9021whoa

So apparently, they are filming a movie in our town.

Ha. Poor Dylan McKay. Brandon Walsh is on the cover of USWeekly with his smoking hot wife and new baby this week as like Celebrity Dad of the Year or something and you're in Decatur, GA filming an "off-beat caper comedy," that IMDB doesn't even list you as being in. This probably isn't as bad as that time your Dad blew up in his car when you were on the phone with Kelly, but likely worse than that time everyone had the intervention to get you to check into rehab. I hope this experience doesn't end up like that episode did, with you walking out, getting blitzed, contacting your dealer and doing heroin. I bet someone would at least put you on a reality TV show. I mean, look at where it's gotten Steve Sanders:

Bootless and Fancy Free

So, I didn't puke on Friday. Thanks to an afternoon laced with dramamine and cherry wine, not even a sixer of Oberon and about a pound of homemade beef jerky from the shady convenience store across the street from the docked schooner could send me into the spins aboard the Good Ship Smelly Crew.

Everyone who slept on the boat with us was AARP material and on a trip for their 20th-42nd anniversary. One couple asked us if we were newlyweds and I wanted to say, "Hi, if we were newlyweds, I hope we'd be in the tropics somewhere doing it for a week, not sitting on an old boat in northern Michigan, eating turkey sandwiches. Clearly, we just live in sin." Due to my good upbringing, I refrained from saying all that and just hit them with the living in sin part. Watching those people squirm was almost as fun as that time I went to the Scientology center in Philly under the guise of being interested in what they had to offer (when really I was just there to get literature for my Katie Holmes Halloween costume) and my tour guide got all defensive, probably because I started asking questions about Xenu and John Travolta. If screwing with people was an occupation, I'd be like CEO of Your Fly Is Open, Inc.

All in all though, the boat was cool. I got to help hoist the massive sails and then tried to instigate a mutiny amongst all the senior citizens, but I guess I'd already lost their support by being a heathen strumpet, so that part wasn't quite a success.

Also, the wedding rocked. I love weddings, always have. See, my everyday emotional spectrum generally already ranges from excited to crying to joyous to drunk. So a day with a wedding is fantastic because all of the events to trigger those feelings are tidily prepackaged into an 8 hour period, rather than me having to go out of my way to find and/or create excitement/drama/celebration/vodkasodas. This one was especially good times because it was one of my fave people getting married, I got to catch up with a bunch of people I hadn't seen in over a year, and there was late night pizza and beer for everyone in the bar below the reception. Note to everyone getting married: Providing snacks at 2am WILL get you a better present.

If you are seeking a pleasant peninsula, look around you.

We're headed here tomorrow for a my gorgeous friend's wedding:



And Friday night, we're sleeping on this sucker after an afternoon of vineyard hopping:



Can you say vomit? I can't wait to christen Lake Michigan.

Also, if you know me, then you probably know about my obsession with all things sailor/pirate-esque, so yes, I'm pretty much more excited than a fat kid at the Ponderosa salad bar about this.

Lady and the Tramp

See these shelves?



RIPPED OUT WITH OUR BARE FREAKING HANDS.

Or a power drill and a crowbar.

Whatever.

Pics of all these changes will probably follow if I ever get my shit together enough to get batteries in my camera and stop writing about beef jerky. So probably not, actually.

Anyway, today is the day R moves all his junk from his much beloved shithole to the new house. And he's seriously sad about it.* It's sorta like having a shelter dog. You just took him away from the stench of urine and matted fur to this nice big backyard and all the chew toys he can he can handle, but you can tell he is still pining away a little bit for his shelter dog friends and the bitchy rescue ladies (who, as an aside, constantly treat people like us like Michael Vick just because we are not stay-at-home moms and ok maybe we didn't know that heartworm comes from mosquitoes, but now we do, we promise. Stop looking at me like you're going to call PETA, lady. I can take you. And your little dog too.). In R's scenario, just substitute "beer and overflowing ashtrays" for "urine and matted fur", "bowchickabowbow" for "chew toys", and "the pubs by his house and being able to watch all sorts of skanks from his porch" for the dog friends and rescue bitches. Luckily, much like a shelter dog, I think all it will take to get him over his displacement is a big meaty meal and lots of ear scratching. I'm on it.


*Also, it's his birthday, which he is not sad about because it means presents! and attention! and free dinner!, so if you know him, you might want to give him a shout out for the big 31.

