Boo.

Our Halloween Costume Party Extraordinaire was Saturday and I'm sadly just now getting around to making this post. Probably because it's taken me this long to recover.

After spending all Saturday afternoon decorating our house (no corner was safe from spider webs), making food and picking up the keg, we were anxious for our guests to arrive. And arrive they did. All in all, we had around 30 people from different friend groups...which made it that much more fun and interesting:

"The GPS" and a hovering creepo (whom we heart):

Just a fraction of the beautiful, costumed ladies present:

The hills were alive with the sound of...Bone Thugs n' Harmony:
The lives of the party:

After spending several hours swilling beverages and dancing in the fog, a little magic happened. Out of nowhere, a party bus full of nuns pulled up in front of the house...and invited us to take a ride. Folks, when opportunity knocks, sometimes you have no choice but to take it:
Fortunately, Greg had the foresight to grab a tray of Jello shots and bring them on board as party favors. Which absolutely thrilled the nuns and won us at least ten cool points.

Our bus rattled all over town as we danced, sang and chatted up our new friends. At one point, we got out to dance in the street in the Gulch and then finally disembarked for good on Demonbruen. (And that's where things get a little fuzzy. And where my cell phone more than likely got "misplaced".)

The next morning, I woke up to a cup littered floor and sleeping bodies on the couches. I sleepily let Madden out and was standing in the doorway waiting on her when the landlord appeared. He apparently had been lying in wait.

I realized too late that I was wearing only a tank top and my lacy costume bloomers (and flushed a deep crimson as a result). He grinned lecherously at me and said, "So...fun party last night, huh?" I gave him a tight-lipped smile and nodded. He then pulled something from behind his back and said, "I found something of yours in the neighbor's yard."

And lo and behold, he was holding the jello shot tray which had apparently been tossed out of the party bus window as we pulled away from the curb.

Never have I wished harder for the earth to immediately swallow me whole.

Three questions:
1) What was he doing poking around in the neighbor's yard anyway?
2) Was it imperative that he return the missing tray at 7:30 in the morning?
3) Is it possible to obtain a restraining order against someone who technically lives at your own address?

"WOAH!"

It is official. An iconic figure from my childhood has tragically been shattered and I've been left standing in the swirling abyss of my rapidly vanishing girlhood dreams.

Let me explain.

Back in the day, I had a serious thing for Joey Lawrence. And I do mean S-E-R-I-O-U-S.

I purchased BOP magazines solely for the pictures of him. Blossom was my LIFE and I (unfortunately) bought one of those terrible sunflower-clad denim hats as a result. I even watched the short-lived Brotherly Love because both he and his look-a-like siblings starred (three for the price of one!!)

But all of that was nothing in comparison to his stunning album debut. One word: glorious.

JOEY LAWRENCE (clever title, no?) was the second CD I owned, falling shortly behind Ace of Base. And it definitely got some serious wear. For six months, it was the only CD that played in the car as my mom shuttled me to and from school...poor thing. (Aside: I actually still have this CD and several years ago, played it for my mom...who can still sing along to every word. We laughed for a good 20 minutes upon discovering this fact.)

This is the Joey Lawrence I know and love:

And THIS is the horror which he has become:

Why, Joey? Why? Why must you shave your head to look like a bouncer at a trendy gay club...and then airbrush tan it? Why must you cut the arms out of your flamboyant silk shirt? Why must you wear stretchy little suit pants that show your every hip thrust? WHY?!?

The strangest part is that he's actually married. To a woman. Who is fairly good-looking. Who sits in the front of the audience and claps her little heart out while he's dancing.

While Mrs. Lawrence may be putting on a happy, supportive face, I KNOW deep down she's choking back sobs and wondering if she'll ever be able to sleep with him again (at least without either weeping or gagging).

She HAS to be. Because not only does that video clip destroy my girlish fantasies, it makes my woman parts recoil in horror.

And will surely haunt my dreams.

