The Story of Carlyn and Bale

Saturday afternoon, Carlyn and Bale, one of the happiest couples in.the.world. become card carrying members of The Marrieds Club, and I couldn’t be happier for them.

Their history is a good one, and Ill do my best to tell it.

I met Bale first, the summer of 2003, on a boat docked in the waters in Georgetown. I was w the Mr. that night, who at the time was still Roommate w Sexual Tension, and we were off on another drunken adventure filled w bud lights, peanut butter cups and a strong dose of relationship denial.

“This is Heather, my new roommate. Heather, this is Bale.” We shook hands and I was delighted to see Roommate had friends of the attractive and friendly nature. Bale was cute in a boyish way. His eyes sparkled when he smiled, and he did a lot. He loved everything about DC, where he had lived all his life. He was also a card carrying member of the Bon Jovi fan club, (no joke) which I didn’t know at the time, which is good because I would have thoroughly judged him on such. (Which I did at a later date but by then, it was too late) Anyway. At the time of introductions, I thought Roommate said Bales, not Bale, which in retrospect makes no sense because only morons make nicknames for themselves plural, but anyway, that’s what I called him all night. Bales.

We drank beers on the boat and listened to 80s rock until a thunderstorm blew in, soaking us until we couldn’t see in front of us, we were dripping and it made no sense to care anymore. We just drank in the rain, happy as clams.

“So Bales, you work at…” I had already said his name like 50 times at this point.

“Look,” he said like a douche, “its Bale. No S. Get it right.” And then he walked away and started to talking to someone else. I do NOT appreciate it when people make me look like an idiot. People have been assaulted for less.

“Your stupid friend is banned,” I told Roommate as we left to get Greek food in Georgetown to end our night.

It was late 2008 when I first met Carlyn, the easy on the eyes, flaxen haired, light eyed, mouthy New Yorker.

I heard about Carlyn first from Bale’s girlfriend at the time, who I was friends with. “He invited his physical therapist to his birthday happy hour. I’m not going. Tell me what happens,” said the girlfriend. Physical therapist I guess was now on the same level as Nazi, or at least you’d think so by the tone of her voice. And so I did. I went to the happy hour and met her and I think said, “So you’re the therapist,” which was meant to be said in a judging manner at the time, but it didn’t work bc Carlyn is from Long Island. And she was pretty. And she was nice. And she was obviously there because she liked Bale on some level and she made him smile in a not so much I’m your physical therapist type way, but maybe a let’s get physical type way and I knew what we would all watch unfold from happy hour 1.

And so I told current girlfriend, “She’s awful. Don’t worry about her.” Both lies, looking back, and at the time intentional.

The next time I saw Carlyn was again at our beloved Hatter, this time I’m not sure what for. It was definitely something Bale related. The gf wasn’t there. And though I don’t remember too much, I remember some random hugging and cigarette smoking in the alley w Carlyn. Who knows what we thought we had in common, outside of general drunken awesomeness. Hugging in dark alleys, though, is typically an indication of a new friendship.

I do know that was the night when I knew Bale and Carlyn would be together, because I spent 3 hours watching him stare at her and when they left the bar, they waited until they rounded the corner and were out of sight before they held hands. Unfortunately for everyone, I am a super spy by nature, though, and I saw them and I told on Bale the next day, and I did it on purpose.

He wasn’t supposed to be with his current girlfriend anymore, anyway. He knew that, she knew that, and now the whole bar knew who he was supposed to be with and goddamn it, if people don’t help themselves, I’m happy to do it for them.

It took them months to make it official, but it happened, and we were all grateful that it did. Its so painful watching happy and giddy people do the “new relationship” dance. You just want them to hurry up through the cotton candy phase and find something wrong with each other already.

