The One Where Jeff Accuses Me of Shooting My Brother

First, a Marley update.  Surgery went well.  She's fine...and we're hoping to stop crying over the $1,500 vet bill very soon.  I still can't explain how she broke her ear by falling *up* the stairs.

In other news, I had one of the most bizarre Friday nights in recent memory last weekend.  And I found out what Jeff really thinks of me.

My brother Scott stopped by to check on Marley early Friday evening, and when I walked him to his car as he was leaving there was a really loud *BANG* from a car driving down our street.  A Mercedes had blown a tire directly in front of our house.  In true Scott fashion, he acted like cars blowing tires in the street happen every day and he got in his car and left.  Nothing flusters that man.  Jeff came outside to investigate the noise.

Jeff:   Did you just shoot Scott?
LAB:  You hear a loud noise and your first thought is that I killed my brother in our driveway?
Jeff:   Just answer the question.
LAB:  Seriously, what the hell?  He's my brother.
Jeff:    OK, may be you wouldn't shoot Scott.  But don't act like you shooting someone is outside the realm of possibilities.
LAB:  *sigh*  No, I didn't shoot Scott.  Or anyone else.  Yet.  The Mercedes in the street blew a tire.
Jeff:   Cool!  Think he needs help?
LAB: I have no idea.  Why don't you strap on your cape and your tool belt and go find out.

Jeff helped Mercedes dude change his tire and came back inside.

LAB:  What took so long?
Jeff:   I had to wait for him to quit peeing.
LAB:  WHAT!?!?  He was peeing in the neighbor's yard? 
Jeff:   Nope - in the street.
LAB: That doesn't make it any better.  He was really peeing in the street?  In broad daylight?
Jeff:   Yep.
LAB:  Was he drunk?
Jeff:   Probably.  I should have sent you out there.  You speak his language.
LAB:  I question the wisdom of calling the woman who prepares your food a murderous drunk.
Jeff :   I'll take my chances.  I figure if you were gonna kill me I'd be dead by now.
LAB:  True. What did he say when you caught him peeing?
Jeff:   He said "Sorry.  I didn't know anyone was behind me."
LAB:  That's it?  Not "Sorry I'm peeing in your street?"
Jeff:   Nope.  I don't think he was sorry for that.  When a man's gotta go, a man's gotta go.
LAB:  Nice. What did he say after you helped him?
Jeff:   He looked at my jack and tire iron, said "I've gotta get me some of those!", jumped in his car and took off.
LAB:  Wow.  That's a lot better than a plain old "thank you". 
Jeff:  I thought so too.

In summary: My dog is single-handedly wiping out our savings, my street is a urinal and my husband thinks I'm a drunk who is likely to shoot someone in the near future.

That sounds about right.

LAB's Dubious Distinction (AKA: Turkey is a Vegetable)

Jeff's been asking me for months to attend meetings with his car club.  And by "car club" I mean a group of men between 60-90 years old who meet at the Golden Corral one Thursday a month to talk about Fords for two hours. I've been successfully resisting attending these meetings for as long as he's been inviting me. For obvious reasons. 
 
Last weekend, however, Jeff asked me to attend a car show / chili cook off with the club at a local state park.  It sounded the least horrifying of the recent invitations and I figured I'd give it a try.  It was his birthday weekend and the weather was supposed to be spectacular, so I really didn't have anything to lose.  It certainly beat staying home and cleaning the house.

I decided I'd even enter a pot of chili in the cook off, since the invitation mentioned that there were 5 awards and I really liked my odds of winning.  Surely there wouldn't be too many entries!

I should note that I'm not a fan of chili, and Jeff really hates it, so my entire chili-making experience can be summed up by the 2 times I made turkey chili using an online recipe on weekends when Jeff was out of town.  Both times turned out OK.  Not spectacular, but I'll try any recipe a couple of times just to see how it turns out.  I figured I'd use the same recipe for my entry in the cook off.  What did I have to lose?

Event day came, and before we left the house we decided to give the chili a quick taste to see if it needed anything.

