(And, um, thanks for pretending that this is different from any other day.)

As most of you know, B and I made our way to a destination wedding this weekend. The desination being Bumfuck, Virgina.

(I keed, I keed. It was in Lexington, at Washington & Lee University, and I was actually quite enamored with the town- it reminded me of a smaller Chapel Hill. Positively quaint, in a word or two.)

So, yeah, once we got there, it was delightful.

Catch that? Em-fah-sis on “ONCE WE GOT THERE.”

Our plan looked good on paper. B is a groomsman, and needs to be at rehearsal at 5pm. We take half days and leave at noon, meet at Reagan to pick up the rental car, and hopefully beat the weekend traffic out of the city.

Easy peasy puddin pie, right?

Yeah. Not so much.

At approximately 11:45, my office blows up with requests. Requests that I cannot put off til Monday because it just so happens that I work at a Very Important Place (thank you, thank you), and I am still relatively new and in the “trying to prove myself” phase. Read: I am a chump.

Meanwhile, my cell phone is ringing off the hook as B discovers that A) it is taking him forever to get through the car rental place line so I should just metro out to Ballston and meet him there, B) the car rental he non-refundably purchased through Priceline will now not give him a car without an airline ticket, C) No, really, they actually won’t, so I need to find a car rental nearby and make it happen (keep in mind I haven’t driven a car in two years and don’t have insurance of any kind), D) Okay, he found a different service who will give him a car, so back to the metro to Ballston plan. (Did your head just asplode??? Cause MINE DID.)

And the whole time, my ass is being handed to me at work with request after request… WHILE I’m trying to get out the door with my entirely overpacked and too-heavy suitcase. It’s how I do. (“How” being foolish.)

After finally escaping and schlepping myself around town and the metro, we get into our sweet little Hyundai rental. It is after 1 now and we have approximately 3.5 hours to make the alleged 3 hour drive, so we kick the Elantra into high gear… (by the way, an Elantra in high gear = oxymoron).

And promptly spend an hour in bumper to bumper traffic. Not even endless MJ on the radio could make us feel better.

Finally free of the clusterfuck, we haul ass to Lexington, and I plug the address he has written down that is not the hotel into the GPS, assuming it is the site of the rehearsal.

We get there at 4:56…

And realize it is the country club, where the RECEPTION will be held in about three hours.

Thanks to Bernadette, my BBerry (Bernie for short), we find the address for “Lee Chapel” and make it across town in five minutes flat, showing up at 5:01, two steps behind the bride. We are sweaty and smelly in our wrinkled work clothes… but more importantly, we are a whole lotta WIN.

We make it through the rehearsal and dash to the hotel to shower and change before the dinner. B rips open his suitcase to locate one of the TWO brand spankin new white shirts he has brought. He pulls out shirt 1…

To find it covered with shoe polish. Shiny shoes FAIL.

Annoyed but not yet beaten, he digs for shirt 2… at which point, he realizes it requires cufflinks.

Which, of course, he did not bring.

“It’s okay,” I said. “We’ll use the crappy pins that came with it, and just wear your jacket… and, yanno, try not to stab yourself when they’re taking pictures. You don’t wanna flash an O face that will be in their wedding album forever.”

Fresh from a two-second shower, I reach for my $15 yet-super-cute Forever 21 cocktail dress, tug it on, and turn to be zippered.

Halfway up, the zipper jams. The cloth is being eaten by the teeth and there is no Up, no Down, no Passing Go and Collecting $200. This. Shit. Is. STUCK.

I twisted. He yanked. We prayed. I made a sacrifice of our hotel room toiletries to the Goddess of cheap dresses. Nothing doing.

Fifteen minutes later, both of our index fingers were blistered and bloody, and he ripped the goddamn thing off me [insert skanky hotel sex here, if we'd had time] and I pulled on a Paris Hilton pink J Crew sundress that all the girls at the wedding probably A) own and B) wear to the BEACH, not, yanno, REHEARSAL DINNERS.

Whatevski. Wine- I mean, the blood of Christ (it was a SUPER religious wedding- the Mother of the Bride actually converted me to Quakerism, I think. I’ll have to check my pamphlets) fixes all, no?

Nevertheless, as soon as we actually MADE it to the dinner, the rest of the weekend was a blast. Despite the fact that I have never, ever seen so much seersucker/bowties/Lilly dresses in my life, everyone was just freaking delightful and I couldn’t have asked for a more fun crowd of complete strangers to hang out with.

The highlight of the actual wedding for me, I have to say, was far and away the best man’s speech. The groom’s twin brother is the kind of guy you take one look at, and decide that A) He is a CHARACTER, and B) It is my life goal to be that guy’s best friend by the end of the night. It may be because I was a little tipsy, but this made me laugh so hard I almost peed a little bit. And, he was kind enough to provide me with a copy of it for your amusement… I only wish you could see him deliver it, but this shall have to do.

