July 2006 Archives

The Honeybee asked me to do some "modeling" for her new t-shirt design company, Buzz-wear.  You can check it out at http://buzz-wear.com/ .  FYI, the top shirt says "Viva La Dance Dance Revolution." 

This just in:  PARTY AT OUR PLACE ON AUGUST 19TH FOR MY BIRTHDAY!!!

1.) Do you have a crush on somebody?  I did.  Until he fucked it up.  Is she joking?  Is she joking? 

2) Do you really dislike more than 3 people?  Not that I can think of at the moment.  This could all change when I go to the grocery later and someone grabs the last Snickers bar at the checkout stand.

3) How many houses have you lived in?  Two houses, three dorms, six apartments (one in Nashville, two in Russia, two in NYC, one here)

4) Favorite candy bar? Um, hello, Survey.  I already covered this in my checkout line anecdote above.

6) Have you ever tripped someone?  No. 

7) Least favorite school subject?  What the fuck is school? 

8) How many pairs of shoes do you own?  20?  30?

9) Do you own a Britney Spears CD?  No.  Christina, though.  Definitely Christina.

10) Have you ever thrown up in public?  Sure, sure.  I threw up in a frosty mug at Chili's, then in the bushes outside said Chili's when they kicked me out for throwing up in the frosty mug.

11) Name one thing that is always on your mind: Chocolate martinis.  And work.

12) Favorite genre of music?  Depends on whether I want to cry or dance or get all nostalgic.

13) What is your zodiac sign?  Leo

14) What time were you born?:  8:34 PM?  I think?  Mom?

15) Do you like beer?  Yes.

16) Ever made a prank phone call?:  Yes, but it was orchestrated by my best friend when we were like, 8, and I felt horrible afterwards.  Call me if you ever wanna hear the story.  It still kinda makes me cry.

17) What is the most embarrassing CD you own?  Take That. 

18) Are you sarcastic?:  Yessssssss...............

19) What are your favorite colors?:  Green, blue, purple.

20) How many watches do you own?:  None that I can find. 

21) Summer or winter?:  Summer.

23) Favorite color to wear?  Green.

24) Pepsi or Sprite?  Coffee. 

25) What color is your cell phone:  Black and gray.

26) Where is your second home?:   Kentucky

27) Have you ever slapped someone?  Um, no.

28) Have you ever had a cavity?: No. 

29) How many lamps are in your bedroom?:  Two.

30) How many video games do you own?:  None.  If I want to play something, I just go over to the Honeybee's house.

31) What was your first pet?:  When I was born, my parents had this cat named Pepper who hated me so much that he ran away.  This was before I had developed my sterling personality, mind you.  We also had a dog named Whiskers.  She was pretty awesome. 

32) Ever had braces?  Yes

33) Do looks matter?  Yes.  But they are subjective, I tell you.  I remember the first time I saw the Only Boy I've Ever Loved, and I thought, I would never go out with that guy.  Fast forward two months, and bam, I can't get him out of my mind. 

34) Do you use chapstick?   When I remember I have it.

35) Lip gloss?  See above.

36) American Eagle or Abercrombie?  Anthropologie and Urban Outfitters!!!!

37) Are you too forgiving?:  Hmmm... Not with people who aren't in my circle of trust (and there are only like five people in said circle of trust).  If anything, I probably don't forgive enough with those I don't know too well.  It's a defense mechanism.  And I'm usually right not to.  But with the five people in this world I trust, yeah, I'm forgiving.  Although I think lately they've had to be much more forgiving of me.

38) How many children do you want?  Three, if I can afford a nanny and have guild health insurance. 

39) Do you own something from Hot Topic?:  No. 

40) Favorite breakfast meal?  Eggs Benedict, orange juice, and coffee.

41) Do you own a gun?:  No.

42) Ever thought you were in love?:  Once.

43) When was the last time you cried?:  I can't remember.  But I'm sure I cried some time in the past week, when there was a Celine Dion song on the radio or something.

44) What did you do 3 nights ago?  Dinner with Oscar Nom.

45) Olive Garden?:  I haven't been there in years...

46) Have you ever called your teacher mommy?:  No.  Mom is my mommy.  No one else.

47) Have you ever been in a castle?:  Sure, sure.  My favorite is in the Ukraine, right on this cliff at the edge of the Black Sea. 

48) Nicknames?: M.A.

50) Ever been to Kentucky?:  God, Survey, sometimes I think you're not listening to me.  Get a clue.  It's only my second home!!!

