Our Wedding Music

On December 8, 2012, Boyfriend Fiance became Hubster.  It really was the wedding of my dreams--don't know that I can say "our" dreams since Hubster hasn't been dreaming of his wedding like I have.  For me, though, everything was perfect.

One of my favorite components of the wedding was the music.  It should come as no surprise that, for ceremony and reception, Hubster and I had our hands in every bit of the music.  We made the final decision for every major song and hymn and most of the dance music at the reception.  We believe that music frames an event so we put so much thought into each of our choices and quite honestly, I wouldn't change a single thing (except for maybe adding "Brown-Eyed Girl" to the "Do Not Play" list for the DJ).  I do have to give a special thanks to my Dad and the music director and organist at his church, without whom the ceremony would not have been as awesome as it was.  While Hubster and I made final choices, that's not say our first ideas were the greatest.  And we definitely wouldn't have known the epicness of our recessional without them, nor would we have gotten the musicians we did.

So that I may remember, and have easy future access to, our wedding songs, I've compiled a list of what I know we picked and played.  Obviously I don't remember every song played at the reception but there are a few I remember being big hits for everyone and big hits for a few that I was surprised DJ agreed to play.  Here are the major songs:

Pre-Ceremony
We had a wonderful harpist, Mary Jane D'Arville, who played our prelude music.

Clair de Lune by Debussy

O Holy Night, with soloist from the church choir.

Ceremony
We had some incredible musicians for our ceremony.  In addition to the extremely talented organist at my church, we had an amazing trumpeter, Brian Strawley, Assistant Principal Trumpet with the Richmond Symphony, and a second organist for the recessional, the incredible Michael Simpson.  We also had members of our church's choir who sang the descant of the hymn we sang during the ceremony.

Prior to Pastor and Groom's Entrance:  Gottfried Reiche's Fanfare

Bridal Party Entrance:  Trumpet Voluntary by Jeremiah Clarke

Bride's Entrance:  Te Deum Prelude by Marc-Antoine Charpentier

Hymn:  Guide Me, O Thou Great Jehovah by William Williams
--Used an arrangement by the Mormon Tabernacle Choir and had church choir members in the balcony for the descant on the third verse.  Loved it.  Giggled like a little girl when my Balcony Angels kicked in.

Recessional:  Toccata from 5th Organ Symphony by Charles-Marie Widor
--My Dad actually suggested this awesome piece.  It was just wow.

Reception
Parents' Entrance: Top Gun Anthem

Bridal Party Entrance: Goodbye Horses by Q. Lazzarus
--Uh yes, our bridal party--including flower girl and ring bearers--DID enter our reception to the song to which Buffalo Bill tucks it and dances

Bride & Groom Entrance: I Believe In A Thing Called Love by The Darkness
--We walked out to the second chorus, ensuring that we got the "Guitar!"

Bride & Groom's First Dance:  I Am Your Man performed by Ryan Shaw

Father & Daughter Dance:  April in Paris by Count Basie's Orchestra
--There are two reasons why I picked this song for my Dad and me.  When I was little, my dad and I actually danced to this song in the living room with me standing atop his feet...and he hates to dance.  It's also featured in Blazing Saddles, one of our all-time favorite movies.

Last Song:  Remember You're a Womble by The Wombles

Some Reception Favorites That I Remember
Tanuk Tanuk Tun by Daler Mehndi
--Of course.

I'll Be by Edwin McCain

I'll Make Love To You by Boyz II Men

Poison by Bell Biv Devoe

White Horse by Laid Back

Here Without You by Three Doors Down
--One of Hubster's and my songs while we dated long-distance

Unchained Melody by The Righteous Brothers

This Is How We Do It by Montell Jordan

Tubthumping by Chumbawumba

Regulate by Warren G featuring Nate Dogg

Shots by LMFAO featuring Lil Jon

Apache by Sugarhill Gang

Photograph by Def Leppard
--For the Groom & Best Man

Talk that Talk by Rihanna

Blow by Ke$ha
--Hubster loves him some Ke$ha

Get Low by Lil Jon & The Eastside Boyz
--Appropriate? The question remains.  The DJ played the radio edit as requested by Hubster and me, but did WE sing said version?  Perhaps not.  Regardless, we had a great deal of people pointing to windows and walls...

Wobble by VIC
--The only group dance we allowed.

Footloose by Kenny Loggins
--Contrary to popular belief, this was not a Mother/Son dance.  Hence, why I was out there too.