Jeff:  It tastes like nothing.  Oh, wait.  HOLY SHIT THAT'S HOT!
LAB: Good hot or bad hot?
Jeff:  How can it taste like nothing and then burn my mouth?
LAB: Good burn or bad burn?
Jeff:   Seriously? I'd be very interested to hear what you think constitutes a good burn.
LAB:  I had to put in a lot of chili powder or else it would just be turkey soup.
Jeff:  We're gonna be late.  Just put in another can of tomato soup.  And some corn. And some water.  And whatever else you can think of and let's get on the road.

This is what it looked like at the end of the day. I'm assuming no one wants the recipe.

I added a few more ingredients and we headed out.  I was a little concerned that it looked like someone had already eaten it once, but it was too late to back down.

We arrived at the event and I noticed four other crock pots of chili on the counter.  W00T!  Here comes lucky #5 people.  Now give me my trophy, bitches!

As the day progressed, more chilis showed up.  There were 6...then 7...then 8...and finally 9 chilis entered.  CRAP!  The other chilis all appeared to be beef-based, so at least mine was different.   Then I noticed that the other crock pots looked like a tour through the history of slow cookers.  I swear some of them must invented by Ben Franklin shortly after his lightning experiment.  I had the sinking feeling that some of the entrants had been making chili for longer than I'd been alive.  My odds of scoring a trophy were rapidly declining.

We did our part and ate some of my shitty chili. After covering it in cheese and a massive amount of sour cream and pretending like we weren't gagging.  Chili duty handled, Jeff and I headed out to enjoy the car show.  Here's a sample of the notable entries:

That's not a Ford.

Also not a Ford.  And seriously???

There were some awesome old Ford cars & trucks there and the club members, while considerably older than us, were really fun.  Sorry, no pics of the cool cars.  I only photograph the ridiculous.  As the day progressed, I became more & more depressed that my shitty chili was going to be a loser.  I seriously thought that there would be so few entries that I'd have to win something.  And I freaking hate losing.  Jeff tried to cheer me up by promising to buy me a Blizzard at Dairy Queen on the way home.  What am I, 6 years old?  I don't handle disappointment well and it certainly didn't help that Jeff was astonished that I had ever considered that I might get a trophy.

I kept a running text commentary of the event with my brother Scott all day, and eventually he decided it was too ridiculous to miss...so he showed up.  I'm pretty sure he was looking forward to the sterling opportunity of watching me fail.  Plus, he wanted to score some free lunch.  Just not my chili.

Things started to wrap up and we headed into the picnic shelter for the awards.  Hottest chili (not me), 3rd place (not me), 2nd place (not me), 1st place (obviously not me) and then there was one trophy left.  Jeff and Scott were laughing their asses off at me at this point because I was genuinely sad that I got nada.  And the crock pot was going to be a bitch to clean.

The judge announced the final award - Best Vegetarian Chili.  Shit.  Clearly not me, and I would have made a damn veggie chili had I known it was a category.  Those odds would ROCK!  Then the judge said something unexpected: "Since there were no vegetarian entries, I picked the chili that was the closest to vegetarian.  The award goes to....LEIGH ANNE."  I raised my arms in victory and jumped up to get my award, but not before I heard the following things from Jeff & Scott:

"Seriously?"
"Shit.  They'll be no living with her now."
"That did not just happen."
"This was way more fun when she was depressed."

BOOM, people:
 

Screw you guys, turkey is a vegetable.

I'm only going to say this once: I don't give a damn if I won on a technicality, the only thing that matters is that I won.  Do you have a chili cook off trophy?  Because I do.  Nobody is going to diminish my victory (by lack of qualified entrants).  W00TY W00T W00T W00T!!  I'm a winner! The ridiculous aspect of this non-victory is what makes it the most LAB-like win in the history of LAB victories.   I may have Forrest Gumped my way into victory, but it's a victory nonetheless.

Trophy in hand and victory grin firmly in place, we headed to our cars.  People were stopping me to say congratulations. Some of them almost seemed sincere. Scott was shouting "STOP ENABLING HER" at them.  Apparently he was a little too invested in my history of loser-dom to fully appreciate the thrill of my victory.  We decided that a victory tour of Dairy Queen was in order.

Parking Lot Victory Dance.

Nothing says VICTORY like hoisting your trophy in front of the Dairy Queen restrooms.

Victory Blizzard!

