THEMSELVES to the Prom. I am going to call a driver (ie. a cab), so I headed home to fix myself another drink and call one.  I played cab roulette (see Entertaining Married People), Checker Cab got the honor and was (thank goodness for the driver) on time.

I hopped in the cab and the first thing that cab driver said was, “I smell alcohol.”  That would be my solo cup of Chardonnay, buddy. “Oh, really? Weird,” I said.  “So, I’m headed to East Andrews for the Prom!”  Second hilarious comment from cabbie: “Are you in high school?”  I politely explained to him that it was a themed party and asked him to tune the radio to 95.5 The Beat in hopes of hearing some sort of Usher or Ginuwine jam from 2001.  He happily obliged.  When my driver and I pulled up to the top of the East Andrews stairs leading down to the terrace, everyone was already down on the terrace so it was QUITE an entrance.  I got out, got lots of laughs and cheers, and my date RAN up the stairs to greet and embrace me before I could even get out my cab fare.

Then we walked down the stairs and into the party, arm-in-arm.  What…a moment.  I enjoyed being center-of-attention more than usual due to the fact that I never even got on Prom Court in high school because everyone thought I was a stuck-up bitch…..which I was.

The party was rockin’ and Thad was genuinely surprised…to see all of us…then to see all of us in our heinous prom wear.  He walked in and someone tossed him an old-school blazer along with this snazzy T-shirt.

In case you can’t tell, that is a REAL glamour shot that Thad got taken when he was 17 (yes, 17), and a caption that says, “I’ve been looking fine since 1979.”

Speeches were given (one by me and most of which turned out to be more about Thandrea’s engagement than Thad’s birthday), we danced, drank, took celebratory shots, then the band played….Lady In Red.  I may or may not have shrieked in excitement.  So, my date and I hit the dance floor, using my sash as a prop, and this is what ensued.  This photo is not staged:

Needless to say, my date’s lack of suave moves on the dance floor (and obvious intention to strangle me with my own sash) put a rift between us for the rest of the evening, and when I left the party (earlier than I would have liked, due to a work engagement the following day), he was nowhere to be found.  A week later, I heard he went home with someone else, and THIS photo surfaced as proof:

Yup, that’s him.  Yet, all I can say is that my date hooking up with another girl after the dance truly made the night an authentic Senior Prom.  Well done, Andrea.  Well….done.  I am glad to have taken Prom Queen runner-up to you.

So, my friend Kelly at Metromix instant messages me as soon as I get in the office this morning asking if the fella I featured in my blog passed out on the couch with Pringles on his shoulder (see: Labor Haze) is her co-worker, Dan.

Here’s the photo so you don’t have to scroll down:

I say no, that dude is from up North.  She asks, “Are you SURE?”  “Uhhh….pretty sure,” I say.  So, we end it at that, and a few minutes later I get an email (this Dan character along with half of their office copied), saying, “Ashley – tell us they aren’t twins!!”

How could this be?!  The hat, the maraca, the magazine, the strangely placed food item?!  And best of all – a dress shirt and TIE!?  AND, they look alike. Clearly, they are long-lost twins and we just helped them to find each other.  This is what I like to call….a twincident.

So, I fly back to Atlanta after Labor Day weekend in Dewey Beach and am not too stoked about A) the summer being officially over, B) feeling hungover from the past 4 days, and C) having to return to work and reality.  I get back into town and go to pick up my dog, Dewey (yes, named after the beach) at Dog Days (the place where I board him) and I know this will cheer me up.  I walk in, excited to see my little guy, and the two owners along with the girl who works at the front desk are all standing there.  It was as if…they expected me.  “Hi…I’m here to pick up Dewey.”  They give me a look like they’re about to tell me Dewey is no longer with us, and say, “We hate to tell you this, but Dewey is expelled from Dog Days.”  Ummmm….expelled?  From day care?  Is this a joke?

“He went after two other dogs,” the owner says.  “But it is so strange; they were the exact same chocolate brown color.  It was like he didn’t like their color.”  Is this happening? I think.  Is this woman really telling me my dog is a racist? I can barely wrap my head around it.  “Yeah, she continues; it was so strange.  He’s always been so sweet, but he just went after these two specific dark-colored dogs.”  Again, with the racism?  Really, lady? I go through the necessary steps of telling them I understand and that I’m really upset as I love Dog Days, etc., and they say they might be able to board him at another location that has larger solitary kennels (ie. if he goes ape-shit on another race, they can keep him separated).