Stayin Alive by Bee Gees
--Ensuring J-Friend dances for decades now

Boogie Shoes by KC and The Sunshine Band
--We did not request this song, but it's a favorite because my 4-year-old nephew specifically requested to dance with me during this song :-)

The DJ did not play any Katy Perry, much to Hubster's chagrin...nor did he play Motownphilly, much to mine, but we were thrilled otherwise.  I hope that by putting some of these on here, I'll be able to have clearer memories since the request list I have contains songs he didn't play.  There are songs I know he played, songs I know he did not play (aforementioned, along with I Would Do Anything For Love, Ruff Ryders Anthem, I Just Want To Celebrate and Tonight (I'm Loving You), You Dropped a Bomb on Me, Bohemian Rhapsody), and songs I cannot remember if he played or not, which, I gotta say, is the most frustrating.  Do I really remember if we were "Woo!"ing during Ms. Jackson or am I making that up?  Did I dance to Gonna Make You Sweat or am I thinking about how it would have been cool to dance to Gonna Make You Sweat?  Did we hear Nelly?  Did we Shoop?  I may never know...

If I may make one wedding suggestion:  Don't worry about most of the details.  If your food is good and your music is good, your wedding will be fun.  Period.

I Once Lost A Tooth. While Laughing.

I would like to preface this story with a note that my teeth have never been great. I got a lot of cavities as a child. In part due to generally weak teeth and in part due to the fact that I ate sweets and really liked getting cavities filled because nitrous was awesome. Regardless of how often I brushed, however, my teeth were just weak. When I was wee, one of my baby teeth had to be pulled because it rotted. A “dead tooth” I think it was called. I had to have a procedure kind of like a root canal for baby teeth.


I think I just realized how gross that is. Back then it was in-depth oral surgery so I had a blast but now I realize…huh, rotten teeth are gross. I brush my damn teeth, I promise. I did then and I do now. Now I just have fewer of them to do…

In the summer between my freshman and sophomore years of college one of my teeth fell apart. I can’t remember if I had chipped it or cracked it or what but it, yeah, fell apart. I was upstairs in the breakroom at work, eating frozen yogurt not usually known for its tooth-shattering abilities when my tooth crumbled in my mouth and I bit a fragment of my own tooth, which is quite jarring to do by the way. Your teeth meet all the time, but you don’t typically get tooth caught between teeth. It’s uncomfortable. I soon went to the dentist and he put some sort of temporary crown on it to bide time before my inevitable root canal that awaited me. Hooray! Sometime during sophomore year that crown fell apart and there was little left of my #2 upper right molar and it was time I finally met my root canal, who had been waiting for me impatiently.

Fast forward eight years. Now-Husband and I went with some friends to their parents’ lake property to spend the day on the water and the evening by the fire and/or beer pong table. That day I made the decision that because I could wakeboard 8 years prior, I could totally master the activity again or at least be able to stand up. Turns out, I could do neither. I, could, however, let go of the rope really fast and not get dragged behind the boat, which is an incredibly usefull skill to have for someone learning water sports. I learned the importance of this after watching The Great Outdoors a few hundred times. Anyway, I had tried a few times and really only succeeded at moving quickly from a sitting position to a supine position on the water in a jerky arch-like motion. I decided to give it one last go and it was on this last attempt at being an awesome wakeboarder that I was able to get up out of the water and stand up on the board. It was exciting. For split seconds the wind was in my hair and I was being pulled awkwardly behind the boat. Since you begin wakeboarding with the board turned sideways, I attempted to let the board turn to face the correct direction, but I could not possibly have executed that move any worse and I fell. Hard. I smacked the water with my face before any other part of my body hit. I’m not exactly sure how my eyes stayed on. When I was finally able to right myself, I called the day done and managed to get back to the boat using whatever the submerged marine version of limping would be. Once on the boat, I realized that my head had smacked the water so hard, I lost all 6 of my earrings and my elastic headband. I get back to shore and realize I will never be a cool wakeboarder. Funny stories are told and it appears the wakeboarding incident is forgotten.

Later on in the evening, we’re sitting around the fire and I’m doing nothing laughing. Not eating dinner. Not chewing gum. Not even having silky-smooth yet somehow treacherously tooth-shattering frozen yogurt. Not even talking. Yet there I was, listening to whoever was speaking when I felt something hit my tongue. I reached in and pulled out my molar.  I looked at Now-Husband and said astoundedly (it’s a word), “My tooth just fell out.” At first his face showed mild humor and confusion because surely those weren’t the actual words that had come out of my mouth.  Alas, he realized I had indeed actually spoken the words “My tooth just fell out” and his face quickly turned to reflect an obvious feeling of horror as I showed him the tooth that seconds before was in my head. It wasn’t broken. It wasn’t a piece of tooth. It was a tooth. I had a tooth in my hand and a hole in my head. He soon found himself in the extremely uncomfortable position of wanting to laugh at me but also being totally humiliated that this overweight but okay chick he had brought with him was actually a back-woods bumpkin who can’t even keep her teeth in her head.  It was as though in his view I was suddenly sporting flip-flops that were too thin to contain my breadloaf-like feet while donning a camoflage hat that held my frizzy hair in a ponytail to keep it out of my face while I spit into a bottle and talked about my cabin in the holler that didn't have a working well but was overrun by numerous goats and chickens.