So...Funny Story....

Yesterday afternoon, when most respectable people were in church, Stacy and I found ourselves in quite a different place of worship: HOOTERS. (That's right, Hooters.)

While the food is quite good (mmmm...wings), Hooters is not exactly an establishment my girlfriends and I frequent. But since our Halloween Costume Party Extraordinaire is quickly approaching, Stacy decided she needed a pair of industrial-strength Hooters tights to complement her highway patrol "uniform".

The website said we could purchase them at every restaurant, so we packed up and headed to the nearest one. Now, I'm definitely not a Hooters connoisseur...but I have a feeling that this particular establishment is sub-standard. For several reasons (including, but not limited to the existence of a waitress twice my size. No lie.)

After being escorted to our table by a busty Butter Face, we scanned the restaurant for a t-shirt stand. But there wasn't one. So I made a visit to the ladies room just to make sure they didn't distribute them out of a machine a la French Ticklers and off-brand cologne. But nada.

Determined we wouldn't leave the restaurant empty-handed, I asked our waitress where she purchased her tights since she obviously couldn't buy them in-house. She grudgingly admitted that they bought their tights (and tube socks!) at the Mexican market down the street. So we paid our bill and headed out.

NO TIGHTS

TIGHTS (???)

As soon as we entered the doors of the Super Mercado Latino, it felt like we'd been transported to another country. Everything was brightly colored, cantina music was blaring and hordes of small, dark-headed children were running amok--it couldn't have felt more authentic if live chickens had been clucking underfoot.

We browsed for awhile before finally asking an employee where they kept the tights. He got a gleam in his eye and exclaimed, "Ah! Hooters girls?!" Deciding it'd be less complicated to just go with it, we nodded. Sure, Pedro...whatever you want to think...

Stacy paid for her 1950s-boxed tights and we managed to make it to the car before erupting in laughter at the sheer absurdity of the situation. Then Stacy opened the tights...only to discover they had no feet. Just a terrible banded ankle. Which sent us even further into hysterics.
We left as soon as I regained enough breath to drive...but didn't get far before discovering the surprising and fantastic mural painted on the backside of the building. It pretty much summed up our entire tights-hunting experience, so I had to have my picture taken with it:
We then managed to make about 40 more feet before losing it again. The reason? This sign:
All told, there really are just three appropriate words to adequately sum up our day: Ay yi yi.

PimpSpace

Myspace has always been a tad sketchy, but in the past few days it's gotten completely out of control.

Simply being both a member of Myspace and a female means you'll get the standard lame requests from lame guys who are looking for hookups. (D E R R E K and Da Snake: please stop trying.) But in the last 24 hours, I've gotten two messages from Nashville males that go above and beyond the usual pathetic attempts.

The first was from a 36-year-old divorced photographer who specializes in "adult oriented modeling and online videos". Apparently, he thinks I have the "fresh-faced look" he's been searching for and told me to message him back if I was interested in the "opportunity."

I definitely did not.

The next message was from a 31-year-old owner of a local escort service. Again, I apparently have the "look and personality that his clients look for" (which made me laugh). The message was so hysterically out there, I just couldn't resist messaging the guy back to ask for more details.

He responded within ten minutes:
It's pretty simple...men or women contact us seeking a date for a specified period of time. Based on what they are seeking, we match them with a suitable escort. It's pretty similar to most dates, really...usually dinner or somethign along those lines. Sex is often involved...but it does pay $350 per hour! You choose your own days and hours. Benefits include professional photos and a dependable driver.

Having had my curiosity satisfied (and my stomach repulsed), I didn't respond back. Thirty minutes later, he wrote me again:
You got quiet...

So I responded back:
Probably because you asked me to be a glorified prostitute...and the LAST thing I need in my life is a pimp.

Thankfully, I haven't heard from him since.

No freaking wonder The Today Show does 27 segments a week on "the dangers of Myspace."

It's terrifying...