51) Do you own something from Banana Republic?:  Yes, courtesy of the bosses.

52) Are you thinking about somebody right now?:  Myself.

53) Ever called somebody Boo?  No.

54) Do you smoke weed?:  Nope.  Never have.  Does that make me a loser?  Probably.  Although I'd be a winner in an after-school special.

55) Do you own a diamond ring?  I think I own one with tiny diamonds in it. 

57) Do you dye your hair?:  Used to.

58) Does anyone have a crush on you?:  Oh, I hope so!

59) What year were you born?: 1980

60) What were you doing in May of 94?:  Finishing my freshman year of high school.  For anything more specific, I'd have to consult my journal from that year, which, sadly, is back in my second home (say it with me, Survey) Kentucky.

61) Do you own a Backstreet Boys CD?: 'N Sync.

62) McDonalds or Wendys?  McDonald's.  McDonald's breakfast. 

63) Do you like yourself?:  Pretty much.

64) Are you closer to your momma or father?:   Not answering this one. 

65) Favorite physical feature of the preferred sex?:  Their lying eyes.

67) Have you ever eaten paste?:  Toothpaste, maybe.

68) Do you own a webcam?:  No.

70) Ever broke a bone?  No.

72) Do you chat on AIM often?:  Every day for work.

73) Pringles or Lays?:  Cheddar and sour cream Baked Ruffles.

76) Full House or The Brady Bunch?:  Just the Ten of Us.

77) Do you like your high school guidance counselor?:  He started calling me a Commodork when I decided to go to Vandy.  So yeah, I liked him. 

78) Has anyone ever called you gay?  I don't think so. 

79) Do you have a birth mark?:  Yes.  On my right shoulder. 

80) Do you own a car?:  Yes!  Finally!

81) Can you cook?:  Yes.  Southern food. 

82) 3 things that annoy you: 

Bill Paxton

Bill Paxton

Bill Paxton

83) Do you text message often?  Never!!!  I hate text messaging.  How accessible do you want me to be?  Fight the Machine, says I.

84) Money or love?  I'd rather have love, with enough money to treat ourselves to McDonald's breakfast when things get rough.

85) Do you have any scars?:  None that I can remember. 

86) What do you really want right now?:  For my laundry to be done.

87) Do you enjoy scary movies?: They're my fave!!!

88) Relationships or one night stands?  With my trust issues running rampant, I'm definitely a relationship kind of gal.  Until the boy pisses me off. 

89) Big Red or Juicy Fruit?: Wrigley Green Apple.

90) Do you enjoy greasy food?:  Um, duh... 

91) Have you seen all the Rocky movies?:  Only the first one.  But it kicks ass.

92) Do you own a box of crayons?:  No. 

93) Ever slipped and fallen in a public place?:  Several million times.

94) Who was the last person that said they loved you?:  Mom?  One of our writing producers on PD?  The Fiery Redhead?

95) Who was the last person that made you mad?  Someone who is an idiot. 

96) Who was the last person that made you cry?  Same someone who is an idiot.

97) Who was the last person that made you laugh?  The Honeybee, when she said she was so mad she had teapots coming out of her ears (she meant to say steam).

98) Who was the last person that you fell for?  Eh... not telling.

99) Who was the last person that instant messaged you?  Ex-Date Boy. 

100) Who was the last person that called you?  Oscar Nom.

I had an as-per-usual lovely dinner with Oscar Nom last night at Casa Del Mar.  Granted, work got so hectic that I wasn't able to meet up with him until after 9, but he was charming nonetheless.  I had fooled myself into thinking I would be able to leave early to meet him.  However, you know shit's going down when the bosses' agent is desperately trying to get ahold of them as his wife is giving birth to their child in the next room.  I had also fooled myself into thinking that, if I only had two glasses of champagne and got in by midnight, I would be able to roll out of bed with any sense of purpose this morning.  Wrong again.  When will I learn that I'm not twelve anymore? 

 

 

To All My Friends Currently Taking the Bar Exam:

IT'S THE LAST DAY!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! (I think)

Love,

Melissa

Okay, I take that back.  I was having a shitty day until this nice boy at the office walked up to my desk and placed a cup of fresh coffee on it, complete with my choice of Coffee-mates, two sugars, a spoon, and a napkin. 

I am having what is hands-down the funniest shitty day ever. 