But oddly enough, after a few years, AND moving in with each other, AND planning their wedding together, I don’t think they’ve left the world of rainbows and unicorns and pink fluffy clouds, where Bon Jovi is President and Ambien goes well w Red Bull and the Nats win the series and the Redskins are actually relevant. (Their dream world)

They came and saw us last year in Germany and we were sad to see them go after more than a week. We’re not sad to ever see anyone go after that long. And so I know, without a doubt, that CBale squared (Chris and Carlyn) are in for a lifetime of happiness together.

I’m just lucky to be a part of the official part this weekend.

Happy, happy wedding week, Car and Bale. I love you both mucho and you both desrve all the happiness in.the.world.

(Correction. By long island, I meant staten island. Which still means loud new yorkers that love the yankees. So who care which island hahah)

The Day I Tried to Make it to DC

Another update:
I am lying on the ground now at the stuttgart airport, working on 9 straight hours in the same fucking terminal and 6 lipstick changes. A ring is starting to form around my lips and the Mr said I look like a hippie that’s discovered makeup. Maybe bc I am wearing a Lenny Kravitz tee, ripped jeans and flops w now hot pink lipstick and I’ve decided to put on my ray bans inside bc whythefucknot. Being stuck here for a full day blows and I’ve resorted to pretending this whole damned place is my house, which is why I’m laying on the floor and trying on new perfumes, lotions and polishes like I’m at the goddamned beauty parlor. What else am I going to do?

I still have to fly to frankfurt to then fly to dc. I get in 5 hours late and will eventually be boozing away this 20 hour travel day in dc.

Just like a rock star. A rock star w pink lips.

________________________________
Update: after waiting 4 hours, we were put on the only other flight to munich. After getting on said flight, we were delayed 25 minutes bc of air traffic, which I think is bullshit because there is plenty of air for everyone.

Then, the engine fires up and I think we’re off, which means we’ll make it to munich an hour before our second flight takes off.

But the air travel gods hadn’t bent me over yet today and so that didn’t happen but what happened instead is mr. Pilot comes on and starts giggling about how shit isn’t meant to be bc now our de-icing gear has failed, there are no other planes and we have to wait until Hans or Frans fixes it which could be WHOTHEFUCKKNOSWHEN and ha ha ha ya ya ya (in german accent) ve vill be leaving soooometime today.

Fuck you. The bullshit meter just hit code red.

——————————————
So today ill just keep an online journal of what’s happening and anyone interested can pop in and out to see where in the world I am and what level of bullshit I am and also what my status is–meaning if I am detained, arrested, deported or just enjoying a latte.

Morning was going great. Up at 0350, showered, wearing clothes of the normal, not Hooters variety. I was dead sober, packed, ready and out the door w iced coffee by 0430. Flight set to leave at 0620.

For the first time in at least 9 flights, I made it through security without causing a scene, which means I also didnt get the pat down, which I will not lie, was pretty disappointing. I really like that part, especially the run their hands inside your pants to check your skivs, part. I have no idea what’s wrong w me.

Anyway, so we’re checked in by 0455 and drinking lattes by 515. Around 0600 I tried on a few lipsticks up in the beauty store because lipstick obviously means I lead a very luxurious lifestyle and I’m hoping to get upgraded at some point from my FUCKING SEAT BY THE BATHROOM. And I’m big into lipstick lately. The Mr keeps staring at my lips and pointed out it goes really well with my flip flops. I do not understand why I’m so misunderstood sometimes in our marriage.

By 0617 my flight to munich is delayed due to fog. By 0652 my whole flight is cancelled. Why are we even flying through Munich, you ask? An airport that by planet takes 40 min? No goddamned idea.

So currently, that’s where I’m at. Sitting downstairs w Mr. H who now thinks we should drive to Munich, which I do not support. Maybe if we had booked a ticket that made sense, I’d be on my way towards the ocean. He does not seem too concerned anymore, though, as that angry birds game has consumed him.

Ill be back soon. I think its already time for another latte and a new lipstick shade.