[Land]lord Help Us All

I just realized it's been quite a while since I've made any postings about my creepo of a landlord. Mainly because things became normal (or as normal as possible) when the psychotic, skunk-haired "fiance" moved back in the spring. My roommate and I were almost convinced they'd actually get married. Especially after "The X-Files" box mysteriously disappeared...

But our reprieve from drama ended several weeks ago when the screaming started back up from the air vents. Heated accusations were made about torrid affairs and before we knew it, she was dragging armloads of clothes to her car. And things have taken a dizzying turn downhill ever since.

Because he has no job and sits in his side of the house for up to 72 hours straight, he's become desperate for social interaction. To the point where he knocks on our door to ask us random questions and then stays for half an hour. My trick of pretending I'm on my cell phone when I pass him is no longer working. He'll talk to me until I "hang up". Which wouldn't be that big of a deal provided he had even a single ounce of social skill.

Last Friday, he was washing his car in the driveway as I was leaving for the Y.
Landlord: "You're going to workout, huh?"
Me: "It appears that way, yes."
Landlord: "I've noticed you leaving for the gym before the sun comes up some mornings."
Me: "Ummmmm, yeah." (Avoiding eye contact because I'm thoroughly creeped out at the thought of him peering through his blinds at 6:00 a.m.)
Landlord: "Way to keep that little body of yours in shape! Let me tell you, the payoff is obviously worth it!"

I swear I got into my car and gagged.

But it gets worse.

Yesterday, he started asking my roommate questions about her love life and whether she considered herself "exclusive". And in a sudden turn for the weirder, inquired as to the status of one of our close guy friends. Whom he called "handsome" and "dapper".

I'm almost positive that "The X-Files II" is going to appear downstairs any day now. The only real question now is about WHAT kind of porn it'll contain.

All in favor of Man Handlers IV, say "aye".

Child's Play

After a slight blip in the match process, Stella Mae and I are officially up and running in the Big Brothers Big Sisters program of Middle Tennessee. Not to be arrogant or anything, but I think we're the best dang match in the entire program...possibly ever.

Mae and I spent all afternoon on Saturday at the city-wide BBBS picnic and had an absolute blast--especially considering that the three elements for a good time were present: 1) free food 2) hysterical head gear and 3) a karaoke/dance off competition. (I most definitely saved my sweet "I'm Thinking Arby's" headgear and plan to pull it out for special/relevant occassions. )
For four solid hours, I got to pretend I was a kid again. Stella Mae and I dominated in tug-of-war, ran sack races, got our faces painted and played numerous games of Twister:
Then she discovered the pile of hula hoops and challenged me to duel...which she most definitely won. (Odd considering the person with hips should have a distinct edge.)
My favorite part of the entire afternoon was the dance-off. They divided us up into "Bigs" vs. "Littles" and made us shake our groove thing until they called us out. I swear I hadn't laughed that hard in weeks. Especially once I saw the eventual grand-prize winner do her thing (and finally understand the benefit of having a digital camera that also takes videos). This little girl definitely watches her fair share of BET:



All joking aside, the picnic was great fun....and it was so rewarding to see little kids with rough home lives let loose and play for a change.

In fact, the only sad part was that the event was dominated by females simply because BBBS has over 200 little boys on the waiting list for mentors in the Nashville area alone. So if you're a male who likes kids and wants to do a little something to give back, I implore you to sign up.

I promise you'll get just as much out of it as they will.

Sad. Sad. Sad.

For the first time in my life, I've discovered the true definition of "pathetic". And it wasn't pretty.

Saturday night, some friends and I hit the town for dinner, drinks and (hopefully) dancing. While having a drink at the bar as we awaited a table, the gentleman sitting next to me struck up a conversation. He was eating something spicy and jokingly dared me to try a bite. He promised that if I could stomach it, he'd buy our group's next round of drinks. Being a complete sucker for a dare, I took him up on it.