H-Berts called me into his office last night.  I've worked at places where this could be a very bad sign.  When H-Berts and/or G-Money call me in, however, I am usually required to a.) do a shot of high-end vodka that I could never afford were I to venture outside the confines of the office mini-fridge; b.)  belt out the lyrics to a past Brittney Spears hit (as was the case today, when a special request was made for "Lucky"); or c.) watch an episode of "Family Guy." 

But last night was different, because last night H-Berts told me he had read my "O.C." spec, and he was very impressed and wanted to go over it with me.  And go over it we did.  He took the time to tell me every single thing he thought was funny, page by page, and he only had two tiny notes.  "And once you finish those, we'll read your pilot next."  Um, score one for me, right guys?  I didn't expect them to want to read anything else, they're so busy.  But this is most definitely good news. 

I topped the evening off with my pal the New York Filmmaker.  He is a possible directorial candidate for my short, so he wanted to talk about the script.  I know it would be in good hands with him; I just need to get it to a place where it's ready to be shot.  But that's a few drafts away, I'm thinking...

Also, Oscar Nom is back in town.  Yay!!!

 

And the agent saga continues...

Saturday afternoon I headed over to Ballsy Gal's for a barbecue.  Or, at least, what passes for a barbecue in L.A. (aka hamburgers and hot dogs - not that I have a problem with either of those choices).  Ballsy Gal cornered me immediately to ask what was going on with the Faux Agents.

Me:  Well, I think they're dragging their heels a bit.  Not making their intentions clear. 

Ballsy Gal:  That is bullshit.  What are we, in middle school?

Me:  Always.

Ballsy Gal:  I don't like it.  Not one bit.  I'm sending you to my agent.

And guess who her agent happens to be?  That's right.  It's the Unnamed Asshole (the Irish Asian's words, not mine) from the Bosses' agency.  And guess whose main competition he happens to be?  That's right.  The Faux Agents.  This could get interesting... Hollywood males are no different from males in any other part of the country.  They never want anyone until someone else does. 

Business being disposed of, Ballsy Gal proceeded to fawn over the artichoke dip I'd made, and then we turned to our next favorite subject:  boys.  I know, I know... we're two young professionals trying to make it in a tough industry, but put us in a room together for longer than fifteen minutes and we'll immediately switch gears from writing to recipes to lust, love, or any combination of the two.  Ballsy Gal is from Kansas, see, and she was living with her boyfriend of three years when she went back home for a visit.  That's where she met a boy from high school who knocked her socks off.  It wasn't anything stated, and nothing happened, but she says she knew as soon as she'd exchanged two words with Homeboy that she had to come back here and dump her boyfriend.  Fast forward a year, a few trips home, and Ballsy Gal's Homeboy is finally moving out here, and I finally got to meet him, and, just like her, he is absolutely lovely.  I find that kind of courage amazing - I think I have it, in that I don't tend to be scared of normal things.  Like, it's no problem for me to pack up and move across the country in four days (that's how I moved out here, after all, praying that the Tennis Pro had gotten my email that I needed to live with him for a while), but stick me on Web MD and I'll turn into a quaking pit of despair.  With E boli.  And don't even get me started on elevators... or gas station bathrooms with flimsy locks.  I'm shuddering just thinking about it.  I suppose courage is all relative.  But what's life without naively taking the big risks?   

Another Note to Self: 

Taking two Tylenol PM capsules at four in the morning is not the way to get your day started right. 

That being said, I feel like death, with a mood to match.  And I'm okay with that.  If anyone wants to try and cheer me up, now would be the time.  Hint, hint... 

Without further ado, I present the following email from the Faux Agent:

From:  Faux Agent

To:  Mascriv

Re:  You never called me back...

wtf?

Signed,

Faux Agent

I laughed out loud when I read it, then picked up the phone and called him immediately.  How many times have you wanted to send THAT email but couldn't?

Last night found me and the Irish Asian at my new favorite bar:  The Hideout in Malibu.  Even though it was karaoke night, and people weren't belting out classic karaoke tunes, like Girls Just Wanna Have Fun (in fact, I think The Hideout should rename Tuesday "Somber Karaoke Night," since the selections were anything but upbeat - Whiter Shade of Pale, Leather & Lace, etc.), I had a delightful time.  Maybe it was the chocolate martini I convinced the bartender to make for me (it wasn't on the menu and ended up tasting like an alcohol-soaked Frosty - delectable!!!), maybe it was sitting outside under the heat lamps and being able to hear the ocean only a hundred feet away, maybe it was just because I actually felt relaxed for the first time since returning to Los Angeles.  That is, until the Irish Asian brought up one of the Faux Agents, who had called me Monday to tell me he loved my latest script, it was the best thing I'd written, blah, blah, blah.  Okay, not blah, blah, blah, it was lovely to hear that, but if it's so great, then offer to rep me!  And now I'm getting ahead of myself... the Irish Asian had the following to say:

IA:  So, Faux Agent says he called you and you haven't called him back.