Screwing Rob Pattinson, DC, tributes and avoiding DETAINMENT, ROUND 1 TRILLION

So before I board yet another plane tomorrow for my long trip home to DC, we are going to just quickly discuss a few things. This post is actually kind of a filler because it’s taking me longer than I thought to write my C&B tribute, which will have to go up tomorrow.

Happy couple for said tribute. Aww, I heart them.

So. Today’s items.

1. I haven’t been back to DC since I packed up the house and took off for Germany. I am SO.EXCITED.TO.GO.HOME!! Because really, DC, like New England, is home for us. Home filled with a lot of firsts and our home away from home family of friends that kept us busy and happy and content for the better part of a decade. And I will see them all tomorrow night! Woooo. I can’t wait. Who.needs.sleep.

2. That being said, Mr. H didn’t pick seats when he bought the flights. OVERAMONTHAGO. First of all, who doesn’t pick SEATS? And I am going to smash something if I don’t get a window seat, which currently I don’t have. I feel like he’s done this to me on purpose. I’m so angry about it, in fact, that I have drawn my own picture of where we’re stuck sitting. The online version was not going to do.

myassignedseating

I promise you. Click this link to see my plane drawing and you will TOTALLY be behind me on this one.

3. If I get fucking arrested or detained or strip searched from here to Munich to Washington, DC, tomorrow, I am going to light something on fire. Or flip something in the airport. Or assault someone. I will be walking into this little trip with not a drop of the vino in me, well rested, liquids in appropriate packing materials, and I will do everyone a favor and pack pants so that they believed I was off for a wedding weekend, not some drug mule expeditition. No pants in bag=obvious sketchy visit, or so says airport security, remember. Which reminds me that I wanted to look into what actual drug mules pack in their bags, besides secret cash and OBVIOUSLY drugs, hidden in those secret compartments they make in their suitcases or inside their tummys. But I have no time to do that. HOWEVER. IF I GET FUCKING DETAINED, the only good thing about it will be that I can ask the strip searchers to show me a smuggler’s suitcase, just so I am in the know.

So if you want to track my travels tomorrow, you can find me on Facebook and The Twitter. I’m hoping you end up being bored because that means I simply got on a few planes and slept the whole time. *here’s to HOPING.

4. Discussion I had with my sister this week, which brings me back to the obvious: I want to screw the hell out of Rob Pattinson.

Painfully hot. I want to be sitting on his lap.


Like the type of sexy time that when you are just aimlessly doing work and shit the next day, you have these insane flashbacks to the night before that make you blush. Like, oh dear God, I did that trick? And he did what again? Oh dear Christ I am getting rapey over this right now.

So anyway. Conversation went like this.

Her: Have you not listened to Rob Pattinson’s songs on youtube yet?

Me: Shit, I have not. I meant to, but I forgot. I will get to it tonight.

Her: I don’t know why you’re wasting time. I want to eat him. And in one he’s playing the guitar. (she sighs)

Me: Oh dear Christ, he plays the guitar. Wait, wait. Is he singing in his American voice or his British voice? This is very important.

Her: I don’t know what that means. He’s British, Heather.

Me: Don’t fuck with me on this one. British or American? You know he acts with that American accent. BRITISH OR AMERICAN? IS IT HIS BRITISH VOICE?
I am shrieking now and the excitement is making me hop up and down in my seat. Rob Pattinson, singing, playing the guitar, hopefully with that look of angst and that messy, messy, head of hair of his, WITH HIS BRITISH ACCENT, was going to make me more than losemyshit. I was about to have a public incident with myself.

Her: Ugh. Did you see that video of him and his whore girlfriend? She is a fucking weirdo. And sometimes I think he’s weird when he’s with her. I hope he’s not fucking weird.

Me: No. I didn’t. Are we still talking about this? I only have ten minutes. I have a few other topics to squeeze in here.

Her: I want to marry him.

Me: Do you think you’d cancel your own wedding if he’d marry you?

Her: (dead serious) Well, if it were like a, we’ll always be together type thing. Wait. I’m not telling you any more of this. You’re going to write about it.