Jeff couldn't look at me without laughing for the rest of the day.  When we got home, he said "At least I'll never get bored being married to you."  I still didn't feel like he truly appreciated my accomplishment, so I waited until he went to bed to do to this:

It may not be the Stanley Cup, but it works if you use a straw

Need a ride, Lady? (AKA: The Dumbest Thing I've Ever Done)

Some of my fellow bloggers have been featuring stories about the dumbest thing they've ever done. Annabelle accepted a pill and a party invitation from a virtual stranger.  Pickleope assisted the getaway of a possible mental patient.

Like most people, I've done a lot of truly dumb things in my life.  Things that have cost me friends and boyfriends.  Things that have put a serious strain on my ties to my family.  But none of those things are my biggest, dumbest, most shameful accomplishment.

This is:

Many years ago when Jeff and I were newly engaged, he traveled to Kansas City for work fairly frequently.  This was during the early days of our relationship, when everything was shiny and new and spending time together was one of the four basic needs.  You know: food, water, shelter and getting your freak on.  The need for warmth doesn't occur until later in a marriage.

One of his trips required a weekend stay over, and we decided I'd head up to Kansas City for a visit.  So far, so good.

Just before my planned travel, the weather in Kansas City took a nasty turn and an ice storm blew through.  The whole city was frozen.  It was so bad that the power went out in Jeff's hotel and he had to move across town.  Naturally, we didn't think this was any reason for me to cancel my trip.  We were young and in love.  What could possibly go wrong?

We arranged for me to fly in on a Saturday morning, take the hotel shuttle from the airport to his hotel and then check into his room and wait for him to get off work and meet me there.   Pretty simple plan.

As my flight approached the KC airport, I looked out the window and noticed that there wasn't much action occurring on the ground.  The airport looked deserted and the surrounding parking lots were empty and frozen over, but I didn't think much about it.  The flight landed without incident and when I got off the plane I noticed that the terminal was deserted.  I figured may be the ice storm kept people home.  I headed out to meet the shuttle, which the hotel said came every 15 minutes.

As I exited the airport I was hit by a blast of arctic air as I slipped and slid my way across the ice to the shuttle stop.  Thank God I'd only have to wait 15 minutes for a shuttle! Famous last words.

So I waited.  And waited.  And waited.  No shuttle.

I went inside and used the courtesy phone that connected to the hotel.  They said there was only one shuttle running due to the weather, but it was on the way.

So I went back outside.  And I waited.  And waited.  And waited.  No shuttle.

About this time, a beat up old green van pulled up in front of me and slowed down.  The big, hairy, nasty driver stared at me a minute and then accelerated and drove off.  My first thought was "Helloooooo, child molester!  Move along.  I'm too old for you."

Still no shuttle.  I went back inside, found the courtesy phone for a cab company and called a cab.  The dispatcher said they'd send someone in about 15 minutes.  I was starting to think that the KC airport had some kind of bizarre geography that placed it 15 minutes away from all forms of transportation.

I went back outside and noticed that the hotel shuttle had just passed the stop and was driving away.  Crap.  I jumped up down, waiving my hands to try to get the driver's attention to come back for me, but no luck.

Meanwhile, around came Chester Molester in his green perv van for another look at me before he drove off.  Awesome.

I was getting irritated and more than a little spooked, but I couldn't call Jeff because he was teaching a class and I knew his phone was off.

I walked over to the cab stand and waited. And waited.  And waited.  No cab.

At this point, I had been back and forth between the airport transportation lobby and the arctic tundra of the shuttle stop/cab stand for almost 2 hours.  My feet were freezing, my head was killing me, there was no one in sight and I was pretty sure I was stuck in some kind of existential hell.

Then Chester Molester drove by for round three.  And he stopped in front of me.  He rolled down the window and said "Ma'am, if you're waiting for a cab you might be here awhile.  The streets are so bad that most drivers stayed home today.  Can I take you somewhere?"

That's right:  Chester Molester wanted me to get in his green perv van for a ride.  My brain was screaming "Don't even think about it LAB.  You'll be turned into a skin suit for sure!"  My feet, on the other hand, were so cold that they were no longer speaking to me.

I noticed that there was a meter on the dash of the van, which for some stupid reason made me think may be Mr. Molester was OK. Obviously my brain was frozen.