Me:  Oh, fuck.  I meant to do that. 

IA:  Says your script kicks ass and now you're too good to call him back.

Me:  Uh-huh. 

At this point, I am feeling pretty guilty.  People who can't return phone calls are pretty goddamn lousy, in my opinion. 

IA:  Says you're probably meeting with other agents, now that you're too good for him.

And here's where I start with the faux-naivete.  I tend to blush when I'm drinking, but the Irish Asian took that for hitting a nerve.

IA:  So you are meeting with other agents?

Me:  Well....

IA:  Who?  Is it that asshole at Unnamed Agency where the bosses are repped?

Me:  It's really too early to talk about it.  Hey, is this Love Shack?

IA:  It's Safety Dance.  Don't change the subject.

And so begins the agent dance, which is anything but safe...

The Honeybee and I have several longstanding traditions.  Some examples include playing the Jurassic Park game at Chuck E. Cheese, re-watching and reciting Brain Donors, and, of course, visiting psychics.  This last tradition was started during a road trip to Memphis.  The psychic we went to on Beale Street seemed extremely bored and detached when we walked through the door (I think she was reading an Us magazine or a crystal ball or some other such filth), but both of our readings were very specific and enjoyable. 

Saturday night, I suggested we continue said tradition by paying a visit to an L.A. psychic.  With stomachs and hearts full, we ventured deep into the ghetto of Westwood and found a storefront that simply stated "Readings by Rose," and the sign on the door flickered "Open."  We tried said door.  Locked.  We knocked on said door.  No answer. 

"I guess she's off for the night," I mused.

"But didn't she know we would be coming by?"  The Honeybee replied.

After some bickering, I finally sucked it up and called the number on the sign.  A woman picked up, and I immediately hit "End" on my cell. 

"What'd you do that for?"  The Honeybee asked.

"Because she picked up!"

"Wasn't that the point of calling her?" 

I, of course, had no response.  Truth is, I got freaked out because we could see her phone resting on a small side table in the shop.  But no one came to pick it up, yet here was this woman on the other end of the line... granted, it could have been a cell phone, but I was in no mood for Rose and her trickery.  She'd already killed my post-Mexican-food buzz. 

So we tried again, this time in Culver City.  The storefront was nicer, more like a house actually, and all appeared to be well until we got to the door.  Slipped under the knocker was a handwritten note:

Where my money?  You owe me, and I come to collect.

And... no, thank you.  Fast forward to a little joint right off the PCH, no parking, and an open sign that really meant closed.  We took Santa Monica back east and FINALLY hit another psychic venue.  This one was "Readings by Dorothy," and the Honeybee and I were so determined to have our palms read that we disregarded the man with laptop and headphones sitting in his SUV, which was parked right outside the establishment. 

While the Honeybee was having her palm read, I made a mad dash for the 711 and the cash machine - I may be stupid enough to consult a psychic, but I'm not stupid enough to give said psychic my credit card info.  On my way back (I was gone three minutes, tops), I got a call from the Honeybee - "The reading lasted less than a minute." 

Well, I certainly wasn't going to pay $25 for that!  So what have we learned?  That $25 can be better spent on margaritas or Chuck E. Cheese, and that psychics named Dorothy can suck it. 

Meanwhile, I still have no clue what the future holds for me.  Sigh...

I like to fuck with the minds of other people.  This can involve specifying a drive-thru order as "to go," or... well, okay, that is the extent of my mind-fuckery.  Or at least it was.  Until today.  See, if you know about the show I'm currently working on, you know it has to do with weddings.  So much so, in fact, that, as the writers' assistant, I am currently researching a stack of about twenty wedding books.  I have to read them all, outline them, and make neat little research binders for our writing staff.  Isn't that fun?  you might ask, to which I would reply, No, absolutely not, I'm getting a headache thinking about seating charts (in this one wedding book I'm reading, the aunt and her ex-husband don't get along) and can't seem to shake this craving for sugary white cake.  To top it all off, everyone who walks by my desk and doesn't realize that we work in TELEVISION, where things are MADE UP, has to slow down, and, hands on hips, coo at me, "So when's the big dayyyyyyyyyyy?"  As of today, I had officially had enough.  The last man who came up to me asked who the lucky guy was, and I, with a straight face mind you, replied, "Oh, this guy I had a great first date with last night.  I figure it's never too soon to start planning!"  And the guy slowly backed away, leaving me to my reading and low blood sugar.  Which is just the way I like it.