Me: Right. Obviously I am. But you would marry him is the point?

Her: Yeah, make sure you note that. And don’t fucking plagiarize me.

Me: What? I’m going to quote you as wanting to marry him and me wanting to just screw him. Plagiarize would mean I steal your shit. Nevermind.

And now I am back to staring at pictures of his yummy face and swooning around like a 12 year old. Yes, I used swooning around like a verb.

My pants have no chance against Rob Pattinson. None. And so here he is, for all my other dramatic, boy crazy friends. You’re welcome.

**Disclaimer: Just because I’m over 30 does not mean I cannot want to lick, violate and conquer boys around the age of 20-ish that are pretty. I stand firm in my right to want to do so. That is all.

HEY Washington, DC–GET READY!!

Things have been a bit bullshit lately so I apologize for the quiet time. I have missed writing out my loud and nonsensical ramblings this week. I’ll see if I can’t blast out a few posts to let you all know:

1. The inner monologues I’ve been having in my head. Since I’ve missed almost a full week of posting, obviously 8 million conversations about dirt and Jesus and suntan lotion and Moxie have occurred.

2. What I’ve been using these days for a hair elastic. PS, the husband is getting really annoyed with my fun blog posts that out him. Which I obviously find hysterical.

3. If I’ve been arrested this week. Mmmm, I fly out this week again. There is always time.

4. That during Easter I tried turning water to wine which was a bust which further proved Jesus was NOT A WINEMAKER.

4. Why I am PUMPED to fly across the Atlantic, round two. (for real)

So, for now, in short, this dream team

Yes, my teeth are purple. It was Easter. I blame Jesus.

Is heading back home, to our very first city we shared together

One of my most favorite places in DC

to celebrate the marriage of two of our most favorite people in.the.WORLD—Ms. Carlyn “Functions on Ambien” Hayden and Mr. Chris “Weeps for Bon Jovi” Bale.

So. When I can access more photos from home later and sit down in my sweats and relax, I’ll be able to share the story of how and why the Bales came to be and why I’m really, really happy to add them to our always growing group of The (former and current) DC MARRIEDS.

Few more things.

I forgot Moxie’s birthday again, which was April 5th. For the past few years we’ve been saying she’s 3 and like Peter Pan that girl never grows up so this year she’s turning 5.

This year she won't be three again. We're changing her age to 5.


To make up for missing her birthday we are most likely going to buy us steaks and her a bone and a party hat. Pictures to follow to further prove that 1. Moxie is fucking awesome and 2. I have lost my mind.

This is how you celebrate Easter in Germany.

No I do not know him, yes he's dressed as a rabbit and yes, my eyes look evil

With the festive gays and a few gin and tonics. What else did you expect me to do on Jesus Comeback Eve? Because obviously.

And LASTLY,

We are having a “The Hopkins’ Return to DC and let’s get the Bales MARRIED ALREADY” happy hour at this bar, at 6pm THIS THURSDAY.
Come one, come all. It’ll be great to see everyone and I know you’re all dying to take a shot at my liver.

For now, that is all. Peace out, bitches.

The Day I Was Detained in Amsterdam

**there are no pictures that could possibly accompany this tale. Sorry in advance.

It’s funny how many stories I have now that involve me getting detained, questioned or strip searched at the airport. And by funny I just mean disturbing and I have no concept of what it’s like to just show up to the airport and just fly. There always has to be some sort of international incident.

Like the time in Stuttgart when I was strip searched while the slinky dog watched me hungrily.

Or the time I was almost arrested for bringing a fancy bullet with me in my bag.

And now here is the story of how I was detained and strip searched in Amsterdam last week. Again.

I was flying home last Thursday to surprise my sister for the weekend to throw her a bridal shower. This was a top-secret mission that I had booked for 2 months and it was the only secret in LIFE that I had successfully kept from her for more than 6 days and so it was VERY important to just get me there and hidden so I could surprise her when she arrived home from work.

