Straight Up Gangsta, Yo

Meet Wilson: 

I'm ready for my closeup, Mr. DeMille.

Don't be fooled by that innocent look in his eyes, he's a straight up Gangster. And he'll bust a cap in your ass.   It's been a couple of years since I've been his victim Mom and he's a handful.  And by "Handful" I mean he's a total dick.

I don't know why I adore the little shit, but I do.  Stockholm Syndrome?  He's the complete opposite of the dog that we thought we were adopting and he still managed to crawl up into my heart and settle in.

I'm no trouble.  I swear!

This is Wilson's picture on the rescue group website when we found him (and I wholeheartedly recommend You Lucky Dog Pet Rescue - they're spectacular!).  Doesn't his face say "take me home and love me forever"?  Suckers.

His foster parents told us that he "really likes to sit on your lap & snuggle all day".  Sounds great, right?  Except the only reason he was sitting on anyone's lap was because they had a pocket full of treats.  Since I don't generally carry a stockpile of treats in my pockets on a regular basis, or ever, Wilson spends zero percent of his time on my lap. Or sitting.  His foster parents also said he likes to run around a little and then he falls asleep.  Nope.  He likes to run around All. Day. Long. and take 10 minute power naps to recharge before he begins again.

Anyway, we chose him and we brought him home.

First day in our family and ready to commence home annihilation.

Jeff worked from home every Wednesday when we adopted Wilson, and he lasted exactly one week before he told me that "Wilson needs to be out of the house on Wednesdays from now on, starting immediately".  Guess *somebody* doesn't enjoy a dog party.

Enter Doggie Day Camp:

Why yes, you can take my picture.  I'm also available for autographs.

 

I dug a hole for you guys.  Do you like it?

The Day Camp staff immediately dubbed his visits "Wilson Wednesdays" and after a couple of weeks they said his camp name is "The Wilsonator". Of course it is.  Every time I drop him off I say "God help you" to the employees and run back to my car as quickly as possible.  They seem to have a very high tolerance for a-holes at Day Camp, because they love him. More suckers! 

So we settled in with our new buddy and things were going great until we discovered: he's a runner.  Oh, God, is he ever a runner.  And nothing good comes from "Dogs Gone Wild".

Exhibit A: One Wednesday morning on the way to camp, Wilson jumped out the tiny rear window of my car for a little rush hour romp along Buford Highway.  Good Times.  It was right after this incident that I realized I would have to trade in my beloved BMW convertible for something more appropriate for transporting the little shit my boy.  Hello Jeep!

Buford Hwy Escape Pod.  It was too nice for me anyway.

Exhibit B:  When my brother opened the front door of our house one Saturday a few weeks later, Wilson decided he'd step out to stretch his legs a bit.  He stretched them all the way down our street and almost to Peachtree Industrial Boulevard. When Scott finally caught up to the little turd, he called me to bring a leash and pick them up and I accidentally rammed the hood of his Honda with my Jeep when I pulled out of the garage. Wilson still owes us $1,500 for the repairs.

It actually gives the hood a bit of character.

We got the running away under control by never, ever using the front door to our house.  Ever.  Problem solved.

But we had another problem - the chewing:

Nom, Nom, Nom.

I was just deciding what to read, Mom.

At this point we had been Wilson's prisoners family for 6 months, so we did the only thing we could think of to keep him entertained.  We got a dog for our dog.

Welcome to the family, Gracie:

Good Girl!

And these two?  Inseparable!

How cute is this?!?!

My heart can't take it!

Stop already, it's too much!

So sweet!  Until we realized that Gracie also enjoys the occasional leash-free romp through downtown Buford, particularly in the late evening hours.  Bonus points if it's winter, close to midnight and Jeff's already asleep.  She doesn't leave my side if we're outside without Wilson, but if The Canine Crusader is in the vicinity all bets are off.  Like the time he pulled me down into a face plant on the driveway, yanked his leash out of my hand and took Gracie on a scenic tour through downtown at 1 a.m. on a February night, dragging his leash behind him the entire time.  I had to wake Jeff up to find them and I probably should have headed to the ER for stitches to close the gash in my forehead where my glasses hit me, but I decided it was a better idea just to pretend it never happened.  More good times.