A few months later, horrified Now-Husband got to be the one to drive me to my surgery to get the hole cleaned out and the remnants of the root canal removed before setting an appointment for an implant. He thoroughly enjoyed getting to see me completely out of it on whatever they gave me to put me to sleep. He had quite a laugh calling my mother to tell her everything was okay while I bobbed about in the passenger seat absolutely certain that I was making total sense but not knowing why he found my completely rational statements to be hilarious. Apparently what I said and what he heard were different but whatever. He had a lot of fun with it until later on when I was sober and could tell him the harsh reality: there would be no implant. The oral surgeon said he didn’t often put dental implants there for tooth #2 because there’s really no need and it’s a waste of money. He would if it was tooth #3 or more but since you can’t really see tooth #2 anyway, I was getting no implant. Realization set in and the look of horror and confusion returned. Now-Husband does, in fact, have a Now-Wife who is a back-woods bumpkin who can’t keep her teeth in her head. I’m actually missing a tooth because it fell out of my head while I was engaging in the strenuous activity of laughter. It didn’t fall out when I face-planted on the water and lost everything that wasn't anatomically connected to my head. No, no. It was the act of sitting around a fire and doing absolutely nothing that ensured my full set of teeth's demise.
And no, that tooth is not the same tooth as the baby tooth that rotted and “died.” That permanent replacement is holding strong, for now anyway.

I would really like to have those goats.

The Obligatory Where-I-Was-On-9/11 Post

In September 2001, I was a month into my junior year of college.  Junior year of college, if I've never made this clear, was the most awesome year ever in the whole world ever.  The only thing that compared was the summer before junior year of college.  As was my usual, I loaded up my classes on Mondays and Wednesdays, having late days into evenings those days, but one, maybe two classes on Tuesdays or Thursdays, which NEVER began before 10:00 a.m.  Fall semester junior year, I had one class on Tuesdays, which didn't begin until 3:00 p.m., so Mondays were usually Monday Night Fun Nights at Wifey's.  If I came home and didn't just sleep on her couch of pillows, it was late.  Usually really late.  This is particularly true if the neighbors called in a noise complaint because we were singing far too loudly (yet slyly had only Extreme's More Than Words playing at a respectful--if playing that song can ever be respectful--level when the officers arrived at our door).  And I would sleep late.  Usually really late.  Am I embarrassed to admit that I ocassionally had to set an alarm so I could get up and ready to leave in time for a 3:00 p.m. class?  Um no--I was in college, single, diligently working to strengthen a tolerance I needed for Southpong on Wednesdays, and making incredible grades so whatever.

While I don't remember what I did on September 10, 2001, I have no reason to believe it was any different than I described above, except for the call to law enforcement and slow rock karaoke.  I do know that I was sleeping soundly when my phone rang a little before 9:00 a.m. and wondered in a very lady-like way, "Who the F is calling me before 9:00 a.m. on a Tuesday?"  It was my Mommie, who was informing me that a plane had crashed into the World Trade Center.  I believe my audible response was little more than "Huh, wow" given my compromised mental state and inability to concentrate at such an ungodly morning hour but I disinctly remember thinking, "What a horrible pilot."  I was sleeping soundly again within 30 seconds of hanging up with my mom.

When she called again a few minutes later, it was only slightly less early and I was again awakened from a deep sleep so my ability to comprehend anything other than the need to press "talk" on the phone so that annoying noise would stop was severely impaired.  When she told me a plane had hit the OTHER tower, I'm slightly ashamed to admit, I said "really?" but I thought "What an unfortunate coincidence, what are the chances?"  Did I mention that I usually partied late into Monday nights?  When we hung up, I lay my head back on my fluffy pillow and drifted back to sleep.

The phone rang a third time and my mother, in a tone I don't hear from her very often, exclaimed, "Another plane has hit the Pentagon."  At this point, I thought something might be going on and I should maybe get up.

That which would become known as simply "September 11" had been on the news for well over an hour and after three phone calls and three plane crashes, I finally decided to get out of bed.  My brother was active-duty Navy at the time, so the attack on the Pentagon was the incident that finally lit the match under me to start the day and see if maybe some of this was possibly on the news.

I wouldn't see any live news reports for a while because our cable was out.  I was relying on news websites and my friends' AIM Away Messages to inform me.  After a while, I surprisingly got an email from my brother who couldn't say much more than he was okay, they were on their highest level of alert at the base, but they believed it was terrorism and not to worry about him because terrorists largely concentrate attacks on civilian targets, not military ones. 