Best Man’s Toast

Twins have a special bond.

Sometimes we’re best friends.

Sometimes we’re mortal enemies.

But we are always twins and mostly, best friends.

Let me tell you a story.

When we were eight, our parents shipped us off to summer camp for two weeks. The first night, I was too scared to get out of my sleeping bag and I wound up peeing in my bunk.

I slept in that wet sleeping bag for the next two nights.

Eventually, I couldn’t stand it anymore, so I crawled into my brother’s sleeping bag with him. He didn’t object, and so we wound up sleeping together for the rest of the two weeks.

The thing is, the other kids in the cabin began calling us “homosechuals”…

We didn’t know what that meant, so we asked our parents when they picked us up, and they told us…

We were surprised.

Now I’ve gotten over my fear of the dark, and he has chosen someone else with whom to share his sleeping bag.

To my brother and his bride, I love you both and I wish
you the best that life has to offer.

Beautiful, no? It’s okay, I know you’re chopping onions right now. Let it out.

The other highlight of my weekend?

Happy freaking Monday, y’all… at least we have Friday off! Look, it’s Tuesday already! Magic!

(Btw, ladeez, don’t forget to enter my Hello Kitty vibrator giveaway if you haven’t yet! Thru 11:59 PM tomorrow.)

Mama said share.

We all know I am not your average girl.

I am far, far too weird for that.

But looking around at the crowd of almost 20 people I somehow managed to get to the Royal Palace (read: one of the dirtiest strip clubs in D.C.) all the way from our innocent (enough) happy hour in Adams Morgan, I had to wonder.

Is it me?

You see, I end up at strip clubs… a lot. “A lot” being every couple months or so. And every single time, I have someone with me who’s Never Been.

I, apparently, have an affinity for taking their Strip Club V-Cards. And Friday? I took at least five. (Six? Seven?)

And it’s not that I’m ashamed or anything- if anything, I’m proud every time I manage to get a newbie out to see their first dancers. Argue with me if you want, but I think a few hours at a titty bar can be a great time… and it’s guaranteed to be a good story.

I’m sorry, but boobs? Are fun. Even if you don’t swing that way (and I don’t… despite my Facebook that says Maxie and I are engaged. But SO WHAT IF I DID), they’re called ‘funbags’ for a reason, people.

But still, this is one of my stranger habits, I think. Maybe it’s because I had such a great experience when my co-bartenders in Chapel Thrill took MY strip club V-card… the infamous porn star Jenna Haze (NSFW!) was in town for a one night show at the actually-quite-classy Dollhouse in Raleigh, and of course all the guys were hellbent on going.

And I’m not one to turn down a challenge.

Jenna put on a fabulous show- of course it helped that the club is insanely nice, and the boys were pouring booze down us girls’ throats in a desperate attempt to see us do something we’d regret.

Unfortunately for them, we all behaved ourselves, but Miss Haze WAS kind enough to take a risqué picture with us (NSFW! Like, at ALL!), and overall, it was a blast.

So, I’m not sure where this impulse comes from. I suspect it has something to do with the twisted enjoyment I take in pushing others outside of their comfort zones (no surprise there).

And anyway, no one’s complained yet…

Mama said share.

How was your weekend?

Mine was like this. (NSFW.)

Well, okay, not exactly. That might have been last March, when Carolina beat Dook. (By the way, THAT is what Franklin Street looks like when it happens, which is about 1/1000000th of what it looks like when we win the National Championship. I KNOW. I WAS THERE.) Also, sorry for the expletive. We all know I have the mouth of a sailor.

Anyhoosits, while I had a blast with my sweet Carolina girls, the six hour train ride home yesterday was somehow not quite as much fun as the rest of the weekend. Maybe it was the two whore children sitting in front of me with their unattentive mother, that screamed and shouted and cried the whole way home. Maybe it was the endless cell phone calls, during which each person talked as though the receiving end involved their grandmother, in Siberia… who’s been dead for twelve years. Maybe it was the teenager across the way who apparently had forgotten her headphones, and so decided to blast bad-quality (like, staticky, not content-y) hip hop for the whole car’s musical enjoyment.

Maybe I was a little hungover. Whatever. The point is, I asked B if he could take a 5 and go get a vasectomy today.

At least we were in it together. There’s been so many times when I rode the train alone, and inevitably get caught talking to someone’s grandmother (what is it with me and grandmothers?) about their wee ones and soccer teams and have I asked Jesus Christ our Savior into my heart lately. This is the point when I have to decide whether to tell them I am an atheist, and hopefully they will leave the heathen alone for the rest of the ride, but you run the risk of them trying to “save your soul” until you throw up on their sweater. Just a little bit, to get your point across.

