Posts Tagged ‘atlanta’

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

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

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

Maybe.

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

Now, on to the “need to knows.”

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

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

Before:

After:

Yes, my nose is one giant freckle.

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

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

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

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

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

 

The Key to a Great Weekend

For Memorial Day Weekend, a group of us (8 to be exact: 4 girls, 4 guys) decided to go to Liza’s lake house (yes, that Liza…from Scoutmob).

Correction: I decided we should go to Liza’s lake house and sent her this note via email on May 13 with Natalie and Kate CC’d:
Liza, are you in town memorial day weekend? Should we go to the lake!??!!?

She was nice enough to allow it. Which is why we’ll forgive her for what happened.

Picture it: an excited group of 20- and 30-somethings caravaning up to Lake Oconee on Saturday morning, ready for a weekend of fun in the sun (and maybe other stuff like, you know, skinny dipping). We hit the grocery and liquor stores when we got into town and stocked up on major goods: eggs and sausage for breakfast, all the necessities for Kate’s Saturday night jambalaya, chicken and steak for Mike’s Sunday night dinner, cold cuts for sandwiches, ice cream, salsa, cold beer, bourbon, vodka, Sinless Margarita, you name it.

We arrived at the lake house, got all the groceries out of the car (I remember being weighed down with a bag or six), ready to put everything away, get into our suits and hit the dock when Liza realized she didn’t have the key. We laughed it off, throwing out “Oh, Liza, you would!” and “Typical Liza!” comments, figuring there was a spare somewhere. Calls were made to her parents to try to locate the spare and after a few unsuccessful searches of the grill and its surrounding area, reality started to set in and all of us went on a search mission around the house mumbling various degrees of “If I were a spare key, where would I be?”

30 minutes later: no key.

Photo by Nick Tapp

At least we had semi-cold beer. And melted ice cream.

We thought an upstairs door might be open, so Mike “The Spider Monkey” Dean decided to scale the back of the house.

Photo by Andy Carlyle

Unsuccessful. But still fun to watch.

Liza’s dad finally tracked down a neighbor who had a spare. Let it be known that said neighbor didn’t have a cell phone, so her dad had to try him at three different country clubs before locating him. Must be nice to only be reachable by country club concierge. We were told he’d come by after his golf game and bring us a key, so we grabbed the beers and the Cheez-Its and headed down to the dock.

Mr. Country Club showed up a tad later than expected, but we did finally get in the house, about 1.5 hours after we had arrived. And as far as we know, all that meat and cold food was still good. Well, at least no one has gotten sick…yet.

Regardless of this minor snafu at the onset, it turned out to be an epic weekend, complete with skinny dipping (I wasn’t joking), boating, beer pong, Kate tumbling down the stairs with a full glass of bourbon, and stories that will remain in the Memorial Day Weekend 2K11 vault.

As if it need to be said, Kate and I have already approached Liza (read: invited ourselves) for 4th of July Weekend.

Someone else will be in charge of the key.

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HANGOUT OR BUST!

Whooopsiiiiieeee. Sorry about that long-ass hiatus, you guys. I just got so caught up preparing for Hangout Fest and then it WAS Hangout Fest and then this whole week I had to RECOVER from Hangout Fest, so you know how it goes.

Okay, majorly lame excuses. I actually got back together with my pro wrestler ex-boyfriend and he knocked me up a couple weeks ago and we’ve been trying to figure out how to deal with that.

Just kidding. The Hangout Fest excuse was way closer to the truth.

So anyway. Hangout Fest in Gulf Shores, Alabama last weekend = the best 3.5 days of my life. Bands/artists like the Foo Fighters, Cee Lo, The Black Keys, Avett Brothers, Amos Lee, Girl Talk, etc., etc. on the mother-freaking beach. It was awesome. And we stayed in a beachfront condo instead of in a tent or some shit like I heard they do at Bonnaroo. No offense to Bonnaroo, but I think Hangout is way more my speed.

Aaaaannndddd…..we got to road trip, so you know what THAT MEANS!

Time to act like high schoolers.

I was totally on board with this. Literally. But when we stopped at Subway and a member of the other car we were caravaning with got a hold of the paint marker when we weren’t looking, THIS happened.