It was still an hour or two before we got our cable back but by that time I had seen the crash footage and burning buildings a hundred times.  I was dreading getting ready for class for fear I'd miss something and all I wanted to do was sit down and watch the damn news.  Thankfully, just before I was making final preparations to leave, my school canceled classes for the rest of the day and I could sit in the floor and watch TV.  When my roommate finally came home from her canceled classes, we decided to go and give blood.  The line was unbelievable.  I'd never seen anything like it before.  I've never seen anything like it since.

I don't remember what I did the night before, and I don't remember what I did the day after except go to class where all of my professors and instructors had no intention of doing anything other than allowing us students to reflect and talk.  I do remember, however, that when my mother called the first time, I was lying on my right side.  When she called the second time, I was on my back.  When she called the third time, I rolled out of the right side of the bed and turned on the TV, saw snow, and went immediately to the computer, where the first away message I looked at was Wifey's, I immediately IMed my Mommie and Dave and I then pulled up Internet Explorer and waited for Fox News and CNN to load while I emailed my brother.  I remember what the box looked like on my college website that informed the public that classes were canceled for the remainder of the day and I remember distinctly my roommate's face and how she was holding her right hand over her mouth while tears streamed down her face and she dropped her backpack as soon as she entered the living room from the kitchen and yelled, "What the Hell is going on?"

Within a day I understood how my mother could remember so vividly where she was when she heard JFK had been shot (she was on the playground in 3rd grade, in the swings if I remember correctly).  I get it.  I'll remember what I was thinking and what I was feeling for what I can only assume is forever.  I had no one about whom to be concerned once I knew my brother was okay, so I was in not personally affected by that day.  I didn't know anyone who suffered losses.  I didn't even know someone who knows someone who did.  So, it's never ceased to amaze me how events like that will be forever burned into our memory, whether it has anything to do with us personally or not.

It's also never ceased to amaze me how absolutely ridiculous my initial response was.  And the second one too.

Music Makes the Heart Grow Fonder

This is completely off-topic from the subject about which I’m about to write, but I feel compelled to mention that two of the grapes in my Sunkist Apples & Grapes Fun Fruit pack taste remarkably like red wine. I know that sounds a little “duh” but how often do grapes actually taste like wine tastes? They normally taste like grapes. In fact, in my Fun Fruit packs, they normally taste like grapes with a hint of apple. I think it’s weird and a little frightening, leading me to wonder how long those particular grapes have been around. It makes me uncomfortable. Grapes shouldn’t taste like wine. Unless it’s a white grape that tastes like champagne. Yum.

Anyway.

I’m going to say something you’ve heard a hundred times before but, much like everyone else, I think I mean it more than everyone else: I love music. We all – make that 3 strangely wine-tasting grapes – think we love music more than the next guy. I don’t feel like I have to state my case to prove that I love music more than all others, but suffice it to say that music plays an integral part of my ability to be happy and content throughout the day. If I’m driving, I want music. If I’m working on something around the house, I want music. If I’m wrapping presents, I want music. If I’m sitting at my desk, I want music. If given the choice between music and no music, I’m going to choose music in most situations. My brother is the same way, and I believe my dad is too. You can take away the TV, but do NOT take away things that make or play music. Or white noise. But that too is off-topic. Suffice it to say, let me keep my music and my fans.

Many of my memories are spurred by music. Some come from smells, some by similar circumstances as the memory itself and of course those spawned by someone else talking about a particular event. But oftentimes, it’s music that takes me back. My growing up has been so heavily associated with music that certain songs can literally transport me to a certain time and place. I’m not talking about songs that remind you of something or someone. We all have tons of those. Iconz’s “Get F*cked Up” reminds me of the sophomore beach week. LL Cool J’s “Doin It” reminds me of hanging out with my friend, Ashleigh who would sing “…matter ‘fact I can’t wait for ya cane to rain” with her eyes shut. Alanna Myles’s “Black Velvet” reminds me of my Mommie, Sensefield’s “Save Yourself” reminds me of my maid of honor, and Peter Gabriel’s “Games Without Frontiers” reminds me of making my cousin Amber laugh. I’ve listed only positive ones, but there are definitely the songs that remind you of unpleasant or uncomfortable things. Hearing George Strait’s “Carried Away,” Tim McGraw & Faith Hill’s “It’s Your Love” and Garth Brooks’s “The Red Strokes” give me incredible anxiety and I’ll change the song faster than you can say “poor teenage choices.” With a few exceptions, though, these are all great memories and I love the reminders.

That’s not QUITE what I’m talking about though. What I’m talking about are the songs that can instantly put you back in a certain place, sometimes even at a certain time. These are the songs that can make me forget what I’m doing and I can actually see the scene in my peripheral vision, I can hear sounds as they happened, and I can even smell where I am a lot times. I can’t tell you why certain songs seem to have stronger effects on me than others, but I get so happy when it happens. Most of the time, the song will whisk me away every single time. A few have to come up randomly without me choosing it. And much like the “minor reminder songs,” there are negatives ones as well. Those I usually have to change quite quickly AND put on a happy reminder song. You don’t ALWAYS want to be teleported (I'm looking at you, Spin Doctors's "Two Princes"). Thankfully, those are scarce and I have many more happy reminder songs.