I will admit, this shook me up a bit – I have had so many problems with Dewey and this just adds to the stress.  I end up calling back later that day because I want to get all the facts straight as I will need to tell the trainer we’re planning on meeting with.  I get told that Dewey didn’t harm these dogs, but he was just extremely aggressive towards them.  “And,” says the girl I speak with, “one of the dogs he went after was Snickers…and a lot of dogs here don’t like Snickers.”  What the eff?!  Well, then why the hell don’t you guys kick Snickers out!?  Clearly, SNICKERS is the problem! Whatever….I know Dewey needs basic obedience training and hopefully it will correct a lot of his issues.  I just wonder if they can address racism…

Don’t let this angel face fool you.

If you’re reading this blog – first of all, THANK YOU; second of all, read the entry below first as it goes in order.

The next day of the Savannah trip involves a lot of eating, drinking on the beach and just feeling overall disgusting.  However, the real “Bachelorette Party” is that night and I am supposed to look hot as I am….let me reiterate….the ONLY SINGLE ONE.  Time for a run to sweat out some of the alcohol and feel somewhat ok about myself.  Alex and Jennifer – the vacay running buddies – have actually brought clothing to run in.  I have not.  I consider bailing, and then think, No I have got to do this.  I’ll find something.  I go upstairs and survey my suitcase.  A pair of purple boxer shorts with Polo horses on them, hot pink tank top and regular bra will just have to do.  I think I have an old pair of running shoes in the car for some reason.  So, I put on my gear and come downstairs.

(this photo was taken post-run, but I inserted it here for the effect)

The girls literally look at me like, There’s no way you’re leaving the house looking like that, nevertheless running.  But, I head straight to my car, pull on the most heinous pair of Sauconys ever created (with no socks) and get ready to hit the pavement.  Once we start, I am running really fast. I think it might have had something to do with not wanting anyone to get a good look at me.  Alex and Jennifer yell from behind, “we’re going to make you run down to River Street looking like that!”  “Yeah right!” I yell back from my first place position.  Then, all of a sudden…there we are….on River Street.  There are families.  There are dogs. There are tons of tourists.  There are tons of PEOPLE everywhere.  I’m literally dodging people, running on COBBLE-effing-STONE streets looking like what I can only imagine as a Saturday Night Live character….being chased.   This is a spectacle.  I run faster.  We FINALLY get off of River Street, but we are still amongst crowds of people.  At this point, I don’t care anymore, until we approach a church….and see a stream of dressed-up people coming out.  The wedding!!  “Ohmygosh, Alex, do you think it could be?”  We slow it down for a nanosecond to get a better look and she hisses, “I see one of the guys from last night! RUN!”

We literally take off, running down alleys, trying to get as far away as possible from the guy that I may or may not have shacked up with the night before.  What….an encounter THAT would have been.

We finally arrive home and I have an intensely painful blister on my heel from running in those f*ckers with no socks. We start to get ready.  The rest of the night goes pretty much like this: I hold a clipboard with a list of things for Lindsay to do (basically, just because I love having a clipboard in hand), and she does them.  Spanking our waiter at dinner, licking a bald man’s head, having a dance-off in the bar, getting a dude’s chest hair, dancing on the bar, getting a guy in jorts to buy her a beer, etc.  Overall, a successful weekend.

The drive home the next day just sucked…largely in part because Chick-Fil-A isn’t open on Sundays.

It’s my college friend Lindsay’s bachelorette party in Savannah.  I’ll set the scene:  gorgeous lavish townhome right in downtown Savannah on Broughton Street, 8 pretty girls (of which I am the only single one, surprise, surprise) and a fridge stocked with enough beer, wine, liquor and jello shots (yes, jello shots) to last us for a week. Ok, maybe not a week, but much longer than 2 days.

We start the Friday night, or rather, early evening with Pink Panty Pulldowns to drink (how old are we again?), shower and get ready with more drinks, sit down for apps and dinner, more drinks, play the typical bachelorette games, jello shots, do the lingerie shower thing, push aside numerous empty bottles of wine, and then are left wondering what to do after all the planned activities are over.  Then the smoke alarm starts to beep.  That annoying, every 3 seconds, JUST-loud-enough-to-drive-you-crazy beep.  Stuff like this really puts me on edge (shocker), so I start trying to figure out where it’s coming from, running from alarm to alarm and finally locate what I think is “the one.”  My friend (and partner-in-crime) Alex hoists me up on the legs of a chair so I’m tall enough and I take the battery out.  Phew.  Then we hear it:  Beep.  Beep.  Beep. Clearly, they are all linked together and are not going to stop.  In the midst of all this drunken, “stop the beeping!” hysteria, some of the girls got into their…..dare I say it….pajamas.  W…..TF?  We’re not going out?  Oh no.  I’m single, I’m on vacation, I’m drunk:  We. Are. Going. Out. So I decide Alex and I are going to go get a battery for the alarm to make it stop beeping.  What….a genius plan.  We grab solo cups of beer and head out.  One block away from the house, we both realize we’re not getting any batteries…we’re going to a bar.  We walk around aimlessly, not really finding much and then just say “Eff it – let’s just embrace our tourist pride and go down to River Street” (we conveniently remembered the way from our St. Patty’s 2K6 Extravaganza weekend).  The first bar we stop in:  Wet Willies.  A wall full of spinning frozen drinks.  Perfect.