I mean, sure it’s hilarious and we embraced it, but do you guys KNOW what happens when dudes think there is a car full of single ladies riding around in redneck Alabama? Of course you do. And when we were stopped in traffic around the festival grounds with our windows down, it was even more interesting.

Also, I’m a little scarred from seeing THREE guys pleasuring themselves in their cars over the years (two in traffic, one sitting in his parked car right outside of Twisted Taco) so I don’t like to be involved in anything that could provoke such a thing.

Go ahead, call me a prude.

But would a prude insist we stop at this place on the way down? (I may have even asked for a job application.)

More to cum, er, come.

You guys are sick.

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Inman Park Festival: Pretty Much the Best Day Ever

This weekend was the Inman Park Festival. I had been looking forward to it for an ENTIRE YEAR because last year I moved into my apartment IN Inman Park during the festival and did not get to enjoy it at all. People were walking by my new place, all laughing and jovial with drinks in hand and high hopes of a great day ahead while I was directing three sweaty men as they maneuvered my big-ass couch through a 100-year-old door frame. (For the record, they were from Mark the Mover and they were awesome.)

So to say I had hopes for Saturday is an understatement. I went over to Kate and Liza’s house at noon with a bottle of champers in each hand and started mixing mimosas. We finished getting ready and headed out the door to go see the parade, full to-go cups in hand. We landed a prime viewing spot and I loved every single minute of what went down in the next 30 minutes or so.

There were full bands in the backs of trucks!


There were free condoms (courtesy of the responsible parade marchers from Planned Parenthood, of course)!

There were senior citizens taking jello shots! (Ok, so that was just Dad’s Garage‘s humor at work.)

And, WAIT A STINKIN MINUTE! Is that Justin Bieber!?

That kid follows me everywhere, I swear.

But my favorite moment was when a float rolled by with a cooler on it that read: MARGARITAS. Before I even knew what was happening, Kate and Liza pushed me out into the street, barking orders like, “Go!” and “You have the cups!” (I had been holding our empties). And I proceeded to run (ok, jog) alongside the float, filling up my cup with margarita the whole time, until the crowd became too thick to keep going. Please take a moment and picture this. I’ll wait.

I can only imagine the comments from onlookers.  I’m sure they were all various degrees of, “That girl is awesome! Look at her go!”  and, “That girl is pathetic. The things some people will do for a drink.” Both of which I’m ok with.

After the parade ended, we went to Victory where there was a mariachi band playing. But not just any mariachi band. A mariachi band that played covers. Like Beat It (yes, THAT Beat It), Low Rider and more. And they serenaded me. And I got up and danced. And I think I have a new boyfriend.

Can it really get any better than that? Didn’t think so. I love you, Atlanta. Especially you, Inman Park.

I know what you’re wondering and the answer is yes. You’re all invited when I marry my mariachi serenader and the reception will be held at Victory. It will also be BYOB. So don’t forget the jello shots.

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CEOs, Bimbos and Tim Tebow

Friday night was my BFF Tope‘s big 3-0. I was put in charge of planning it months ago but since I only operate under pressure, I didn’t actually do anything (besides a couple Facebook posts here and there) until the week of. And, two days before the party, I came through with a VIP section at Whiskey Blue in the W Buckhead complete with bottle service and some special surprises (I’ll get to those). Ba-da-bing. Ba-da-boom.

The theme was CEOs and Office Bimbos (fellas wear suits, ladies are supposed to dress like sluts) and the plan was to drink and dine at where else but…Tavern at Phipps (The Official HQ for CEOs and sluts, er, bimbos), then head to W.

We rolled up to the hotel and got settled in our big-ass VIP section by the DJ booth (this was really shaping up) and our super-cute cocktail server brought out a bottle of Grey Goose. It actually WAS Goose (because, we all know sometimes I say I’m sipping on Goose or Belvedere and it’s really just Absolut).  We were drinking and chillaxing, the guys lookin’ fine in their suits and the ladies in various degrees of “provocative.”

Then…the punch bowls came out.