Here are my strongest Teleportation Songs. These songs can make me feel like I'm in a completely different place and/or time from where I am for a second and they will do so every single time I hear them:

1. Genesis’s “Tonight, Tonight Tonight”: This one doesn’t have to come on randomly. I can make this one happen. When I want to be in the late 1980s, crossing the Wright Memorial Bridge to the Outer Banks on a Friday night, riding in Big Buddy with my still-married parents, being followed by my aunt, uncle and cousin, on the way to our first beach house, I put this song on. I can smell the salt air and I can hear and feel the rhythmic bumps that used to define that bridge (duh-dum, duh-dum, duh-dum…always woke up our cat, Peaches). I can feel that excitement of going to the beach for the weekend and hanging out with my most favorite cousin. I can feel the excitement of spending time with her and not having my brother pick on me as much. I can picture the windowless child molester van with wood paneling and a speaker wall behind the seatbelt-less seat all around me and I can see the cat fur in the hole at the top of the speaker wall from where the cats crawled through (seriously, how did they get up there from the back of the van?). I’m looking at the interior of the van around me from the carpeted floor, because that was cooler than sitting in the seat. This one is probably my strongest Teleportation Song and I have to fight myself from “using” it too often. It’s one of my favorite songs in the world because of its ability to put me back smack in the middle of the one of the happiest times in my childhood. And because it’s a great song.

2. Red Hot Chili Peppers’s “Scar Tissue”: This one’s a little less specific, but no less dramatic. This reminds me of first semester of freshman year of college. When this song comes on, I’m 18 years old and I’m either driving around my then-boyfriend’s dad’s little town while MOH sings about the “birds of Cher,” driving home from college on a late Friday afternoon as the sun is setting over the mountains behind our football stadium, or I’m sitting in Deet’s Place watching a friend of ours sing this song in a karaoke show. When I’m driving home, I can remember the colors of the sunset with incredible richness and I can remember the interior of my car and smelling the crisp fall mountain air while my 1988 Chevy Corsica's headliner sat about a quarter of an inch from the top of my head. I can remember that I’m looking at the football stadium and taking a right onto Southgate. When I’m in Deet’s Place, I can see the chocolate croissant in front of me and smell the place around me. I know exactly which table we’re at and I know I’m going to be getting some cookies & cream ice cream soon. I can also hear the Fugees’s “Killing Me Softly” for the 3rd time and see these stupid chicks doing this stupid dance that made no sense at all. Regardless of the exact memory, I can feel that discomfort of being away for the first time and the conflicted feelings I had of enjoying myself so much but also missing home…and thinking I wasn’t supposed to be enjoying myself because I was supposed to be missing my then-boyfriend who was terrifically mad at me for going to the school when he couldn’t yet. I know when I hear “Scar Tissue” I’m going to be a freshman in college again for a few minutes. I’m going to vividly remember my dorm room, move-in day, the sidewalks and “shallow” stairs of campus, and my friend Amanda singing the part of “Around the World” where Anthony Kiedis doesn’t actually sing real words and I’m laughing hysterically. I don’t love the song, but I will listen to every single second of it. With a smile on my face.

3. Metallica’s “Until it Sleeps”: Not my favorite Metallica song. Not even close. Not my favorite Metallica album (WTF, they cut their hair?!). But I usually will not change this song when it comes on. When “Until it Sleeps” starts, I’m across the street at my friend Mikey’s house and my brother is washing his early 80s Blazer when he starts to blare Metallica’s new single from their first album in years, which my brother and I have anxiously awaited. It’s almost the end of freshman year of high school and I’m so happy because I hate my high school and I’m starting the weekend with my best friend and I’m only a few weeks away from the most fun summer I ever had before college. That was a summer of endless nights hanging in Mikey’s box van, working on his dirtbike (a KTM piece of crap), and learning from Wes (who had a much nicer Suzuki 250) that you can’t have just one taco from Taco Bell. Nor can you fix a floppy rear fender with just a little duct tape. “Until it Sleeps” will take me right back there, in a horrible dress that I never should have been wearing and I totally should have listened to my mom about that one. I can even tell you that it’s late afternoon on a Friday, pretty sunny and warm. I’m also super-stoked that my brother is talking to me like a person and not an annoying little sister. It’s a good day.

