I’ve done A LOT of stupid things in my life.  And, a lot of them have involved an automobile.  I think it all started when I ran my parents’ car into a grain truck on one of our farms when I was 15 and basically tore the passenger side door off.  My cousin was in the car and still repeats her favorite quote of mine to this day: “If we turn the headlights off, no one will notice.”  In college, I called the police department to report my car stolen…not once, but TWICE, before I realized that I just forgot where I parked it.  Just this summer, I woke up in a panic missing my car keys and thought my life was completely over for a good hour…until I remembered I had valet’d it at a friend’s condo the night before (ie. they had my keys).

But, this weekend took the cake.  Saturday was a great day of bouncing around town, me visiting 4 new places I had never been to and lots of cheers’ing and “this is the best day EVER!”s.  I had been toting Dewey around all day, bringing him to the patios at Brewhouse and Estoria and to Cabbagetown Park.  He was pretty tuckered out by the time we got to P’cheen to end the night, so I left him in my car to sleep.  Trust me, he’s much safer and happier there than trying to break out of the windows of my house when I leave.  We had some drinks (read: took full advantage of free champagne and beer from 8-9) and when it was time to go, I made the decision to drive my car the one mile to Kate’s and crash there instead of driving all the way home under the influence.  Kids, I’m not condoning even driving that mile, but we’ve all been there.  Plus, I couldn’t very well stuff Dewey in a cab or cover a friend’s car with fur, as he’s shedding the equivalent of one Pomeranian per hour at this point.

I got back to Kate’s, dipped into her cheese stash and we crashed.  I woke up the next morning, leashed Dewey up and we headed outside…to not see my car anywhere.  Ok, I think.  I must have not parked it right in front of Kate’s building.  It must be on a side street. Well, I covered every single side street in the area, with poor, hungry Dewey in tow.  I felt like I was in the world’s most confusing parking deck…only I was outside…and it really shouldn’t have been that confusing.  I took Kate’s car and made some laps around the ‘hood.  Am I really losing my mind?  Do I really not remember where I parked my car? Then…I came to the conclusion that it was towed. Great.  I can’t wait to shell out $150+ to retrieve the mother effer.

I called every towing company in the area and even called the City of Atlanta Property Division.  No one had a record of towing the car.  F*ck. The thought of it being stolen crossed my mind, but I quickly shut down that option.  Ashley, you called your car in stolen TWICE in college and it wasn’t…and you felt like an asshole.  That is not going to happen at age 26 for the third time. But the more I looked for it, I realized it just MIGHT have been taken.  So I took the advice of Kate (who was probably still intoxicated) and a few others (not naming any names, but they WERE out with us the night before), and called 9-1-1.   Nothing like calling 9-1-1 on a lazy Sunday afternoon.  Even more exciting when a cop shows up at your door.  I stood in Kate’s living room speaking to the officer, while Kate stayed on the couch polishing off a burnt Red Baron pizza (after she let me know she would NOT be speaking to the cop).  His smirky manner let me know this was not the first time an idiot girl had called in a stolen car.

We filed the police report and Kate took me home, after doing one more lap around the neighborhood streets.  I was in shock.  I couldn’t believe this was happening.  My car was either in the hands of some hoodlums or somewhere I couldn’t remember placing it, and I honestly didn’t know which was worse.  I made the call to Mom and Dad.  That…did not go over so well.  Please note that we just put $1,100 into the “stolen vehicle” within the last month.

Monday morning, I woke up, hoping it was a dream and I would walk outside and see the Xterra I so fondly called a JACKASS in my last blog post.  Nope.  So, I walked my sorry ass to MARTA and read up on the newest Brangelina/Aniston feuding on the way to work.

At 4 p.m., my phone rang. Jim.  I kid you not, the second I saw it, I had this strange feeling that he had found my car.  Not only does he live in the area where it was “stolen”, but he’s always out running or biking, and per his earlier Facebook status, I knew he was doing just that.  “Hello?” I answered warily.

“HESS!  I’m standing right next to your mother f*cking car right now!  You want to know where it is?!  Right behind Kate’s building!”