There's also a great deal of wrestling in our house on any given day, which usually occurs on the exact spot where Jeff or I are standing. Being upright is overrated. And I don't mean a little playful tussling.  I'm talking full on balls-to-the-wall, hounds of hell, somebody's gonna die throw downs.  All in the name of fun.  I'm thankful every day that Gracie is much bigger than Wilson and can put him in his place, normally by throwing all her weight on his back and pancaking him.  He loves it more than he should. Guess all the men in our family like big girls.

And why do I put  up with this foolishness?  Because Wilson may just be my favorite dog ever!  Sorry, Max.  He genuinely tries to be good.  He just sucks at it.  He can be the sweetest, most affectionate boy ever.  He'll walk up to me, rest his chin on my knee and melt my heart.  And when I wake up every morning, he's plastered next to me in bed with his head on the pillow next to mine. Then all transgressions are forgiven.  Except the couch.

I know I should get him some training. OK, a lot of training.  With a side of more training.  But I kind of like him just the way he is:  Loud and crazy and silly and sweet and strong and a little bit sensitive and whole lot bad ass.  He's just Wilson.  And he's my boy!

Yo, G. Straight Outta Buford!

My lunch art experience didn't help much with pet portraiture.

Yes he is!

What's 30 Years Among Friends?

Howdy Peeps! I've missed you!  After an almost two year hiatus, I have plenty of new material, so here we go...

First up: My 30th High School Reunion

Our 30th reunion was an informal affair at a bar, with an open invite for any other classes who'd like to attend to join.  Which means I was able to convince my best girlfriend / younger brother, Scott, to come along. You can probably guess how the rest of the story goes.

Our party foursome included me, Jeff (my ridiculously tolerant, long-suffering husband), Scott, and Scott's delightful girlfriend (whom he better make my sister soon if he knows what's good for him because I'm totally keeping her).

 

Pre-Reunion, I had the following conversation with my stepson (name withheld to protect the innocent):

Stepson: What were you like in high school?

LAB: A little bit bookish.  Crazy about dogs.  Hated rules.  Liked to do my own thing.

SS: So basically exactly like you are now.

LAB:  Exactly.

In the car upon arrival:

LAB: I’m only taking my phone, my ID and my lipstick inside.

Jeff:  You’re bringing your ID?  Do you think they’re expecting underage kids to crash your 30^th high school reunion?

LAB:  I may need it.  Better safe than sober.

At the Reunion:

LAB: I don’t remember everyone being so tall!

Jeff: That’s because you’re wearing flat shoes.  And why do your shoes look like they have sea urchins on them?

LAB: It’s called fashion.

Jeff:  Sea urchins are in style now?

With my high school girlfriends:

LAB: Is it just me, or do you recognize all of the women here and none of the men?

All the ladies:  It's not just you.  Who are these guys?

After a few drinks:

I’m not sure who orchestrated “Operation Get LAB Sh*thoused” at the party, but it was an unparalleled success.  There were times when I had more drinks than I could carry.  And I can easily carry 4.  I know drinks with 2 limes came from Jeff.  Drinks with 1 lime came from Scott.  Drinks with no limes?  I have no idea.  But I really wanted limes, so I kept asking Scott to take limes from my old drinks and put them in my new drinks, which he did.  Now you know why he's my best girlfriend. 

Now that I think about it, I’m not sure all of the drinks he took limes from were mine.  Or empty.  Do I owe anyone an apology? Or a bag of limes? 

More drinks later:

For some reason, the name of our high school was misspelled on the cake at the event.  I don't have the words for how spectacular I thought this was.  With encouragement from my enabler, Scott, I decided to fix it with a sharpie, but the marker kept sinking into the frosting.  Apologies to any of my classmates who may have eaten a fair amount of permanent marker.  It's probably not toxic. 

Even more drinks later:

Scott:  Do you know you’re sitting with half of your ass on the ottoman and the other half on a serving tray? Your butt has the tray tilted up at an angle.  I keep waiting for you to notice, but I’m pretty sure you’re not going to.

LAB:  Oh.  I thought I was on a sofa and that was the arm.

Scott:  *blink* *blink*  Just give it to me.

After all the drinks:

LAB: I can’t say words.
Scott, Jeff, et al:  That’s a wrap.  Get in the car.

Sunday Morning:

Jeff: How do you feel?

LAB: I tell you after you get me some KFC.

Jeff: Be right back.

It was awesome catching up with everyone! OK, may be not *everyone*, but most of you.  Thanks to the party planners - I had a blast! From what I can remember.