4. 702’s “Steelo”: I’m a sophomore in high school, riding in my cousin’s dark grey Honda Prelude with the sunroof open and we’re taking a left out of the high school onto the main road. We’re going to sing this, Foxxy Brown’s “Ill Na Na” and Lil Kim’s “No Time” during the 7 minutes it takes to get me home. And we’re going to laugh. And I’m wearing a shimmery purple velvet turtleneck atrocity with short sleeves that I should have not have been wearing. I'm looking at my cousin's really pretty emerald class ring, thinking about how much I can't wait to order MY class ring because class rings are like so cool.

5. Enrique Iglesias’s “Hero”: Picture it: College town. 2002. It’s about one in the morning and you’re in the Wendy’s drive-thru getting chicken nuggets and fries that will leave you with roughly $6.00 in your checking account but you don’t care because you need to eat. You’re with your best friend and her roommate and you suddenly realize that you all know the words. And you’re all singing them. And you’re all putting the same heart and soul into the expression of song that Enrique himself pours into it, if not more so. You might end up with a sore throat later but you don’t care because you’re absolutely laughing your ass off. A few months later, you’re going to make a CD called “Fun to Sing Songs” to be played on your road trips home with your best friend and this will be song number one. You’ll never skip it. And you’ll never get tired of it. I know it doesn’t sound funny right now, but I promise it was hysterical at the time. When I hear it, I’m right there in the car in the drive thru at Wendy’s or I’m on 460 in Bedford, screaming the song at the top of my lungs between fits of laughter. And so is MOH, sitting in the front seat.

6. Toya’s “I Do”: This song is not good but I love it. When this song comes on, I’m dressed as Treat, leaving the 2nd or 3rd Halloween party that year, for which MOH and I dressed up as Trick and Treat (our best ever, by the way). It’s junior year in college and just the beginning of the most fun year of my life, following the best summer of my life. We’re being driven back to MOH’s apartment by Connecticut and remarking that that was not the best Halloween party of the year. It’s a little cool, a lot late and I’m ready to crash on the couch of pillows.

7. Soundgarden’s “Black Hole Sun”: It’s summer of 7th grade and I’m wearing a babydoll dress with black lace-trimmed biker shorts and a pacifier necklace. I’m not lying. I think I’m dressed AWESOMELY. Just like every day before it and every day that will come after it, Mikey, Lee and Jake have come over to my dad’s house where I spent almost every day during the summers. I’m making grilled cheeses and we’re drinking massive amounts of Dr. Pepper and Mikey’s drinking his out of the mug with the see-through bottom. We’re going to watch MTV videos while playing Crazy 8s for a while and then we’ll go outside and play football. We might order pizza (why my dad gave us so much money for Papa Johns is beyond me—we ordered it a few times a week). As much as we love this song we know that our other favorite is coming up soon because MTV played the same videos all the time. With bated breath we awaited Warren G’s “Regulator.” When we saw one of these videos, we knew the next one was coming soon. For some reason though, “Black Hole Sun” actually takes me back, whereas “Regulator” more so just reminds me of the time.

They’re not necessarily the best songs (except for the number one, which just might be one of the best songs ever) but they can literally put me in a different time and place. I love these songs for that reason and at times they can truly be escape mechanisms. What I find so interesting about them is that they’re not specifically associated with an important or significant event during which these songs were played but for whatever reason, my brain latches on to them with tenacity. It’ll be interesting to see what songs do that in 20 years. Will I even like the song? Is it going to be that awful sky-full-of-lighters song I hate so much, but will remind me of the year I was engaged and I’m not going to want to change that stupid song, instead finding the need to torture myself with the song about fulfilling dreams that very few people will ever fulfill and never being the least bit inspired by listening to this guy singing about seeing a bunch of lighters from stage and how awesome life is now because I think the message is actually absolute crap and executed extremely poorly? I really hope it’s something cooler than that. I at least hope it’s like, Katy Perry, or something.

2011: The Year All Other Years Wish They Could Be

I've been somewhat busy lately, which has led to me having almost zero time to sit down and think of something about which to write, much less actually write. However, I've been thinking for some time that 2011 deserved something of a shoutout. I should have recognized its achievements in writing earlier but in a weird twist, 2011 itself prevented the recognition of its awesomeness by being so awesome it limited my time to write about it. To say it succinctly, however, 2011 rocked hardcore.

In 2011, I turned 30, had a Champagne and Bitches party, and reached some of the more important milestones of an adult's life. That's a lot for someone who just found her Glamour Shots and suitcases full of Barbies and Jem dolls. And maybe the hand-drawn picture of the Challenger astronauts I got as a kid. I mean seriously, a month ago I was tracking Santa online. But I digress. 2011 told me that it was time to start thinking like a 30-year-old and it tempted me with grown-up treats. In July, I got what I like to call a "career" instead of a job and I love what I do. In October, Boyfriend and I got engaged after nine years and he gave me my perfect ring in my favorite place. In December, we purchased our first home and we now have stairs. It's been a surreal six months and the time has absolutely flown by. I can't believe I've been at my "new" job for six months as of Wednesday and that there is less than a year until our wedding.