      

An Open Letter to the Honeybee:

For the last time, NO I WILL NOT DRIVE TO THE VALLEY TO WATCH THE BUTTERFLY EFFECT WITH YOU!!!!  Haven't I suffered enough in my life? 

Hugs (and not butterfly kisses),

M

Friday during lunch with my dad and his boss, I get a call from Ex-Boss.  It goes a little something like this:

Ex-Boss:  Please don't be creeped out or anything, but I'm driving by your house right now, and I think your car's parked in a tow-away zone. 

Instead of being creeped out, I'm touched, as Ex-Boss always seems to be looking out for me.  He's the kind of guy who, when I worked for him and was, say, getting my car repaired, would insist on speaking to the mechanic to make sure I wasn't getting ripped off.  Now that I think about it, maybe he's not concerned about me.  Maybe he's only concerned about my car... Regardless, his call prompts me to call the Designated Driver in a frenzy.  She assures me the car has been moved and the crisis is averted.  She's good at that whole crisis-aversion thing.

Friday evening, I venture to Louisville to meet up with the Shopaholic, Spierce, and the Dauditor, who is having a last-day-of-work-before-she-goes-to-law-school party at her boss's house.  The Shopaholic tells me that my parents' phone called her cell phone and left her a message that was basically a conversation between me and my mom about whether we should take a walk or take a nap.  The whole thing creeps me out - I don't want anyone overhearing some of the shit I lob into my mom's court.  Ah, well, such is the life of a conspiracy theorist. 

Saturday, Mom and I go shopping for the brunch on Sunday, then the Entrepreneur and I go see Superman.  I totally loved it!  The one glitch was the evil usher, who didn't buy my explanation that the water bottle I tried to sneak in under my shirt was actually a tumor.  The Entrepreneur kept telling me I was gonna get caught, but I thought I'd be in the clear after a toss of my hair and a bat of my eyelashes.  I was wrong.  Whatever happened to getting by on your looks?  Plus, it was dark in that theater - I'm sure that usher couldn't see any of my flaws. 

Sunday we have the entire crew over for brunch.  The Dauditor tracks me down to ask me why I didn't call her back yesterday (she'd called to thank me for making the trek to Louisville). 

The Dauditor:  Did you get my message yesterday?

Me:  Yes.

The Dauditor:  And you just didn't call me back cause you're an uppity bitch?

Me:  Yes.

The afternoon is both happy and sad, as I say goodbye to people.  I know I'll see them again soon, but I hate the hardening of the heart that has to happen at this stage in the game.  It's no fun.  Sometimes I feel like I do have to just cut off my emotions, but it's been particularly difficult this time around, if not impossible.  But that's not necessarily bad, right?      

 

 

Monday morning is a whirl of activity as I get acclimated to my new time zone, ironed pillowcases (Dad always irons my pillowcases before I come home), and the new dog.  Elvis is a blast of energy... think Whitney Houston on crack.  Oh, wait... Too soon?  Mom and I take him for a walk (well, she does - I am too busy jogging to the Go soundtrack, which I have recently uploaded to my iPod), then we're off to the grocery and to pick up my rental car.  All too soon, the sun is setting, and I'm headed down to the Dragon - the knuckleheads at the Brick Alley failed to show up for their health inspection, thereby denying me a healthy dose of trivia night, self-loathing for not following sports, and a drinking binge brought on by sore loserishness.  Instead, the Entrepreneur beats me at darts, then calls me out for being a control freak and a workaholic.  I must have been in rare form ("rare form" is the term my mom deems appropriate when I am being an absolute and total bitch - it's her euphemism, so to speak - it also applies when I am drunk off my ass) to give such clarity.  Or maybe he's just intuitive.

I spend most of Tuesday on the couch watching Monk (look, it's research, okay?  I told the Faux Agents I'd have a spec ready for them this fall).  The Entrepreneur calls, and I somehow convince him to come pick me up and take me to Chlydia's to watch fireworks.  Which we do.  Go to Chlydia's that is.  But, and please see her blog for details ( www.kylydia.blogspot.com ), it was a bit of a bust.  No worries.  I was too busy counting the cracks in the sidewalk - Monk wore off on me, you see.  Honestly, I could give a rat's ass about fireworks when I'm surrounded by lovely people.  And if you know me at all, you know there aren't many people I do consider lovely, so put that in your crack pipe and smoke it, Whitney.  Again... too soon?