Whooooopssiiiiiieeeeee.  Apparently there was ONE place I didn’t look.  “Maybe someone stole it and returned it there?” I asked.  I was brutally shot down after that comment.  Apparently, Jim didn’t think someone would steal my car and return it right back to where they stole it from.  Clearly…he doesn’t know how a criminal mind works.  My theory is that someone stole it, decided being covered in dog hair wasn’t worth it, and drove right into the first parking lot they found and left it.  Thank. You. Dewey.

Another call to Dad.  He picked up and I could hear a lot of commotion in the background.  “I’m at Hooters with Steve,” he yelled.  I looked at my watch: 4 p.m.  Apparently, this whole ordeal not only drove him to drink in the afternoon (which is nothing new), but it also made him grab his youngest friend and hit up HOOTERS?! What…a positive impact I have on my family.  He actually got a laugh about it, but I know deep down he wanted to strangle me.  Good thing…I live 600 miles away.

I called my brother to tell him that no, the Xterra was actually NOT stolen, but he was too busy getting another tattoo to hear the story.  Dad’s at Hooters, Matt’s getting another tat.  What the hell is my mom doing…pole dancing?! (She wasn’t…she was actually at home weaving a basket…seriously).

Jim so graciously picked me up from work (since the whole incident DID make his day), and we returned to the scene of the “crime” (or lack thereof).  I again called 9-1-1 so the police could come out and do a “recovery report.”  I may as well have them on speed dial.  Please let the cop be a man, please let the cop be a man, I prayed to myself.  Nope.  A cold, hard bitch of a cop showed up and when I explained (read: mumbled) the situation, she looked at me like she didn’t know whether to bitchslap me or arrest me for stupidity.  She closed out the “case” and was on her way.  I got in my car and headed to P’Cheen for some celebratory nachos and one (I repeat, ONE) drink with Kate.  Jim came, too, and I bought his ice tea.  Yeah, that’s right – I know how to return a favor.

On the upside, this whole ordeal has really provided closure for me, because I can now answer the question, “What’s the stupidest thing you’ve ever done?” with confidence.  Before, I used to rack my brain and usually ended up telling 3 or 4 stories that all tied for first.  Now, there’s no more debate.

Also, I’m thinking about quitting drinking for one month, just to try it out.  But, not until after the holidays.  My family won’t know what to do if I don’t drink at Thanksgiving and Christmas and I just can’t bear to shock them anymore.

On the Sunday coming back from our Clemson weekend, we get one hour outside of Atlanta and my car starts to overheat.  This is nothing new.  My 2003 Xterra’s middle name IS “Overheat.”  I still can’t talk about the fiasco of December 28, 2K7.  Also, I just got the entire car serviced a month ago…and the tab was 800 bones.  Thank goodness I have forced my dad to agree to assist me with car bills until I get married, at which point my husband will inherit the responsibility.  What…a lucky guy.

Anyway, we pull into the closest gas station, where I wait (what I think is) sufficient time for the engine to cool down and undo the cap of the radiator so I can check the fluid.  Nope, not long enough.  Hot fluid spews everywhere, knocking the cap somewhere under the engine.  We. Are.  Totally.  F*cked. Luckily, a few minutes later, a sweet truck driver comes over and spends the next 20 minutes trying to retrieve it, finally finds it and puts it back on.  Apparently…chivalry does still exist.  He tells me, “I wanted to come help ya’ll as soon as I saw you pop the hood, but I didn’t want you to think I thought you were helpless.”  I tell him, “Sir, I know I look like a badass when I pop the hood, but after that, I am in fact, helpless.  You would not have been offending me in any way.”

I think my engine has cooled enough to try to at least make it to the Wal-Mart to drop the girls off at their car.  Nope.  Engine overheats again and we have to pull off on the side of the highway.  I thought we were all going to die as 18-wheelers whizzed by.  I could just picture all the Vera Bradley bags and their contents being strewn all over I-85.

Lauren calls her stepdad to see if he can pick us up and drive us back to Atlanta.  He obliges, and suggests we turn on the heat to cool down the engine.  We do this and it buys us enough time to get us to the Wal-Mart.  I think it goes without saying that by the time we got there, the car was again overheated.  Lauren’s stepdad drives us the 50 miles back to Atlanta, and a few hours later (hoping the car has cooled off enough), Lauren drives me BACK up to the Wal-Mart so we can attempt to get my car home.  At this point, all I need to do is get this POS home so I can take it to the shop. If I have to pay a towing company to do it, I will officially lose my mind and probably go lay down in the middle of I-85.