And can I tell you...it's all kinda awesome. My job is awesome, being engaged is awesome, and I think our house is pretty awesome. My job is stressful but in a good way, planning a wedding is stressful but in a fun way, and buying a house is stressful but in an amazingly satisfying way. Writing a check every month that goes towards purchasing something feels a lot different than sending it down the rent drain. Not to mention, the home-buying process really assists you in perfecting your signature.

But the coolest part of 2011?

I have cable! For real cable. Like, we're paying for it and we have a guide and a fancy remote and everything, cable. I can watch Archer. I can watch Beavis & Butthead. I can watch Dance Moms. I thought I could watch Dr. G, Medical Examiner, but apparently I don't have that package. But I can watch it On Demand! I can watch The Soup! Also, um, not going to lie...I can also watch pointless E! shows like Kardashian crap and red carpet specials. Red carpet specials! And I've been able to start my mornings the way they're meant to be: with SportsCenter. Thank God I have SportsCenter again! If only I had had it at the beginning of football season, I might not have laid the suck egg that I did in our football pool this season.

2012, you have big shoes to fill. I dare say they're even quite fancy. With rhinestones and stuff. Oh but they're flats, because 2011 is self-conscious about not being taller than you.

25 Things You Don't Know About Me Unless You Do Already

I haven't been feeling well lately, so I've been reading a lot of the Us Magazines my friend Ella-MF-Nor has given me while sitting on the couch, drinking cold uncarbonated things while my golf-ball-sized tonsils almost touch one another. In those magazines, some celebrity gives them a list of 25 things people don't know about them. They're usually completely full of crap. Like, no, Jessica Alba, you wouldn't be a molecular physicist tribesman machinist if you weren't an actress. You'd be an actress, just an unfamous one. The lists are ridiculous.

So I did one!

Here are 25 Things You Don't Know About Me. Unless you already do.

1. My mom has mispelled my middle name. In the past 2 years. And no, I haven't changed it since she, you know, named me.

2. I could watch Food Network for hours. Until a regular cooking show comes on at least. I don't want to sit for 30 minutes watching Barefoot Contessa, Rachel Ray, Giada DeLaurentis, etc. actually make a 3-course meal. Iron Chef, Cupcake Wars, Diners Drive-Ins and Dives, Sweet Genius...those I could watch forever.

3. I've never seen Braveheart. I've seen Freddie Got Fingered and all of the horrible Twilight movies, but I've never seen Braveheart.

4. I've never been to Disney World. I've been to EPCOT on a field trip, but we weren't allowed to go anywhere else.

5. I've wondered about my own sanity because I like my job.

6. I just chuckled when, while watching Chopped, two contestants next to one another were named Katie and Perry.

7. I'm 5'9" and while on the tall side for a girl, I've never hated my height. I'm not stoked to have to wear flats at my wedding, but it's a small price to pay for never having to ask for help getting something off the top shelf at Target.

8. I regret never playing water polo in college. I'm awesome at treading water. No, for real. I can't do much well, but I can tread water like a beast. Or, fish. My college had a club water polo team that I really very much wanted to try, but I was (am) far too terrified to play a sport in which I donned Princess Leia headgear and a bathing suit that people could see me in. Like, I'd have to walk around in a bathing suit. In front of people. People with eyes.

9. I cannot, for the life of me, understand why people buy any orange juice that's not Simply Orange.

10. Orange juice with pulp disgusts me. Who wants strings and bits in their orange juice? I don't understand why anyone wants to chew their juice.

11. I hate it when I say that I'm not going to have a certain dish because it contains an ingredient of which I'm not very fond and someone replies with "But you can't even taste it!" Then why put it in there? You put stuff in your dish because it flavors it a certain way. You don't put onions in sauce and go, "Throw em there, they taste like nothing!" I don't like margaritas because I abhor tequila. The very smell makes me gag. Don't tell me that a certain margarita is delicious and "you can't even taste the tequila." Yes you can, that's why it's there. If you can't taste the tequila, then they didn't use enough and you got screwed paying $10 for a liquor drink you can't taste.

12. I dream of being a gym rat.

13. I freakin love Jeopardy.

14. My dad's McGyver. Seriously.

15. I know that the largest estuary in North America is the Chesapeake Bay.

16. In 2000, I received the Texaco Geophysics Scholarship at my undergraduate institution. I still want to list that on my resume, because it looks a little awesome that I received that, but earned a BA in Political Science. I don't still list it, but I kinda want to.

17. I have a bachelor's in political science and a master of public administration, but I didn't vote this past Tuesday in the off-off-year election. And I feel no shame.