Time Capsule

The DJs on the radio were talking about some kind of time capsule and what they would put in it if they were going to open it up in 100 years or whatever. Most of them were trying to be all worldly and profound and suggested things like books emblematic of the times, a list of states that have legalized gay marriage, blah blah. You know what I would want in there? Beef jerky. There, I said it. First, it's pretty much the perfect food. Low calorie, low fat, high protein, and DELICIOUS. A true staple for the eating disordered. Second, the way I see it, the world is going to be so screwed in 100 years that if we even have cows, we'll probably have to handle their carcasses like toxic waste when they die because of all sorts of pollutants and disease in them (like it's already happening in the arctic: http://www.enn.com/today.html?id=10679). I'm betting a big ass stash of beef jerky would come in handy when I have to get all Mad Max on everyone's asses.

I am so off topic. The point of this post was supposed to be about how I told R we should make a time capsule for like 10 years (i.e. before the apocalypse) and bury it in the backyard under this weird stone birdbath we have back there:



It's hard to see in that picture, but it's there and it's weird and we'd probably unwittingly be digging up some ancient Decatur Indian burial ground or something, but let's be honest, when have I ever let evil spirits get in the way of my good times before? Exactly. So if you have any suggestions of what to put in there, let me know. And don't worry, I already put an USWeekly on the list as a premature memorial to Brit and LaLohan because.. well, you know.

Whirlwinded

So we went to the aquarium that Atlanta touts like the second coming of Yahweh on Thursday and it pretty much kicks ass (probably not like Jesus, but they're just fish after all) with its beluga whales and giant tank of sharks (like in Jaws II, but without the death) and otters that you know are constantly coming up with cockeyed escape schemes to somehow end up in a 4th grader's backpack, etc., EXCEPT for this horrific room of what I guess were children manhandling poor little baby rays and shrimps and horseshoe crabs in these torture tanks. They call them "touch pools," but really they were more like "assault by toddler" pools. I can't be sure, but I think I felt my ovaries make a break for it after about 10 minutes of screaming/splashing/screaming/high pitched screaming/splashing. I assume my fallopian tubes reeled them in, but nobody better get no ideas down there 'bout birthin no babies anytime soon.

Reno and Bob Biscuits had a pretty great time, I think. They slept late (9am, suckers), explored the ATL, had some seamless interactions with the Alabama parents and helped with manly and wifely type house things of which we know not. They even made it back from the North Georgia (think Deliverance) mountains in one piece, driving a Prius no less. Speaking of the Prius (i.e. the car I will be rocking once the "Champagne Dream" craps out in 8 years or so because Camrys are like Nick Nolte and pretty much never die no matter how ridiculously beat up and wretched they get), at one point my parents were trying to find the climate controls to put on the A/C in the back and my dad kept yelling, "Is it getting you in the rear?!?!!" Good times with the fam.

Now that they're gone, I totally need a nap and to catch up on about 960 minutes of work, but I'm really happy they came and hope they know I love them so much it makes my heart hurt even if they sometimes think I'm a total ingrate and that my BLOG IS SO NOT PROFESSIONAL. Yeah, yeah, I hear you, Reno. No need to be a hater. XOXOOXOXXO.

Bless Their Hearts

As he is in the process of moving out, my next post will be entitled, "A Brief History of Disgusting Shit in R's Apartment," but you will have to wait for that one with bated breath because my camera needs some new juice and I kind of refuse to go over there right now (except to humor myself and maybe you) for fear of disease, roaches attempting to nest on me, and his choices in body wash. No, I cannot use your Axe Recovery Shower Gel. Why? Because it smells like a dude. I wholly admit that I, like you, am a marketer's dream, but even I am not so delusional to believe that use of such body wash "cures hangovers." Try drinking less. I hear it's a proven hangover cure.

Anyway, my parents get here tonight for 5 days of SUPERFUNTIMES with their only daughter. For purposes of anonymity and because my brother really calls them these types of names, we will call my Mom "Reno" and my Dad "Bob Biscuits." Reno and Bob Biscuits get in tonight and thus will embark on their adventure of cheesy tourist activities, QT with us and Friday night with R's parents. Oh yes. The parents are meeting for the first time. It's going to be a famstravanganza of food and first impressions. Oh, and vodka. On "his" side anyway. You know, the alcoholic side.

Lord help us.

Since you all will be unable to witness what can only be described as an "experience" and I fear my after-the-fact description will fail to do it justice, I just want to give you a preview of what we're in for:

R's Mom

and

Reno

Note that I am implying Reno (my Mom) is Tom Hanks in this clip, NOT the blubbering lady baseball player. Let the good times roll!