Wanna take a guess if it made it?

I get near the Jimmy Carter exit about 15 miles outside the city and the needle shoots up to the “H” for the fourth time that day.  This…is officially laughable.  I parked it at the Pappadeux on Jimmy Carter Blvd….and took a moment to pity the folks inside that were out for a “nice Sunday meal.”  Gross.

Lauren drives me back to Atlanta and I call Chesley to tell her the situation, praying she offers to drive me back up.  She does, of course.  AND picks me up with a Starbucks latte…in a HOLIDAY CUP (see Star Wars).  Talk about…a best friend.  We pick up the car and get it home.  Mission.  Accomplished. And just for the record, in case you’re thinking I’m a complete idiot, I WAS checking to see if the car was losing fluid each time it overheated.  It wasn’t.  That’s how I knew the problem was a lot deeper…and by deeper, I mean that it would require deeper pockets to fix.  F*cking cars.

Monday, I had to get a new radiator installed.  Another $300.  I was so pissed, I keyed my own car and then drove it into a ditch.  Ok, I didn’t do that…but I wanted to.  Instead, I just picked up a bottle of Grey Goose and took it to the head within an hour.

Ok, I didn’t do that either.  I went to Publix, ordered two fried chicken fingers and ate them while I was shopping.  I needed something to ease the pain…and apparently that included fried chicken and looking like white trash while walking around Publix eating it.  Take that, Xterra.

It was my annual Clemson weekend and I had been in anticipation for weeks, as this is the one weekend of the year when I can regress back to my college ways and no one will judge or even lift an eyebrow.  I was riding from Atlanta with Andrea and 3 other fun girls (Lauren, Fran and Jen) and was meeting up with my other college girlfriends (see ‘Til Death Do You Party?) there.  As soon as Andrea, Lauren and I get in the car, Andrea’s phone starts blowing up.  I can tell from her end of the conversation that she has sent some sort of card or gift to the girls she wants to be her bridesmaids officially “asking” them and they have just received said gifts.  I haven’t received anything.  This…is awkward.  Andrea lets me know that she was just planning on giving me mine this weekend.  I say, “I’ll believe that when I see it.”  Currently, as I write this, it’s Monday evening…and I still haven’t gotten anything.  Moving right along…

We pull up to a Wal-Mart about 40 miles north of the city to pick up Fran and Jen, as they live up there and are just going to leave a car in the parking lot.  I hear bass bumping before I even turn into the parking lot and then I realize…it’s not some precocious teenagers…it’s the girls we’re picking up.  In honor of Bubba Sparx playing at Flip Flops in Clemson that night, they were blaring “Miss New Booty” and shaking their asses in the parking lot.  They’re also both married.  And my heroes.

We pack up the car and a few minutes later, “Miss New Booty” comes on the radio!  It’s a sign that it’s going to be a good night.  Fran passes printed out lyrics to everyone and I think to myself, most married girls I know probably use their printer paper on recipes or “tips on getting pregnant”….not rap lyrics.  Again, my hero.  Now picture 5 white girls singing “Miss New Booty” word for word with a trunk full of Vera Bradley bags in the back (not mine…everyone else’s…just to clarify).

We get to Nicole (Andrea’s sister)’s apartment and start the getting-ready/pre-gaming routine.  Just like old times.  I think “Shots” by LMFAO may have even been playing as we threw back some shots of Parrot Bay Coconut Jack.  Oh yes, I said it. Parrot mutha effing Bay.  We also felt the need to put “Miss New Booty” on the iPod and whip out the lyrics.  See video.

We headed Downtown and most of the night was a blur until it was late-night feeding time.  Andrea and I were torn between the brand-new Clemson Pita Pit and old stand-by, Todaro’s Pizza.  The line at Todaro’s was insane, so we headed into Pita Pit.  I think we scarfed down those pitas in the time it took us to walk from the counter to the door.  Fellas, eat your heart out.