It was like Christmas. And spring break. At the same time. And I think we can all agree that if two holidays were ever to be combined into the perfect storm of amazingness, it would be those two. I could barely contain myself. The drinks were huge. And colorful. And they felt like my own personal pimp cups.

There was a strawberry mojito. And a margarita. And two other bowls of fruity punch that put me right back on the beach in the Bahamas on Spring Break ’04. Then the DJ started playing Rihanna…and I was officially in heaven.

About halfway through my strawberry mojito (I HAD been sharing) and midway through a Beyonce-wannabe dance move of some sort, I was approached by security.

“Ma’am, how do you feel about sharing your VIP section?”

When things like this happen, my reaction is always going to be a toss-up. But in this moment, I was in a sharing kind of mood (must have been the punch bowls), so I said, “Sure, whoever it is can have half of our section. But just half.”

And I went back to whipping my hair around.

A few minutes later, I was alerted by a guy friend that Tim Tebow was sitting in our section.  So THAT was who wanted to share our section?  Good ol’ non-drinking, virgin, church-going, crying-on-the-field Tim Tebow? What was HE doing at the W?

He was texting, that’s what he was doing. The whole night. And he was wearing the most skintight shirt known to man. I mean, we all know you have a rockin’ bod, Tim. But baby tees are so 1996.

I walked over and sat my ass right down on an ottoman his friend was occupying. As in, I almost sat on top of him. It was a little awkward.

“So, what’s going on? I just got asked to share our VIP with you guys. Is there someone special over here?” I asked, playing dumb.

The friend scoffed. “Yeah. That’s Tim Tebow.” He gestured to Tim sitting to his right.

“OH WOW!” I exclaimed, then reached out and grabbed Tim’s ginormous arm. We did a quick intro then I asked him if he liked to dance.

“No, I don’t really dance.”

“Oh, I’m surprised. I would have thought some of your black teammates would have taught you in the locker room or something.”

He laughed. (And don’t even call me racist because you know damn well black guys can dance better than white guys.)

“So what are you doing in Atlanta anyway?” I inquired.

“My sister lives here.”

Ohhh. Now I understood. Tim had borrowed his sister’s shirt.

With that, I was done chatting and back to my punch bowl.

A few people approached Tim throughout the night and some of them even snagged photos with him until his friend stood up and basically announced to the surrounding areas, “No more photos!” complete with hand gesture.

No more photos with tight-tee’d texting Tim Tebow? It was time to go.

But seriously, it was getting time to head to a destination where we could get a little rowdier and no one would care. Like somewhere on or around Irby Avenue. The moment I knew we had to leave was when Foley politely had his hand on our server’s shoulder while telling her his drink order and a chin-strapped bouncer on a power trip yelled, “Don’t touch the girls!”

Really dude?  ”Don’t touch the girls?” If you really want to say that so badly, go work at the Cheetah.

And bring Tim with you. He could use a lap dance.

 

“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.

Balls at the Mall

On the drive down to Miami from Tampa with my cousin and his wife, I was informed that we would be stopping at the outlets so my cousin could pick up some Brooks Brothers shirts for work. To be honest, I just wanted to get to Miami and really didn’t have any desire to get out of the car and mosey around an outdoor mall. I think a slightly bitchy, “Are you serious?” even slipped out.

They were serious.

But, as usual, I ended up finding plenty of entertainment in the short half hour we were there and regretted my previous negative ‘tude. When we walked into Brooks Brothers, I immediately started pointing and laughing at all the ridiculous outfits they put on display for men in that place. For the record, I like a guy in a pink shirt, but head-to-toe pastels are a whole different story.

Yellow pants + pink collared shirt + purple argyle sweater vest equals a HALLOWEEN COSTUME in my book. Or an Easter Sunday outfit for the Jolie-Pitt daughter that always dresses like a dude. Not a sexy ensemble for a full-grown man. And, don’t even get me started on anything that has little embroidered animals all over it.

The fratastic clothing was so intense, I could almost smell the hot Beam & Coke breath and hear the sounds of a cover band singing “Sweet Home Alabama.” It was time to get out of there. I exited the building and went on a search for bottled water.  And, stumbled upon THIS:

Yep, that’s right. Children. In hamster balls. This was something I could get on board with. If I ever decide to have children, you better believe I’m going to put them out in the backyard in giant hamster balls in an above-ground pool and let them occupy themselves all day long. I know from experience that hamsters can stay in those things for hours on end, so I’m sure children are no different. I felt a wave of relief that maybe, just maybe, I could have kids one day.