But nothing is ever easy.

I had a friend in town Wednesday from France and he wanted to do dinner, which loosely translates into wine drinking and so like the (actually not at all) responsible gal I am, I packed up my bag a few hours early and settled in for a few hours of vino drinking. Which then turned into a ten-hour celebration of nothing but defeating my liver.

We first started on the porch, drinking a few glasses of red, which then led to vodka on the Top of the Stairs in the Stu, then to dinner, then to the Irish bar, then back to my house with friends for a late night after party because WHY WOULD I THINK I NEED TO GO TO BED BEFORE MY FLIGHT? I didn’t. And so around 0430, I was told to grab my bag and it was time to hit the airport. I put down my wine, ran upstairs to change and grabbed my bag. And I was off. I wasn’t tired, I was thoroughly giddy off wine and all was fine until I hit the airport.

I made it through security in Stuttgart and found my gate, which was an Easter egg hunt in itself, considering I was 1. talking to myself about getting my shit together 2. wandering around like a crazy person who is lost 3. I looked insane. I’m never sure why I think it’s ok to dress myself after drinking but I guess I thought wearing dirty jeans, my favorite Austria hoodie and black leather boots and a yellow purse was a brilliant idea. Fucking moron, I know. That and I had been at the bar all night and the thought of a shower apparently escaped me and so all you could smell was red wine and vodka seeping from my ghostly and unlotioned skin. Vision.of.fucking.beauty.

Anyway. I made it onto the plane and woke up in Amsterdam, which just sounds like a damned movie in itself. After making my way near the terminal I was leaving from, I spotted a Starbucks and decided to see if I could sober up over some iced coffee. Being half drunk at the airport is bullshit. What’s also bullshit is that I realized I had to go through passport control AGAIN and that wore me out instantly just looking at the line but then I got over it when I spotted a cushy chair facing the runway nearby. So off I went to lay all awkward-like across two squishy chairs like a nightmare in a public setting. I used my bag as a pillow and fell asleep with my mouth open.

It was around 0820 that I bolted upright and had a panic attack. Now I was about 43% drunk still and convinced that maybe time changed while I was sleeping. I had maybe been asleep all of 20 minutes and it’s not the fucking twilight zone but now I could not get it out of my head that it was probably 0920, not 0820 and my stupid ass was going to miss my flight because I wanted to sleep in the big chair outside of passport control. Moron. And so off I went to get in the passport line, dragging my legs like a five-year old being sent to time-out.

(Jesus CHRIST this is going to be a long story)

As I make it to the front of the line, I straighten myself out and try my best to put on a very focused and sober look, which I’m sure came across as retarded and sketchy, because making eye contact was beyond me and I was just trying to keep my mouth shut so I didn’t horrify anyone with my offensive, in need of rehab, wine breath.

The very official, I check passports for a living, guy scanned my passport and then looked at me. I smiled and hoped I wasn’t cross-eyed. He looked down and then back and me and then down again.

“Have you ever driven a car in the Netherlands, Ms. Smith?”

“No. I haven’t.” I never drive anywhere, most certainly not the Netherlands.

“Are you sure?” Well, no, I’m not fucking sure because currently I’m not even sure what my middle name is or what day it is or how soon I’ll need a liver transplant but I was pretty fucking sure I hadn’t been parading around in a car in the land of drugs, whores and tulips. And now he was getting testy which was making me testy because anger is always my go-to defense mechanism.

“Yes, I’m sure. But you obviously think I’ve been in a car here so is there anything you’d like to fill me in on?” He did not like my attitude which was fine because I didn’t like the stupid hat he was wearing.

“Seems to me you have an unpaid speeding ticket from 2007. Do you know anything about that?” What in the Christ was he talking about oh dear god I vacationed in Amsterdam in 2007 and rented a car in my name WHY IN GOOD FUCKS SAKE AM I SUCH A MORON?