We headed out into the street, tried to get a cab or flag someone down for a ride,  were unsuccessful, so we decided to refuel…at Todaro’s.  I took this opportunity to “interview” people in line with my FLIP video camera. See video. I have a lot of really stupid footage…so I just decided to include one clip of me calling myself a cougar.  Ironic, because I would probably bitch slap anyone else that called me a cougar at the ripe age of 26.  I also like when the dude I “interviewed” calls Charleston “Cougar Town.”  Last I heard, chicks in Charleston either got married or got out.  I didn’t think they stuck around to cougar it up once they got past the Southern “marrying age,” but maybe things have changed.

We went back to Nicole’s for a “post-party,” which pretty much consisted of us girls getting into pajamas (it took me so long to get into mine that Andrea started snapping pictures)….

…and acting like total idiots, and then me passing out while everyone else still took pictures all around me.

Check out…that face plant.

The next morning, I woke up, probably still intoxicated, but somehow made it to meet my other friends to get our tailgate supplies together and make it out to the spot by noon…so we would have sufficient tailgating time before the 7:45 p.m. kickoff.  Nearly 8 hours of tailgating consisted of a lot of drinking, eating, flip cup and “meaningful” conversations.  We headed (read: stumbled) into the game, cheered on our Tigers who spanked FSU, and celebrated back at the tailgate with a little Michael Jackson and a big pumpkin.   See video.

The weekend was amazing, but the drive home the next day blew BIG TIME.  But, that’s a blog entry for another time.  Go Tigers!

I love Starbucks’ holiday cups.  I love how they put me in the holiday spirit.  I love how one sitting on my desk can warm my soul and put me at ease during a tough day at work.  I love the white holiday images on the red background – quite a contrast from Starbucks’ regular white cup with green logo.

Take a look at that beauty and try to tell me you don’t feel the same.

I probably go to Starbucks twice as much during November and December so I can walk around Downtown during my midday coffee break or run errands on weekends holding my festive Grande cup.  Two days ago, I had my first holiday cup sighting Downtown, in the hand of a middle-aged businessman.  I was ecstatic.  I didn’t have time to stop, but made sure the next day I would prance my ass in there to get my first one of the season.

Now, let me just give you some history on me and the holiday cup.  Last year around this time, I went into Starbucks, excited to get my festive fix of the day, ordered my coffee, and they handed it to me…in a regular cup.  I saw the stacks of holiday cups behind the counter.  There was no shortage of them.  There was ONE short, stupid stack of regular cups and somehow, I got one.  I was furious.  Everyone in front of me had a holiday cup.  I told myself that if my friend, Meghan, who I was with, got a holiday cup…I was going to have to say something.  And, she did.

“Excuse me,” I asked the girl behind the register.  “I’m just curious why I didn’t get a holiday cup.”  She looked at me like I had 3 heads and told me to take it up with the “barista.”  I moved my way down the counter and confronted the “barista.”  “Excuse me, but I would like my drink in a holiday cup, please.”  HE looked at me like I had 3 heads AND had just asked him to hand me over his first born.  We stood there, eyes locked for a moment, and then he turned around, mumbled something, and poured my drink into a holiday cup.

As I mentally high-fived myself, he handed me over my drink and sneered, “Here you go.  Just kill a tree.”  EXCUSE ME!?  I couldn’t believe the nerve.  Kill a tree?!  I recycle everything I can that’s recyclable!  I do a print preview every time I print something so I don’t waste paper!  I wear my jeans a few times in a row without washing them so I don’t waste water (ok, well maybe that’s just because I slack on my laundry). I snatched up BOTH of my cups and headed to the door, but I couldn’t let it go.  “I’m recycling these!!” I yelled (a little too loudly for being indoors) and stormed out.  Yes, everyone in Starbucks stopped what they were doing and looked up to see what was going on between the “barista” and disgruntled patron, but I didn’t care.  I will stop at nothing to get what’s rightfully mine during the holiday months.

Flash forward a year.  I went into Starbucks yesterday, ordered my usual Grande coffee, took it from the “barista” and headed toward the fixins bar.  It was here when I noticed it was in a….dun dun dun…regular cup!  I was too distracted thinking about work, checking out the hot guy (who was probably a 20-year-old Georgia State student) in front of me, etc. to even NOTICE until I got over to the Splenda and skim milk.  I felt panicky.  There were way too many people in Starbucks this particular day to make a scene.  I took a deep breath and told myself that I would give them this one chance this season.  They were probably just transitioning into holiday cup mode and made an honest mistake.  But, I WOULD be back the next day.