As for dating a guy that prefers pastel pants over jeans? Still not going there.

And a trip to the outlets can never change that.

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Offended because you like dudes in head-to-toe pastels or are a dude that wears such things?  Awww, I’m sorry.  Why not subscribe anyway using the button at the top, and post a comment on how much you hate rompers?  Seriously.  I can take it.

Why I Hate Cab Drivers

Let it be known that I have major issues with cab drivers. Not ALL cab drivers, but about 75% of them, especially when they’re rude, try to charge me $12 to go less than a mile, and throw tantrums when I try to pay with a credit card even though I can SEE their credit card swiper sitting right on the passenger seat. I’ve had some very shady-slash-hilarious incidences with cabbies in my life (especially one involving the Brookhaven Kroger), but Saturday night in Miami trumped them all.

I was staying with my cousin and his wife in Tampa this past weekend, and Saturday, we drove down to Miami to stay with my aunt and uncle. My BFF Cory and some other friends from Delaware/Philly were coincidentally in South Beach, so, of course I had to meet them out. My cousin dropped me off at Barton G and I planned on cabbing it back to the house that night or the next morning. Around 2 a.m., I got totally lame and decided to take my not-drunk ass back to my aunt and uncle’s, so, I hopped in a cab. I was prepared to shell out some cash to get back, but I was thinking around $40. $50 max.

The douche of a driver “took the long way” back and was not friendly at all. Shocker. And, of course he didn’t take credit cards (when is everyone going to GET WITH IT?!), so I had to be taken to an ATM, which is always a great place to get mugged or knifed in a metro area at 2:30 a.m., so I was excited about that. When we finally pulled up to the house, the meter read something around $53. I handed him all my cash (almost exact) and he gladly took it and counted it with no mention of me owing him any more. ALSO, keep in mind, he was playing the “me speak very little English” card. Even though he was an a-hole, I still wanted to tip him because he had driven me all the way out there, so I told him I was going to run in the house and see if I had any extra cash.  He still didn’t seem to be comprehending, so I figured we were all set.

I went in, searched through my bags and found no cash, so I got into pajamas and prepared to hit the sack. I figured the dude was long gone.

Then the doorbell rang.

Nope, it wasn’t the cab driver.

It was a cop.

Let it be known that I ALSO have had issues with cops, so when I see one, I immediately think I’m getting cuffed and taken to jail. It didn’t help my anxiety that the doorbell had woken up my aunt and cousin’s wife and they came rushing to the door, and I also was wearing a thin tank top with no bra. Arrested for indecent exposure in my own home? It would only happen to me.

The cop explained that the cab driver had called him because I hadn’t paid him in full.

You. Have. Got. To be. Kidding me.

And that “non-English speaking” mother F’er was sitting right outside the house, running his meter the entire time.

My cousin’s wife, Ashli, sprung into action and took over because truth be told, I was stunned. And inappropriately dressed. And did not want to face this jackass cabbie for fear of getting arrested for battery.

His meter now read $73 and we had to pay him to settle the dispute. For real. Ashli and my aunt took care of the cash and got his personal and company information, which apparently scared him a bit. And just for the record, when he spoke to Ashli, he was speaking perfectly clear English. Of course he was.

I’d say the cab driver won this one. He got an extra $20 while I got all shook up and my family had to ensue police-involved drama at 3 a.m.

But, he’ll get what’s coming to him.

It’s called car-ma.

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Girls Lie About Their Weight

The following is a real conversation. My friend’s name has been changed because…she’d probably want me to.

Me: my health insurance broker called me skinny today.

Serena: nice!

Me: but it was over the phone. and I lied about my weight. soooo……

Serena: omg. that is really funny. I mean….they asked me my weight and height before they gave me my IV. and I lied about my weight.

Me: oh good.

Serena: but, then I was like NO I LIED because I didn’t want them to not give me enough and it wouldn’t work!