“That is not my speeding ticket. It is my boyfriends. Well now he’s my husband. I do NOT drive in Europe. That is best for everyone. I promise you it is HIS SPEEDING TICKET.” And by the look on his face I was about to get it for a ticket that was NOT EVEN MINE I AM GOING TO FUCKING KILL MY HUSBAND.

“Mmmm hmmm. We’re going to need you to go with them.” Shit, shit, shit. I look behind me and two police officers are standing there waiting for me like fucking magicians because two seconds ago they were not there and now they were there with their arms crossed. Sonofafuckingwhore.

I didn’t even bother asking where. I knew I was going right in the holding cell room. I’d been there before. But, just to be clear I was unhappy, I crossed my arms tight and made a, I AM NOT FUCKING IMPRESSED, face and then did some very clear body language that I did not need them to help me anywhere so keep your grabby ass security hands off me. The bullshit level was overwhelming and somehow cancelling out the drunk girl behavior and so I was now in attack mode but trying to avoid a full-blown arrest so I could make it home on time.

I slumped in the seat and started texting the husband about how unimpressed I was with HIM and then I started blaming him for this, my lack of sobriety AND all things I could think of because why not. He needed to be punished and so I called him and the first thing he did when he answered was start laughing. Hard. Like uncontrollable while I ranted and shrieked and then started shaking with anger and started to almost cry like a nightmare because obviously NO ONE CARED ABOUT MY WELL BEING AND IF I WENT TO JAIL I WOULD DIVORCE SOMEONE. (I am so dramatic when detained, I know.)

He didn’t stop laughing and I think he was now crying with happiness at my situation and so I hung up on him just as security came back and then I realized that within an hour, my phone would die.

I was now slumped in my chair, uninterested in this line of questioning I knew was coming.

“Is there a reason, Ms. Smith, that you lied about the ticket?”

“First of all (hissing, I was hissing) I DID NOT KNOW ABOUT A TICKET BECAUSE YOU ASKED ME ABOUT A CAR. Second of all, you cannot know you have a ticket based on some fucking light flashing that you don’t know existed and at the time I had never been to Europe and did not KNOW ABOUT YOUR SNEAKY CAMERAS. Third, it’s NOT MY TICKET.”

“Mmm hmmm. Well, we’re going to need you to pay for it.” Obviously.

“How much is it?” Please let it be 8 trillion dollars and give me the option to blow someone instead because WHENINAMSTERDAM and I’m thrifty.

“29 euro.” Oh for fucks sake I was in holding cell for this??

“Fine. Where do I sign? Here are all my cards.”

“And we’ll need to search you. Please give us your bag.” FUCKYOUTOHELL. I knew this was coming. Of course it was. Because I forgot about the ticket I was now a liar, a drug mule and an international misfit. AGAIN. I just handed him my bag, which they promptly dumped out in front of me. This is the point that I realized I’m a terrible drunk packer. In my bag were three pair of skivs, two dirty teeshirts, a Red Sox hat, flip-flops and two magazines. Yep. That was it. Awesome. Who else thought it was awesome? The fucking whackjob sitting across the room that was staring at me.

“What is she in here for?” She being the 40-ish crack whore that somehow managed to show up at the airport looking worse than I did.

“Swallowing heroin balloons.” Then I got a look like, she’s one of your kind. This set me off. WHY AM I ALWAYS PUT IN THE ROOM WITH THE DRUG SMUGGLERS? I started to text this to my husband but instead decided to update facebook on my detainment status.

“We’re going to need you to take off your clothes and please give us your phone.” Oh JESUS. I knew it was going to come to this and at this point, I’m a strip search pro. It’s too bad it doesn’t give me as much personal satisfaction as the security pat down at the metal detector BUT STILL. How many times a year do I have to strip to my underwear for these people? And there was no fucking way they were taking my phone. I finished my text without looking up.

“I will take off my clothes even though I am not smuggling DRUGS AGAIN but you are not having my phone.” I should have left the word “again” out but at this point, I figure they have a picture of me taped at every airport and so whatthefuck. I put my phone in my back pocket and stood up to take my shoes off.