Seriously?

I had the worst nightmare last night.  Worst, worst. And that's saying something since I have very vivid dreams.  Probably the result of having two X-chromosomes and an open mind. 

I dreamed that Jeff met a girl named Jocelyn and they decided to move away together.  He thought the best way to tell me was to take me on a road trip to a car show and tell me on the way there.  We were driving through an old civil-war-era city in which all the buildings were red brick and I jumped out of the car to hide from him so he couldn't finish telling me.  He started driving around a roundabout that went around a park looking for me and I was hiding behind giant Oak trees and brick columns so he couldn't find me.  Eventually he drove away.  When I got home, I didn't want to tell my parents that Jeff left me so I hid it from them and they never found out.  Then my alarm went off. 

You know how you have a dream and when you first wake up you aren't sure if it's real or not?  That was how I felt today.   I was happy my parents weren't dead but I lost my man in exchange.  Crap! 

You guys have probably figured out by now that I'm pretty devoted to my Jeff.  I'm aware that nobody is less deserving of a happy marriage than I am, but screw it.  I won him fair & square and I'm keeping him.  And I'll cut a bitch who tries to steal him away.  OK....not really.  I don't do that anymore.  Because I'm a lady.  And I have people to do those things for me now.

So Jeff got home from work this morning at 7:15 and I told him about my dream while he was brushing his teeth before he went to bed.  Our best conversations occur when he can't speak.  I told him how I was still shaken up by the dream because it seemed so real.

His response?  "Was she hot?"

Whatever. I'm over it. I heard Rico Suave on the radio in the car this morning, so I'm pretty sure everything will be OK.  Gerardo, baby!  Plus, my hair is super straight and I really like my work outfit.  Classic, but stylish.  Kind of like Heavy Audrey Hepburn.  Just go with it, people.  It's a good look for me.  I think that's what I'll name my style from now on:  Fat Audrey Hepburn.  I'm getting a trademark on that, so don't even think about stealing it.

In other marriage news, last weekend I made the mistake of asking Jeff what my Dad said when Jeff asked him if he could marry me:
Jeff: Seriously?
LAB:  Yep.  I want to know what he said.
Jeff:  No, that's what he said: Seriously?

And you people wonder what's wrong with me.

Stay of Execution

For those of you who are interested, I just got a last minute reprieve from the potential demise of my marriage.  Wow...somebody's got a case of the big words today. 

Jeff is still scheduled to change work hours in the near future.  Just not next week.  And by "change work hours", I mean start a schedule that puts him at home with me every night and every weekend.  Indefinitely.  This could be a problem.  Luckily, the guy they hired to replace him in his current position didn't work out, which leaves Jeff right where he is for at least another month.

Being hardly ever together has worked surprisingly well for us. There's a reason I refer to him as my "fictional husband Jeff".  That's also the reason why people assume my brother, with whom I spend a lot of time, is my husband.  Gross.  No offense, Scott.   

I've had many, many glorious years of eating puffed Cheetos and a piece of cheese for dinner while Jeff works nights.  The cheese is for protein to make it a balanced meal.  I'm healthy like that.  Did I mention the copious amounts of wine? I have a feeling that Jeff is not going to consider this an appropriate meal.  And those weekends when he works?  PJ's all day, baby!  Sometimes I don't even wash my face until he calls me to say that he's on his way home.  Good times.

Jeff's about to realize what a lazy shit bag I can be, and he's going to trade me in like an '86 Saturn.  For someone new, with firmer suspension and a tighter turning radius.  *ahem*

We worked the same schedule when we were first married, but I'm fairly certain that he overlooked my shortcomings because we were young & in love.  We're still in love, I just don't have that "new wife smell" anymore. Now I smell more like day-old wine and mediocrity.

The only bright spot in this potential catastrophe is that with Jeff home on weekends to take care of the dogs, I can get on the road for a Magical Mystery Tour of Girlfriends.  And Guyfriends.  I don't discriminate.  All my highly functioning alcoholic friends are equal to me. 

Plus, we just built that Mack-Daddy garage so Jeff has a place to escape the chaos.  Where he can bang his head against the wall in frustration privately.   And I can cook.  Really well.  My Chicken Pot Pie will make you wanna slap your Grandma. 

I figure I'll just feed him and stay out of his line of sight for the first few weeks.  For a break-in period, if you will.  Besides, he can't divorce me.  I'm not through ruining his life!  He still thinks I'm kidding when I tell him this.  Poor guy.