Me: how much did you lie about?

Serena: 5 lbs. it was embarrassing

Me: I lied by 7.

Me: ok  I just lied again.  it was 9

Serena: that’s a lot

The Mall on a Saturday Night

Because I “work well under pressure” (read: do everything last minute), I always stop to get gifts while on the way to a party. My friend Christina’s engagement shower was Saturday evening, so of course, I stopped by Pottery Barn at Lenox on the way there to pick up some goods. What….a disaster. I had forgotten what a CLUSTERF*CK the mall is on a weekend night. Every teen and their mothers (ok, so probably not their mothers) were there, the girls in hooched out sloutfits (that’s my new word for slutty outfits) and the guys looking like they came straight off the set of a Lil’ Wayne video…

…except they had shirts on.

One fella that was actually “of age” (or so he looked) hit on me while we were on the escalator so I couldn’t escape. As if that wasn’t bad enough, I have escalator anxiety because of an injury from 2005 so that took it up about 10 notches.

Anyway, I was wearing a romper that I have officially deemed my new favorite outfit (NOT a sloutfit, but maybe with a couple buttons undone, it could qualify). Since I purchased the romper at a store in the mall, I decided to pop in and see if I could snag one in another color; that’s how much I love it.  Have you ever gone into a store to purchase the exact same thing you’re wearing? I felt like a total douche. And, then I had to ask a salesgirl to check my tag to make sure I was getting the right size. Another douche move. But, I found one in a different color and my size, so mission accomplished.

On the way to Pottery Barn, I noticed “Coming Soon” signs outside a storefront for…wait for it…a Microsoft store. Ummmm, can’t wait to see the lines outside of that store. SIKE.

Can you picture it? A line wrapped around the mall when Microsoft Office 2012 edition comes out? I don’t think so. Microsoft, I love you and all, but leave the whole “storefront” thing to Apple. It’s embarrassing.

Then, I got to Pottery Barn. I wanted to get Christina a cocktail shaker and a sack of fake lemons right off her registry. Why you would register for fake fruit, I don’t know, but Christina has great taste, so I’m sure she has big plans for those lemons. Well, she better, because it took about 3 hours for the Pottery Barn staff to find a sack of those f*ckers. Ok, so it was only about 10 minutes, but come on! I was about to grab 6 of the lemons on display, put them in a bag and call it a day.

When they finally tracked down the 2 items, the cashier lady asked if I wanted them gift wrapped. Uh, duh. Then, she passed the gift off to another lady who asked me if I wanted to wait for the gift wrapping or come back. Excuse me? Since when is gift wrapping a lengthy procedure? I know those people gift wrap items all damn day especially now that it’s wedding season and they should be able to do it in under 5 minutes flat while I stand there and watch.

“Uh, yeah I’ll wait. I’m on my way to the party. How long is this going to take?”

“About 15 minutes.”

I bit my tongue. I have a baaaad tendency to snap in situations like this. And, I bit my tongue again when she took my present into the BACK. What…was going on here? Now I felt panicky. I had no idea how long they were going to take and I couldn’t even stare at them impatiently to speed up the process.

So, I waited.

And waited.

And tweeted.

A couple came in and did their entire registry while I waited.

Ok, that didn’t happen, but it could have. I started lingering around the back of the store as if that would help. I saw the door open and expected it to be Gift Wrap Lady, but it was NOT. It was Cashier Lady, with her bag over her shoulder, ready to go home. That’s right. Cashier Lady had completed her shift in the time it was taking to wrap my one damn present.

Gift Wrap Lady finally resurfaced but she couldn’t find an envelope to put the card in.

“It’s fine. I’ll just slip the card under the ribbon.”

She looked at me like I had just spit in her face. “But, we always put the card in an envelope with the gift receipt!”

WELL THEN FIND ME A DAMN ENVELOPE, LADY!  I felt like screaming that. But, I didn’t. I waited patiently AGAIN while she searched and finally retrieved what was probably the last tiny envelope in the store. Last envelope. Last sack of fake lemons. I was really cleaning them out. And, they deserved it.

Never again will I go to the mall on a weekend night…even if it means shopping in advance.