He stuck his hand out for the phone. I just stared at him and took my socks off. I was wearing striped socks you wear on xmas, when the rest of the world isn’t looking and your mother thinks you’re the cutest person on earth. Like the fuzzy ones that are only cute when a 6-year-old wears them. Ugh. I shook my head about the phone.

“Give us the phone.” He was pissed.

“You get my embassy on the phone so they can tell me what the hell I’m about to get naked for and then you can have my phone.” It makes me so happy just to find a reason to demand my embassy, even though I don’t actually want the embassy and I don’t think the embassy actually ever does anything for anyone but in my head, demanding an embassy is a fun way to pass the time.

“Your embassy?”

“Yes.” We were obviously having a pissing match now and I was going to win.

He just sighed. “Please just put all your clothes on the table with your bag.” I won.

So, my pants were off and on the table and I was just pulling my hoodie over my head when I looked in my hoodie and saw that I was wearing my purple Hooters tee and no bra. (not the Hooters beater. The tee. Difference.) Then my hair got caught in the hood of my sweatshirt and so I go to pull out my ponytail only to realize it’s not an elastic at all but a cock ring. I was holding my hair up all day with a cock ring? What in the fuck?

I totally just took this out and put it on something I owned so you'd all know that it's mine, it was in my bag and therefore I obviously took it out of my hair a week ago.


That is what I get for trying to do my hair in the dark after a wine night. Shit. So now I have one hand taking off my shirt with my tits hanging out and the other with cock ring wrapped around my wrist and now I was overheating and my legs started to shake and I really had to swallow hard so as not to throw up and then I blacked out. Well, I sat down on the chair quickly WHILE blacking out. With my sweatshirt around my head and nothing on my chest.

What a fucking nightmare.

Ten minutes later, I was fully swabbed and checked for drugs and released to a different holding area, where I was allowed to wear clothes again and where I paid my ticket and then was escorted through customs. Honest to god, it was 0930 and I had just had the longest morning of my life.

I figured if I could just make it to the gate and get on the plane, this nightmare would be over and I would be on my way to Maine. Until I got pulled aside in the boarding line for “random screening” AGAIN. OHMYGODSOMEONEPUTMEOUTOFMYMISERY.

“Ma’am, is there a reason you didn’t check any bags?” Oh god. Really?

“I am going home to visit my sister. She will have everything I need.”

He looked at me all suspicious-like. “Seems odd to me that someone would take so little for a four-day trip.” I don’t care what seems odd to you, Mr. Boarding Gate Bag Checker. I really fucking don’t.

“Alright, look.” I was bullshit again. “I wasn’t even in your country. I didn’t take or leave anything. Look in my bag. You want a reason it’s so light? I don’t fucking like pants. I brought no pants. Are WE DONE HERE?”

“You don’t like pants?”
He looked confused.

“No. I actually hate them. I think they’re complete bullshit.” Then I just stared at him.

“Have a nice flight.”

And I did. Outside of the fact that the old woman who sat next to me for 7 hours smelled like Indian food and diapers, I had a nice flight.

And that is the story of how I was detained in Amsterdam last week.

Winter Song and The Anderson Crew

I thought by now we’d all be looking over our shoulders at winter and waving goodbye, but then one of my friends emailed me this afternoon and said she got snow this weekend. How awful.

And so, here is one last song about winter, before it disappears for good for another year. HOPEFULLY SOONER RATHER THAN LATER. I actually feel weird posting about winter right now, because it’s 60 and sunny here today, but REALLY. I am a giver and when people are down about the snow, I will at least be around for some cheer.

No, I’m not being dramatic. I thought it was a really sweet song, representative of leaving behind winter for spring. And I found it on a really sweet blog, The Anderson Crew, which I like to read when I’m having a selfish or down day, because their optimism is really great.
http://andersonfamilycrew.blogspot.com/

So. Enjoy your new song and your new blog.