Now I'll Never Know!

Here's a snippet of an actual conversation I recently had with a friend (who will remain nameless unless she wants to out herself, which I doubt after she reads the post): 

Nameless Friend: What do you hate more than anything?
LAB: Digital watches.
NF:   No, what do you *really* hate more than anything.
LAB: I guess the only thing I hate more than digital watches is the Oxford comma.
NF:   No.
LAB:  Stop saying no.  You asked me what I hate the most and I told you.  You don't get to tell me I'm wrong.
NF:    No what do you really, really, really hate most of all.
LAB:  Seriously?  OK, I guess it's men who wear sleeveless shirts on airplanes and then sit next to you and rub their underarm hair all over your shoulder.
NF:   Gross.  And nope.
LAB:  You're obviously trying to tell me a story about something I hate.  Can you just get on with it?
NF:   No.  You're ruining it.
LAB:  How am I ruining it?  You're asking.  I'm answering.  We're conversing.  Tell the damn story.
NF:   Forget it.
LAB:  Are we even speaking the same language? Is this what people feel like when they're talking to me?  I don't like this feeling.  Is that what I hate most of all?
NF:   No.  God.  Never mind.
LAB:  But what do I hate most of all? 
NF:    Not telling.
LAB:  Shit.

On the Pontoon...

Remember when I posted that I was feeling too domesticated lately?  Well, problem solved.


I've started this post about 100 times, but I haven't been able to adequately describe my recent girl's weekend on Lake Lanier without incriminating anyone.  Or multiple anyones.  Especially me.

I can say, however, that when I woke up on Sunday morning my phone contained new contacts including: "Rod, Lord of the Dance", "Tommy Limo" and "Tim McGraw".  Apparently I made new friends.  So there's that.

When you take 5 women in their 40's and combine them with multiple bottles of champagne before 8 a.m., a house boat, a hot tub, The Fly Betty Band, swimsuits, open bar, sundresses, a purse full of stolen dog biscuits, twerking, a smoking hot handy man, Bond No. 9 perfume, a chauffeur, country music, 2 marinas, crashing a random party, and a French kissing Cockatoo (which, by the way, is not the same as a Cockatiel - see, I even learned something!), you have the perfect storm for stories you can never repeat.  And that's just what I can recall.  I'm pretty sure I spent part of Saturday night in an alcohol-induced coma.


Yes, I have pictures.  That I don't remember taking.  No, I won't share them.  Unless you were there, because those pics are seriously hilarious - OMG that bird!

We never really mastered the whole "beer before liquor, never sicker", "stick with wine and you'll be fine", "liquor before beer, you're in the clear" rules so we just drank it all.  Sometimes mixed together.  I stand by my belief that women with children can party harder than Axl Rose.  But not John Daly - that guy's a beast!  Those mothers make me look like an amateur.  And my analogies make me feel old. 

I especially liked how I woke up on Sunday morning with 9 full bottles of water on the nightstand next to me.  Guess I thought I'd be thirsty.

I'm not sure how, but with a little help from Diet Coke, bacon, yoga pants and Zofran, we all lived to tell the tale.  Or at least what we remember of it.

I love this Summer already, and it's only June!!!

Parting is Such Sweet Sorrow

Jeff and I had to take my car to the shop today for some scheduled maintenance, which meant I had to drive an alternate vehicle to work.  Cue shower scene music from Psycho.

For those of you keeping score at home, our fleet now includes the following:
My newly acquired (gently used) BMW
Jeff's Honda
Our 1997 Nissan Pathfinder with 250K miles on it
Jeff's 70's era Ford Bronco and Ford F-100
A Ford truck frame
7 Ford truck tailgates
And a partridge in a pear tree

Now is probably a good time to note that none of the aforementioned vehicles are currently parked in the garage we built last year.  And they look so nice parked in the back yard.

Generally, when my car is unavailable I drive the Pathfinder.  Jeff tends to be "particular" about his car and it's not worth the hassle to drive it.  And by "particular" I mean bat-shit crazy anal.  I had to drive his previous car to work a couple of years ago and when I needed to pick up some sand for an office event,  I was so terrified that I'd get a single grain of sand in his spotless trunk that I put the bag of sand in a giant garbage bag...then in a copy paper box...then in a larger box with the lid closed.   Better safe than divorced.  Those of you who have met Jeff are likely unsurprised by this.
 