I usually try to just cut out the middle man.

Think about that.

Happy Monday, biatches. God, I wish I was on my couch.

Mama said share.

One of my very, very lovely Carolina girls is throwing a birthday bash of “I’m Turning 29 Again” proportions. So right now, B and I are on a train,James Taylor style. Because we’ve seen fire, and we’ve seen rain. Or something like that. Moving on…

SOOOOO, yeah, today is going to be a light and airy Friday post, so yousall don’t have to think too hard. Last week, one of my favorite chicas in the blogosphere, Kate over at Punch It In! posted a very cute lil game… and it goes like this:

If you want to participate, leave a comment on this post and I will assign you a letter. You then write about 10 things you love that begin with your assigned letter and post them on your blog. When people comment on your posted list, you give them a letter and the chain continues on and on.

Now I ain’t really (gearing up for The Cack here) a fan of chains, but her post was adoramable and it had “EASY FRIDAY POST” written all over it, so I asked for a letter, requesting that it not be X (xylophones are so out right now), and she was kind enough to give me…

The letter N! Which is apparently purple. And male. These guys said so:

So, innerwebs, here you have it…

Ten Things I Love, inspired by the letter N.

1. North Carolina, aka The Cack. Given my current destination, it had to be said. Although I had my doubts when I first got down south to the dirty dirty, I am now and will always be a “sweet Carolina girl”… Masshole or no.

2. Narwhals, which is also my way of saying everything FUGLY. But you already knew that…

3. Neil Diamond for giving us the song Sweet Caroline, and by association, the Bahstun Red Sawx. As evidenced by the Best Present Ever.

4. Nora Jones. That girl’s voice does THINGS to me.

5. Nice, France- well, southern France, in general. Actually, traveling in general. Anywhere NEW, where I haven’t been before. 161 cities in 11 countries, and counting.

6. Noms. This is the best way I could think of to say EATING with the letter N. I love food, preferably served with friends and booze in a cozy setting. Yes please.

7. Nekkid. As in being. You get it. No videos in existence necessary.

8. Naughty men, like Don Draper.

9. NOTHING. As in, doing it. I am a huge freaking fan, no lie.

10. N-E thing having to do with Arrested Development or Sunny in Philadelphia. (I know, I cheated, but I love them that much.) To make up for it, here’s a clip about the fantastic musical, THE NIGHTMAN COMETH…

Do you have a guy who does Cat Eyes? I’M ON IT.

Alright, ladies and germs. If you’d like to get in on this, leave a comment and I’ll send you your very own letter, or maybe Anderson will stop oggling Obama for a while and deliver a personal message.

Not bloody likely.

Happy weekend, lovers!

Mama said share.

Mama said share.

If you haven’t been following along, here are Parts 1 and 2 of my Valentine’s Day mischief and mayhem, from a time in my life when (straight) boys were disposable, tequila and I were still tight like that, and I rarely wore panties*.

When we left off yesterday, I was unabashedly picking at my fallen soldier of a burrito on the main street of a college town (read: has seen more puke and urine than a a Britney Spears bodyguard). What can I say? I’m a classy lady.

After Thomas wrestled the spoiled TexMex from my grubby little hands (and pacified my wrath with half of his own), we once again set out on the very, very long trek home. I don’t think we would have made it across Franklin Street if it’d been in any other town- thank goodness, in Chapel Hill people are on the lookout for plastered dumb bitches tottering across the strip in four inch heels. It’s to be expected when all of the sorostitute- I mean sorority- houses are just a block or two away, after all.

Once across the street, we had only a couple hundred yards to go in order to get my drunk ass into bed. It should have been easy. It should have taken five minutes, tops. It should have been a simple case of dragging me down the sidewalk and knocking on my sorority house’s door (and then running away- I’m somebody else’s problem now!).

Come on, now. Y’all know me better than that.

I don’t know how it happened. To this day, I still can’t see how it’s possible. But it’s true.

I fell… (wait for it…)

into a ditch.

It couldn’t have been more than five feet deep, a simple dip in the ground between properties. We weren’t anywhere near it. But I managed to fall in, and I couldn’t get out. Thomas was laughing so hard that he was weakened, and when he tried to hoist me out…

I pulled him in too.

A small crowd gathered, gaping at us in awe as we scrambled, trying to get out of the veritable divot in the grass… and failing. Just when Thomas would get a hand or a foot up, I’d accidentally pull him back in. I have no idea how long this dog and pony show went on before someone actually took pity and helped us out, and I really can’t blame them. We must have looked absolutely redonculous… kind of like this.

Somehow, some way, a brave soul did eventually help us out, and we made it home without further incident. Unless I did something else so unspeakably horrible and humiliating he couldn’t bear to tell me about it, which is entirely possible. (And let’s just leave well enough alone, eh?)