**Sorry, I’ve been doing a lot of writing today. I will find something funny to post about tomorrow. Like reasons I want a monkey.

At least I have goals

Yep. Just like this. I am *really graceful. I promise.

So. I came straight to my desk from my flight. I can barely keep my eyes open. It’s been a hell of four days. I don’t even know if I have jet lag or not. Maybe just exhaustion.

So while I catch up on some zzzs, I thought I’d at least introduce you all to my newest hobby.

Because OBVIOUSLY. And for those that need a reason outside of the obvious:
1. I can almost stretch my leg over my head with one hand which was LAST spring’s goal and so now I need to up the ante a bit and 2. Is there ever a situation where wearing a leotard is wrong?

I didn’t think so.

I’m adding drug mule to my resume

I just checked in to tomorrow’s flight, of course needing a window seat so I don’t fucking losemyshit at the ticket counter and the only thing I can think is,

I really, REALLY would just like to make it home tomorrow without getting detained at the airport. Or strip searched. Because while I don’t mind so much being strip searched, I really don’t feel like dealing with the international cops again. That being said, there is obviously an 86% chance that I am going to be dragged into a holding cell tomorrow somewhere between Maine and Germany. And by 86 I mean 92.

And this whole, she definitely looks like a drug mule thing is a bit much. Do I really look like I swallow heroine balloons and hide weed up my jage? Is that even what drug mules do? Or do they only swallow things? First of all, there is no doubt in my mind that if I ever swallowed a cocaine goody bag, that shit would explode within ten minutes and I would die before I even got on the stupid flight. Second of all, how long are you supposed to be able to hold going to the bathroom? Like a day? Because that would be awesome, really, but I have the world’s fastest digestive system on the planet.

I’d love to write about how I was detained in Amsterdam on Thursday for a speeding ticket that wasn’t even mine, which was four years old, and which can’t possibly warrant a motherfucking strip search, but considering I was still drunk and delirious and just trying to focus, I’m sure I had the, “Screw me as hard as you possibly can to teach me a lesson about traveling 15 hours on two days with no sleep and smelling aggressively like red wine and gin” look on my face again.

Come to think of it, I am now going to have to consider become some sort of international lawyer so the next time they pull this shit on me, I am going to drop some crazy ass law shit on them and make them wish they left me alone. I would say consult my own lawyer, but no, I am not adult enough to have one yet. But considering my luck, I really should.

Jesus, that is enough rambling. This post is starting to not make sense. Maybe after a little takeout, trashy tv and a nap, I’ll have enough energy to go round two and tell you all the extended story about my most recent stint in an airport holding cell.

Because in my life, all of this is totally normal.

Masturbation FAIL. Lesson learned.

The Thelma and Louise of the Stu.


So my friend and I are driving home yesterday, top down, discussing all that is random, when I tell her, not having anything better to talk about,

“So. I zapped myself with my vibrator the other day. Like zap! And it fucking hurt like a bitch.”

“You electrocuted yourself? That’s awesome.” She didn’t seem surprised…more so impressed.

“Yes, and I didn’t stop because I had like 30 seconds if that left and I had a good thought going and jesus, so I just worked through the pain. But jesus, a day later, I’m in pain. That shit is dangerous.”

She laughed. “Reminds me of the time I threw my back out while rubbing one out.”

“You threw your own back out? That is some aggressive me time.” Now I was impressed. I tried to think of a story to top it but knew this talk could just get weird fast.

“Oh yeah. Threw my goddamned back out and had to call a friend to come get me to bring me to the doctors. Got myself some muscle relaxers and was laid up on the couch for another full day, unable to walk.”

“Holy shit. We are talking about masturbating. As in doing this shit to ourselves, like we’re unable to stop or control ourselves.”

“Seems normal.” She just shrugged.

Agreed. That conversation was pretty normal.

And I wonder why my husband’s family doesn’t read my blog. Oh well.