Jeff needed the Pathfinder today (probably to buy more car crap), which meant I was going to have to drive one of his babies.  Shit.  He told me to take his Honda, but he clearly wasn't happy about it.

When I headed out the door to work, I told him good bye and he bid me farewell with these loving words: "Stay off the curbs, if you know what's good for you".  Because nothing says "have a nice day" like an order followed by an implied threat. 

Twelve years of marriage and the magic is still alive people.

...and they lived Happily Ever After.

Overmedicators Anonymous

OK, people.  I know you've read this story before, but in anticipation of Jeff's minor surgical procedure next week I give you a retelling of the epic saga of "Husband on Drugs".  And don't worry - I'll have pen and paper in hand in the recovery room next week.  I can't freaking wait!!!

Here ya go:
________________________________________________________

I know I'm going to get in Big Trouble for posting this, but it's totally worth it.

Jeff recently had to be sedated for a very minor outpatient medical procedure. We knew from his previous sports injury that anesthesia makes him sick. Really, really sick. So we told the nurses his history and they said they'd tell the anesthesiologist to take extra care with the anesthesia.

So off he went to surgery and I waited in the waiting room. When the surgery was finished, they called me into the recovery room to get him ready to go home. Apparently they were a little too generous with the "feel good juice" when they sedated him. He was flying high. Practically levitating over the bed. I had a notepad with me in case I needed to write down anything the doctor or nurses said after the procedure. Below is an honest-to-God, word-for-word exchange that took place between us in the recovery room.

Jeff: (groggy) We were playing Harrisburg or New York or some team from Out West.
LAB: (assuming he's talking about when he played basketball) How did you do?
Jeff: I don’t know, I was looking for the coach.

10 minutes of silence, and then this:

Jeff: …want a chicken biscuit.
LAB: Doctor says no chicken biscuits.
Jeff: 2 chicken biscuits.
LAB: No biscuits.
Jeff: Just go to Chick-fil-a and steal the recipe. Then we can make them at home all we want.

My pencil is poised now, because this is getting good.

Jeff: My son's birthday is the 27th.
LAB: Of December.
Jeff: His birthday is the 27th.
LAB: Yep.
Jeff: His birthday is the 27th.
LAB: Ummm. Yes, it is.
Jeff: His birthday is the 26th. Noooooooooo. His birthday is the 27th. Today is the 19th and the 16th.

Glad we cleared that up. 10 more minutes of silence. I'm figuring the show is over, when he starts up with this one:

Jeff: What are you doing here? I’m in surgery.
LAB: Surgery’s all over.
Jeff: You’re not supposed to be here.
LAB: Surgery’s all over.
Jeff: They haven’t started yet.
LAB: Surgery’s all over.
Jeff: Ohhhhh. Thanks for coming.
Jeff: (grabbing his crotch) Where’s my phone? I just put it down.

I'm laughing so hard I can't imagine how it's not waking him up completely. The nurse comes in to check on him:

Nurse: (to Jeff) Can I remove your IV?
Jeff: My wife has it.
Nurse: No, I need to remove your IV.
Jeff: I showed it to you when I got here.
Nurse: It will just take a second.
Jeff: I don’t have it.
LAB: (to nurse) He thinks you want to check his ID.

Then we have this intelligent exchange in front of the nurse:

Jeff: Can we stop for a chicken biscuit?
LAB: Doctor says no fast food until dinner time.
Jeff: What if I tell them to take their time bringing it to me?

His reasoning skills are actually pretty solid for being on drugs.

Nurse: (to me) Can you wake him up?
LAB: You wake him up, he doesn't like it.
Jeff: (saying the words out loud) Sleep, sleep, sleep.
Nurse: We should probably wake him up.
LAB: He’s not going to wake up.
Jeff: (still saying the words) Sleep, sleep, sleep....First go to sleep, then wake up.
Nurse: Well, just keep trying.

Forty-five minutes later he's slightly more alert. By this time, I can tell the hospital staff is anxious for us to get going. Several people have been in & out of recovery in the time we've been there. But it's not my fault they got him all hopped up on drugs like a crack whore.

Nurse: (to me) Why don't you try to walk him around a little.
LAB: Are you serious? He's 210 pounds of solid muscle and he's still basically asleep.
Nurse: Well, he needs to move around (walks away).
LAB: Super.