And here it comes, people....the dumbest thing I've ever done:  I. Got. In. The. Van. May be being turned into a skin suit won't be so bad!

Turns out Mr. Molester had a gypsy cab business, and he figured he'd make some easy cash by working the airport after the ice storm while the regular cabs stayed off the roads.  All I could think about the entire time I was in the van was Buffalo Bill from The Silence of the Lambs: "It rubs the lotion on its skin or else it gets the hose again".

I was terrified the entire drive.  I didn't know the city so I had no idea if we were headed in the right direction, and nobody knew where I was. When I make a bad decision, I go all in. As the the drive continued, I started envisioning the headstone on my grave "Here Lies LAB.  And this is why you don't take rides from strangers."  Eventually I looked out the window and saw the Marriott in the distance.  I was gonna live!!! 

I was positively giddy when we arrived at the hotel.  I channeled my inner Blanche DuBois and turned to the driver and said  "Whoever you are, I have always depended on the kindness of strangers."  Chester Molester looked at me like I was insane.  He may have been right, but it was still better than being a skin suit.

How To Make A Dog Burrito

Step 1: Arrange Appealing blanket

Step 2: Insert Dalmatian

Step 3: Wrap her up!

Step 4: Wait for Burrowing

Step 5: Lights out!

Bonus Step: Endure Stink Eye from Jealous Great Dane.

Hit me, Chevy, One More Time

I don't think any of you guys would be surprised to hear that I want a new(er) car, especially if you're Facebook friends with me, considering how much time I spend whining about cars on my timeline.  The problem is that I don't *need* a new car.  At all.  Not even a little.

I'm still driving my trusty 2000 Toyota convertible, and the damn thing won't die. 

Jeff and I agreed years ago that we would buy cars when only we need them (and when we can pay cash, if possible).  Since that time, Jeff has had 2 new(er) cars (both purchases were need-based and paid for in cash) but I'm still chugging away in my old Toyota.  This will not stand, people.  In fact, if you include the old trucks he's restoring, Jeff has bought 6 (SIX!!!) cars since I've had my Toyota. *Somebody* needs to learn how to say "no" to her husband.

The problem is that there's absolutely nothing wrong with my car.  It's mechanically sound, the body is pristine, and when you step on the gas it takes off like a rocket.  Even the mileage is relatively low. Crap.

My car may be "fine", but there are a world of sexy new convertibles out there that make my car look like a turd.  And I want one of those sexy new cars.  Badly.

Last Sunday I thought I was finally going to score a new car the hard way: by Totaling the Toyota (ahhh...alliteration).  It doesn't take too much damage to total out a 13-year-old car, and I thought Sunday was my day. W00T!!!  I've never been so excited about the prospect of being hit by a moron.

I was driving to the mall, and when I came over a hill a fire truck was pulling onto the road and traffic had stopped.  While I was waiting for the road to clear, I looked in my rear view mirror and saw an old beige Chevy Caprice hauling butt over the hill in my lane.  There's no way he would be able to stop in time.  A collision was imminent.

I'm not going to lie, people.  I was thrilled to see him.  All I could think was "Bring the pain, Chevy, and score me a new car!"  Who's the moron now?

The only barrier between me & the Chevy was a little old lady in a Lincoln behind me.  She was getting hit for sure, and I was confident there was no way she'd be able to keep from rolling right into me.

I relaxed my shoulders, took a big breath, exhaled and put my head on the headrest. Standard car wreck prep.  Then I waited.

I heard the squeal of tires and watched in the mirror as the Chevy nailed the car behind me.  And then.....nothing.  Grandma in the Lincoln kept her foot on the brake, and instead of ramming into me, the back of her car lifted off the ground and then came back down on the Chevy's hood.  Dammit, Grandma - hook a sister up!  Car parts flew all around my car, but nothing hit me.  Nothing whatsoever.  Double crap.
 
I jumped out to make sure everyone was OK (they were), and then went about my business.  In my old-ass car.

I know what you guys are thinking: "Jesus, LAB, what kind of dumb ass gets excited about getting in a car wreck?"

Well, *raises hand*,  this girl does.  I never claimed to be smart.  But I'm an excellent driver!  Unfortunately.