As the aforepromised drinks were distributed, his buddy, who looked like he walked straight out of a Scorsese film, joined us. They were drunk, but seemingly innocent...so we chose to humor them. (Read: Bad. Idea.)

While talking, we discovered that they both graduated from UT in 1993 and were business partners, but the mobster look-a-like wouldn't go into details. As we excused ourselves to our table, they begged us to meet them at The Boundry with promises of an unlimited bar tab and limo ride if we showed up. We gave a vague answer about being lucky and felt confident we'd seen the last of them...

...until they showed up at our table an hour later. (Apparently they "couldn't forget us".) Mr. Mob immediately informed my (brunette) friends that blondes were hotter and announced that he had "first dibs" to the entire bar. Which made me absolutely indignant...and must be why he chose that precise moment to take out a money clip and flip through a wad of $100 bills. After forcing down the bile in my throat, I icily informed him that he did everything BUT impress me.

Instead of having the desired effect, Mr. Mob told me he "liked 'em fiery" and proceeded to latch himself to me like a stripper to P. Diddy. He even suggested we fly to Vegas and get married so he could "give me the world". I decided to call his bluff, so I told him to go ahead and buy me a ticket. In two seconds, he'd pulled out his American Airlines card and dialed the number...and then bought two tickets (for one lonely plane ride).

He ordered a round of drinks to celebrate our "impending nuptials" and after making a snide comment to our waitress, pulled out pictures of his CHILDREN and started passing them around the table. If his arrogant behavior had pissed me off before, the thought of him being a little boy's daddy while acting like a sleazeball with young women in bars made me see RED.

I'd had enough...so I politely asked our waitress to close us all out. When she came back with the check, I peeled three bills from his money clip and told her to keep the change. My friends and I then gathered our belongings and made for the door. Amid the creepos' protests.

I honestly hope Mr. Mob showed up at the airport and waited on me. He deserved to stand there and look outwardly what he is on the inside--utterly pathetic.

I also pray that no young women fall for his flashy, arrogant ways in the future. But sadly, when Benjamins are involved, some bitches will always come running...and deserve exactly what they get when they arrive.

The Glorious Golden Road

Bittersweet October. The mellow, messy, leaf-kicking, perfect pause between the opposing miseries of summer and winter.
~Carol Bishop Hipps

I truly can't think of a better word to describe autumn than "bittersweet". The entire month of October (and oftentimes November) feels like a suspended moment in time where the world is achingly beautiful and peaceful, yet tinged with melancholy...because we know that dead-looking skies and diminishing daylight are within reach. That the golden road to winter is fleeting, yet glorious all the same.

Fall always has the same effect on me, year after year. The very moment the air turns crisp and the leaves begin their inevitable change, I ache to be outside doing cliche autumnal things. I want to take long walks down desolate country trails. I want to constantly listen to bluegrass. I want to drive to the mountains and watch the stars by campfire. I want to visit farmer's markets and bake homemade pies. I want to learn to play the banjo. I want to drink hot cider and watch the sky's sunset bleed into the very same colors as the trees which touch it.

There's something about fall that also brings out the little girl in me. A childlike excitement bubbles up at the mere sight of colorful leaves. I want to carve as many pumpkins as possible, eat candy corn and run through piles of leaves until my cheeks turn red. I get sentimental for days past of trick-or-treating with the neighborhood gang and playing Kick the Can in knee-deep leaves until our parents called us home.

At this very moment, on this perfect fall day, I'm standing paused on the blurry edge of two distinct seasons...and feel content. I hate that the long, lazy days of summer are drawing to a close. That pools have been closed up and grills put away. That fireflies have been replaced by frost-covered lawns. But at the same time, I'm breathlessly excited to revisit Thanksgiving traditions and hear cheesy Christmas music on the radio. For first snowfalls and nights by a fireplace. For scarves and mittens and old, comfortable sweaters. At this very moment, I feel...

bittersweet.