So I lugged him up and we did an unsteady lap around the recovery room. The whole time I was thinking that we're lucky to be in the hospital in case he falls on me.

We finished the lap.....and they had removed the damn bed from the room. Bastards tricked us! First they over medicated my man and now we were being evicted. So I dropped him into a chair (literally) and I started putting his shoes on. I noticed his head was lolling from side to side. I'm super pissed, but I just wanted to get out of there. I got him ready and finally a giant orderly showed up with a wheelchair. Thanks, Shamu, where were you for the walking around part? Shamu helped me load him into the car.

He was still passed out on the 30-minute drive home. While I was driving, I was thinking they kicked him out of the hospital because they realized they gave him an overdose of narcotics and they don't want to deal with it. I kept looking over at him in the car but he seemed to be perfectly content. No drool, no shallow breathing, his coloring looks good. I figured he might be OK, but I decided to take him to a different hospital if I saw any symptoms. The previous hospital wasn't getting another shot at him.

We finally got home and I spent 15 minutes getting him from the car to the house. How can someone so fit be so heavy? Note to self: drive SUV instead of tiny convertible for next hospital adventure. I tossed him on the couch, covered him up and checked to make sure he was breathing. I still wasn't sure about the whole OD angle yet (those nurses looked kind of shady to me). He seemed well enough, so after about 30 minutes I figured he was down for the count and I headed to the office for a few hours.

A few hours later he called me at work. He's perfectly alert, like nothing ever happened. He can't figure out why I'm laughing.

And I realized I'm gonna get mileage out of this story for years.
 

Perfect storm of drinking

I didn't intend for last weekend to be a drunk fest.  I really didn't!  But Jeff was out of town (ingredient #1 for perfect storm of drinking) and I had a couple of early-in-the-day liquid lunches arranged (ingredient #2 for perfect storm of drinking), so last weekend was basically Booze-Mageddon.  With extra lime.

I literally had 2 non-alcoholic drinks over the entire weekend.  A Diet Coke when I woke up Saturday morning and a Diet Coke when I woke up Sunday morning.  Every drop that I drank for the remainder of both days contained alcohol.  "Paging LAB, your ride to Passages is now available".

I had to set my alarm both days to get up and meet people to drink.  Kind of like the Spring Game of drinking, as a tune-up for football season.

I should point out that at no time over the weekend was I drunk.  I've been drunk once this year (thanks to my brother and free rounds of drinks from the manager at Dos Copas) and once in 2012 (thanks to former high school classmates).  Other than that?  I've really enjoyed my adult beverages, but I'm not particularly concerned about it.  May be it's denial.  Jeff promises to let me know when he's concerned.

Anyway, I thought I'd share some very intelligent conversations from while I was with my enabler brother on Saturday:

LAB:  "Stop referring to me as 'bitch'"
Scott:  "It's OK.  It's a term, not a phrase."
LAB:  ??????

Scott:  "It's getting cold out here. Let's go inside and drink and watch Archer."
LAB:  "And you wonder why you're still single."

Scott:  "Is that the same shirt you wore last weekend?"
LAB:  "Yep. Apparently I have a drinking jersey."

Scott: "I see you failed to score us a hot waitress.  Again."

Sunday with my pal Molly featured free drinks (thanks Gabriel the bartender!) and some of the worst jokes ever told.  Here's a sample:

Bartender:  So this mushroom walks into a bar, and the bartender says "Sorry, man, you can't come in".  The mushroom replies "Why not?  I'm a fungi.".

Get it?  Fungi...fun guy?  Oh, never mind.

Molly:  What's the last thing that goes through a bug's mind before he hits the windshield of a car?   His ass.

Bah dum dum.

LAB:  So this string walks into a bar and the bartender says "Sorry, man, we don't serve your kind here."  So the string goes outside, jumps up and down and twists himself around.  Then he goes back into the bar.  The bartender says "Aren't you that string that was just in here?"  The string replies "Nope.  I'm a frayed knot."

Oh, come on people.  A frayed knot...Afraid not?  I'm hearing crickets around here.

Before we left the bar (and after multiple rounds of drinks), I had to break out the big guns.

LAB:  What's the plural of y'all???  ALL Y'ALL!!!

And that, my friends, is the point at which the bartender realized his error in giving us free drinks.  Well that and when Molly ordered "A martini so dirty that it's a whore".

Good times.

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.