Wednesday, Wednesday, what happened?  Shopping with Mom, a call from the Shopaholic while shopping with Mom (it's like her brain has a radar for whenever one of her friends is using plastic to buy a snazzy new pair of heels), then some much-called-for bitch-slapping.  I don't like having to bitch-slap you, people, but if you ask for it, I can't help it.  I have spent the majority of the past month on the phone with Hollywood agents, so if you wanna cross me, bring it.  I know who I am, I know how I feel, and gone are the days of faux hormone-induced weakness. 

Moving on... Thursday... Farrah, Farrah's Fiance, and the Entrepreneur all come out for dinner.  I, for one, have a lovely time - I'm a sucker for people coming to visit me, you see (note to anyone who cares... I am also a sucker for mixed CDs, sunflowers, Arrested Development - the group and the show, rodeos, a popcorn and Reese's Pieces combo, and Sarah Polley - now where were we?).  Ah, yes.  So Farrah has tracked me down far and wide, from NYC to L.A. to Holt Lane.  She did miss Russia, but we shall forgive her for that.  And I'm sorry, but the rest of this evening will have to be omitted due to adult content.  Fun adult content.  Not scary David Lynch adult content.

To be continued...

      

The Honeybee has accused me of having, and I quote, "the most boring blog ever.  All you ever write about is car insurance and smog certification."  To which I say, I might be boring, but at least I'm a legit Californian!  Ooohhh... BURN!!!  Now, look, there are things I could write about my trip home that would blow your collective minds, that would re-define the terms excitement, joy, and comfort, but I've never been one to brag about my life (OMG, my OCD ulcer is hurting I'm laughing so hard at that little white lie).  Therefore, the boring, the mundane, and the superficial will indeed persist here at xanga.com/mascriv.

The Flight Home:  As per usual, I am seated next to a young hooligan who thinks the rules of turning off and stowing all portable electronic devices do not apply to him.  I would have boxed his ears a bit and alerted Homeland Security had said device not been blaring Promiscuous.  I'm happy to die in a plane crash as long as I am allowed to sing along... Promiscuous Girl...you're teasin' me/ I know what I want, and I got what you need.  Indeed you do, my friend, indeed you do. 

Mom and Dad pick me up at the airport.  My mother takes one look at me and knows, in her keen way, that I pretty much haven't eaten all week (Look, I'm busy, I swear!).  So once we get to Moonlight in Owensboro, she's poured two Heinekens down my throat before my aunt and uncle have time to show up.  Then it's buffet time.  Please see my winter entry regarding Souplantation (aka the place at which I'd like to be proposed to) for my rave review of the buffet concept.  After all, I am the queen of keeping my options open (again, laughter, laughter, laughter, and... silence).

The morning brings a trip to the Baptist church with my bipolar grandfather and hip grandmother.  Mom is seething the whole time (for both of us, I think, Southern Baptist is likened to judgment, and judgment, if we are any judges, is bad), and Dad is singing at the top of his lungs.  My stomach is growling - apparently, that salad, corn bread, four types of meat, mashed potatoes, macaroni and cheese, green beans, and two slices of pie were not enough to fill me up.  So we go to another barbecue buffet after church, and I swear, I ate the exact same things, except this one had stuffing!!!  With lard-ridden gravy!!!  And peanut butter pie!!!

Okay, now I've made myself hungry.  The Designated Driver just called with the following statement about what she was cooking for dinner:

Designated Driver:  Okay, I'm going to go pull out some sausages--

Me:  -- That's what he said.

And the perverted 12-year-old saga will continue tomorrow.  Night, night!   

 

I had a gaggingly inappropriate dream last night.  I won't go into details, but let's just say it involved babies, Salvation Army shopping, and doing the deed with someone I would not do the deed with if he were tartar sauce and I were hush puppies.  Wait... is that gross?  I don't even know.  Someone must keep me from eating Italian food after 8 PM. 

But I'm sure you're all wanting to hear about the trip home... and, I'm sorry, but you'll have to wait until tomorrow.  Suffice it to say, it was wonderful, exhausting, heartfelt, genuine, comforting, terrifying, and all those other emotions that tend to come into play when you're with people you care about.  So for tonight, suck on that, as it were.