Once in bed with the inevitable bucket beside me, I (predictably) passed. the eff. OUT. However, the retardulosity does not end there.

When I went to sleep, I was (obviously) wearing the clothes I went out in, shoes and all.

I woke up at 7am, to discover that I had somehow managed to change into a large T-shirt, and ONLY a large T-shirt. I mentally shrugged and went back to sleep.

At 10am, I woke up to find that I was wearing only a pair of Carolina gym shorts.

I said it before and I’ll say it again: I? Am one classy lady.

Trust.

*Actually, I guess some things never change. What? It’s TMI Thursday, apparently. Get with it.

Mama said share.

Recap from yesterday: My college sweetheart (my GBF) and I took lots of shots of tequila on Valentine’s Day and humiliated each other. (Read: I humiliated both of us.) Satisfied that it would be a solid month before we could show our faces in Top of the Hill (one of our favorite bars), we make a dramatic exit… at which point I decide to take a nap on the landing of the stairs, rather than walk down them. In my defense, they were very long and steppy.

Thomas, his mouth agape with horror (or perhaps belly-shaking laughter), started badgering me and being all, “Omigod! LiLu! You cannot go to sleep here!” Eventually, he managed to scrape my rag-doll self off the (not exactly sanitary) landing of Top O’s stairwell, and I begrudgingly agreed to traverse the three flights down. Even wearing sneakers, I believe I fell an average of 2.5 times per staircase (the .5 being when Thomas was able to catch me, despite his slowed and drunkety reflexes). In keeping with the theme of the night, there was much giggling, face-planting, and unsuccessful sleep attempts.

Finally on the ground, we faced the seemingly endless half a mile walk home. I was, to say the least, a tidbit wobbly. Somehow (perhaps because he knows me), Thomas had the presence of mind to zip my purse closed, which came in handy when I chucked it into the middle of the street for absolutely no reason at all. Somewhat annoyed with me at this point (so self-absorbed, right??), Thomas retrieved my purse and continued supporting my drunk and stumbley ass down Franklin Street. Suddenly, one of Chapel Hill’s Finest was walking towards us, protecting and serving handing out underage drinking tickets like they were cookies at Christmas.

Realizing the coppa would be all too happy to snag some belligerent twat for D&D, Thomas abruptly tried to shake my impersonation of some Tyra Banks ANTM “broken down doll” pose

and perhaps even try to walk STRAIGHT for oh, 30 seconds. You know, go nuts.

“Dear god Lilu,” he hissed. “For the LOVE, please just try to make it ten steps without falling down! There’s a cop right in front of us!”

“Shhhrif you wannnna gebluff,” I astutely replied, indignant at his accusation. One foot, second foot… geez, this is easy! And then SPLAT. I basically landed AT THE COP’S FEET. He and Thomas helped me up, and my wonderful GBF somehow convinced him that I was harmless and being taken home at that very moment. He let us go, probably because he was afraid I would vomit on his shiny shoes. I’ll take what I can get.

We continued on our trek down Franklin Street, having made it… about a block. We should have gone straight home. We shouldn’t have stopped for anything. But it glowed at us like a beacon in the dark and blurry night…

COSMIC CANTINA.

For anyone who’s been to Chapel Hill, I hope to the baby Jesus someone took you to Cosmic. They are, without a doubt, the best Mexican food in all the land. Salsa that is perfection, unreal guacamole, spicy queso as far as the eye can see… and a line guaranteed to wrap around the block by 1:45 a.m. Fortunately, we were shitfaced at 11 p.m. on a Wednesday. And it was Valentine’s Day. We made our way to deliciousness and I proceeded to order our regular… two deluxe steak burritos. Only, I thought it would be really cool if I ordered in Spanish. And by cool, I mean COMPLETELY STUPID, because whatever we got? Was NOT deluxe. Or steak. It may have been a burrito. A retarded burrito who had sex with his cousin, Chicken Mole. (I hate Chicken Mole. Chocolate, get the hell away from my Mexican. Play on your own side of the sandbox, that’s all I’m saying.)

Of course, we didn’t really care that what we’d gotten was something completely different- at that point, anything starchy and food-like was totally going to complement the cheap tequila swishing around in our stomachs. Thomas dug in as I tried to figure out the physics of holding said tortilla-wrapped item. I took hold of one edge… and the entire thing unraveled and dumped the contents on the ground.

(Now, um, this may be where you want to look away. I promise you, it’s only going to get uglier from here. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.)

I stared at the burrito-turned-taco salad on the ground, and debated for only a moment before pick the tortilla up by a corner and beginning to gnaw on it.

“Oh dear God, LiLu, NO! How many people have puked there before!!!” Thomas ripped the pathetic remnants from my hands and shooed me away from the destroyed burrito, and from my shame.

to be continued… (last time, I swear!)

Mama said share.