So, today, I went back.  I ordered my coffee (just a Tall as I only needed a quick fix), and watched nervously as the guy behind the register reached for my cup…a holiday cup.  Phew.  AND, he gave me a Grande by accident, when I only ordered and paid for a Tall.  Starbucks…you redeemed yourself.  I feel like this is going to be a very good holiday season for us, as long as you uphold your end of the bargain.  I come in, you give me a holiday cup, and no one gets hot coffee poured all over them. Deal?

We pulled up to Twisted Taco and my nervous excitement of having to perform the Single Ladies dance set in…so I headed straight to the bar.  Lis was ‘tending, so she hooked me up with doozy of a cocktail, which I may or may not have kept refilling throughout the night from a flask that I may or may not have had in my purse.

It was chilly out, and I WAS wearing a leotard, but once I felt the full liquid jacket close in around me,  I was ready to go.  I asked the DJ to play Single Ladies and motioned to my outfit.  I think he got the hint.  A couple songs later, I heard the familiar tune over the speakers and moved right into the middle of the crowd.  And they actually made a circle around me.  It was now or never.

I don’t think people realized that I actually took the time to learn these moves.  I think they thought I was going to do a couple booty shakes, maybe half-ass one or two moves from the video and call it a day…er, night.  But, that’s not how I roll.  If you could have seen me in front of my laptop the day before, awkwardly attempting each move until I mastered it, you would have thought, “wow, that girl is dedicated…and looks like a total jackass.”  And you would have been right.

Once people realized that I wasn’t kidding around and I was going to do this dance from start to finish, the cameras started coming out.   After all, Single Ladies was “one of the best videos of all time.”  Jim grabbed a snippet on his phone, but it’s a little hard to see.  However, you can hear by the screams that it was a crowd pleaser.

I usually don’t toot my own horn, but in this case:  HOOOOONK HOOOOONK!  The rush of performing in front of a crowd coupled with being, well, pretty drunk ,was exhilarating.  I felt like a true dancer.  But…my accessories paid the price throughout the night as I pretty much danced everywhere I went.  Take a look at the wreckage of my favorite shoes:

Yes…the strap is missing.  Which is a pretty crucial element for Mary Janes.

Also, my Hooters pantyhose took a beating.

Don’t…even ask.

So, there you have it.  Halloween 2K9.  A trip to Hooters, completing a succesful undercover investigation, receiving cheers and applause from total strangers and ripped pantyhose.  Oh, and I ate a whole Dijiorno pizza by myself when I got home.  Overall, a successful Halloween.

With Chesley’s and my Halloween ‘stumes requiring leotards, we realized we were going to need some serious pantyhose to pull them off.  The ‘hose needed to be the perfect combination of opaque and sheer.  Darker than our regular skin color, but not so dark that they looked weird.  No control top so we wouldn’t have that line on our thighs.  Then we realized where we’d seen this magical hosiery before:  on the waitresses at Hooters.  Where…could we get ourselves a pair?  We asked around to no avail and the day before Halloween…when we realized we MIGHT just be S.O.L., Chesley saw a comment on Facebook that said you can buy the Hooters ‘hose…drumroll please…AT Hooters…in a vending machine…in the bathroom.  Could this be true?!  It was that easy?!  It sounded like an urban fashion myth to me, so the next day, I called Hooters and asked if you could indeed purchase the ‘hose at the restaurant.  The cheery Hooters girl answered, “Yup! In the bathroom!  For $4!”  Jack. Pot.

I scooped Chesley up and we headed to the Hooters downtown, looking about as far from Hooters girls as possible – me coming straight off a run and Chesley straight out the shower, sans makeup or hair products.  Hard to believe that just a few hours later, we would be transformed into the spitting images of Lady Gaga and Beyonce.

We arrived at Hooters and prepared for the mission.  Take a look at our exclusive, behind-the-scenes video:

Mission. Accomplished.  And for the record, we DID spend the Sacagawea coin in the parking deck on the way out.  And by “spend,” I mean that I handed it to the attendant, he dropped it, it went under my car and he told me not to worry about it since it was his fault.

Stay tuned for Halloween 2nd Stop: a pre-party featuring pumpkin pie martinis, a rare encounter between Beyonce and Lady Gaga and 5 scantily-clad Village People.