I honestly don’t think we were inside that bar for 5 minutes before we immediately get approached by a group of guys in town for a wedding – groom-to-be is absent, but what looks like his entire wedding party is present.  I discreetly high-five myself.  I start chatting up a decent-looking dude that turns out to be really cool – he even buys me a bright red frozen drink called the “Call a Cab.” Talk about…a charmer.  The rest of the night goes a little bit like this:  a karaoke bar, the guys hotel balcony having more drinks, a drunk shirtless groom-to-be with a cartoon-like beer gut mumbling about how he’s going to marry the best girl in the world the next day, Alex calling me at 4 a.m. when she’s outside the house, can’t get in and is planning to sleep in a bush, me coming home a few (or more) hours later.  Walk-of-shame?  Maybe. Maybe not.  But, I definitely did not have any batteries.

On this particular Thursday night in late August, I had two college girlfriends coming in town (both of whom are married, but fortunately, have not changed a bit since they weren’t) and we were driving to Savannah the following day for a bachelorette party.  Which means the following day we’d be eating Chick-Fil-A on the road trip anyway, so I figured we may as well be hungover so we could fully enjoy it; I decided to drag them around the city to get our weekend started on the right foot.  First stop:  the Savida Sangria launch party at Rio Grande in Buckhead.  Upon arrival, we were pointed to the bar for a taste of the “first homemade sangria in a bottle,” and from the first sip, I knew it was going to go down way too easy.  Sangria is like Juicy Juice to me;  people can say “oh, this place has really great, strong sangria” or “one glass of this sangria and you’ll be on the floor” but I always end up downing it like a 3^rd grader with a Capri Sun on a hot day.  Needless to say, I had a glass of the red and two of the white – both VERY delicious – and decided I needed to slow down as it was only 7:30 pm.

Next stop: one of my fave local spots: Verde Tacqueria in Brookhaven.  We take our seats, and when a tall hot waiter (THW) approached our table, I didn’t notice his Verde tee-shirt and thought he was just stopping by the table to hit on us…which I proceeded to tell him.  He laughed, told us he WAS indeed our waiter…but turns out, THW planned to hit on us anyway (well, actually just me, as he must have noticed the other girls’ “back-off-buddy bling”).  I ordered my new cocktail of choice for Mexican joints: tequila and water on the rocks with a LOT of limes (in this case, Herradura Silver, because apparently, I think I’m a baller), while the girls got margs and we all ordered guac and a couple of their awesome tacos.   When I got up to use the restroom, THW asked my friends my name and the rest is history.  The server-patron flirt was in full effect the rest of the evening and when I ordered my next drink, this is what I got:

What…a romantic gesture.

Anyway, there was no number exchange but I figured if I’m in the market for a dude who can hook me up with free Mexican grub any time I want…I know where to find him.  In other words, I’ll probably be at Verde next weekend.

We headed back to my house to call a cab to head to our final destination: W Downtown for the BMI Showcase after-party, where the Modern Skirts would be playing, as well as Michael Tolcher.  The party started at midnight if that give any indication of the longevity of this night.  I played cab roulette in my head, which basically consists of recalling which cab company – Checker or Yellow – pissed me off last, and then calling the other one.  So, Checker got the honor this evening…and they failed miserably.  After being told “5-20 minutes” and waiting 35, I called them, “voiced my concerns” with some choice words, and then called Yellow.  Yellow pulled up 10 minutes later and we hopped in, just as the Checker cab driver pulled up as well and realized what was happening.  Sorry Checker – better luck next time.

We pulled up to the W (where I think the valets know me by name now) and headed up to Drinkshop, where a nice crowd was already forming.  I ordered my new favorite drink: the Sapphire Cup (created by Drinkshop bartender Eric and which will be featured in GQ magazine this November), and made the girls do the same.  A few beverages and good conversations later (and one rousing rendition of Beyonce’s Single Ladies by the Skirts) and we were ready to hit it – one friend was looking a little glassy-eyed and I had a feeling one more cocktail for me could have been one too many for a work-related event.  But, I still had to show the girls the rooftop bar (my favorite part of the hotel)…which was already closed for the night.  Yet, I had no worries about that; a smile and wink from Alex got the clean-up guy on the roof to open the doors to the pool deck so we could gaze out over the city from the 16^th floor.  Night complete.  We hopped in a cab, got home, I ate some sort of cheese product (my typical nightcap), and we went to bed, dreaming of the road trip Chick-Fil-A and penis paraphernalia we would encounter the next night at the bach party.