18. I think Eminem and Weird Al are absolute geniuses. I don't think anyone understands rhythm and the flow of words like Eminem. He can rhyme words that you'd never expect and unlike most rappers, most of his stuff actually tells a story and makes sense, as opposed to just finding words that rhyme. The way Weird Al can devise a parody but make it sound completely legitimate amazes me. They both literally blow my mind.

19. I believe in evolution. But I don't understand how, if we evolved from apes, there are still apes and why there are no half & half man-apes.

20. I have no idea who the front-runner for the Republicans is.

21. The last CD I bought was Adele's 21 and I think the one before that was Metallica's Death Magnetic. I run about a 5-year average between the purchase of CDs.

22. I hated barbecue when I was younger (probably because it wasn't a hamburger, hot dog, or pizza) but now that's what I want at our wedding.

23. I love parmesan cheese on everything. I could use it instead of salt. Forever.

24. I've never gotten up after sunrise on Christmas morning, and I've never stayed at home for the entire day on Christmas Day. I've always, always gotten up pre-dawn and traveled to at least one other place on Christmas Day. It would feel weird to never leave the house on Christmas Day.

25. The strongest and weakest I've ever felt is after I finished a 1000-yard sprint in a regatta earlier this year. It was so fun, so hard and I was so proud of myself when it was over that I didn't quit even though every muscle of me wanted to.

Creepertons, Coffins and Saws

Let's see...how do I put this delicately?

Boyfriend and I think the Creepertons are building a coffin.

Yep, that about sums it up. Right on their balcony. Building a coffin. I mean, it could be a coffee table, but we didn't see any legs or architecturally interesting design to suggest it's anything other than a box. So we're going with coffin.

On my way home this afternoon, Boyfriend sends me a text that says, "Check out what the Creepertons are building." Upon my arrival, Mr. Creeperton is exiting his vehicle with two two-by-fours and a small piece of carpet. After he goes inside, I get out of my car and look to his balcony where I see a long rectangular box. The box is roughly, oh I don't know, five to six feet long. I walk in the door and exclaim to Boyfriend, "Dude, is he building a coffin?!" Simultaneously, Boyfriend says, "Do you think he's building a coffin?" A short while later, Mr. Creeperton leaves and like a cartoon vampire, returns in frighteningly small amount of time with two more pieces of wood. For a straight hour, we've heard hammering, dropping of heavy things and constant walking. We decided, then, that we'd go outside and listen to building of this "just a box."

And that's when we heard the saw.

Okay, he's building a box, why wouldn't he have a saw? True, except that's not what's creepy. It's a creepily quiet saw. As in, he and Bitch Creeperton have lived here for two years and we've never heard this saw but that's because it's not loud enough to be heard through the paper-thin walls. We hear the saw and Boyfriend turns to me and says, "Well now we know he has a saw." We do. We do know he has a saw. A saw with an apparent silencer on it.

Boyfriend also saw him return from one of his short trips with a sink trap--that U-shaped pipe under your sink. This raises eyebrows because, as renters in an apartment complex, we shouldn't ever have to replace pipes and what not. We pay a decent amount of rent so that they do things like cut our grass, plant lovely azaleas, fix broken things, unclog drains, fix holes in the ceiling after one in the morning, etc. There's no reason why we should have to replace our own pipes. Unless, of course, you don't want the apartment complex--that's already been called to replace your entire set of kitchen cabinets because your leaky sink-apades rotted a hole through your floor and through the ceiling beneath you--to see what's clogging your pipes. So after some banging above our kitchen, the garbage disposal begins again in earnest. Testing of the new pipes was successful.

This begs the question, though: Why the coffin? Why not continue to use the garbage disposal and serial killer black trash bags? Well, the garbage disposal question is easy to answer--it's causing severe damage to the pipes. They've having to replace the pipes themselves and I swear Boyfriend and I have both noticed the same spot on our ceiling where it appears moisture is coming back through. We just aren't comfortable asserting it's not the one that was there before the drywall vagina appeared in our ceiling back in February. And the trash bags--we haven't noticed them use many of those since the day Boyfriend watched them furiously beat one into their Hyundai Tuscon and then NOT drive towards the apartment Dumpster.

So that means, they've got to put the "trash" into something other than the garbage disposal and serial killer trash bags. What does that logically leave you? A coffin, duh. A few people have suggested that it's perhaps a Halloween decoration. Here's why I have trouble jumping on that non-homicidal bandwagon:

1) They've never decorated for a single holiday. Not the two previous Halloweens they've been here, neither Christmas they've been here, no Hanukkahs, no Ramadans, no Pancake Days, no National Handwriting Days. No nothing. Ever. Why this Halloween?

2) The first night the Creepertons were here, they busted up our relatively lame Halloween party at about 9:00 p.m. or 10:00 p.m. on a Friday. Surely those kind of fun haters wouldn't be decorating now.

3) Decorating for any holiday seems entirely too normal for a couple so utterly creepy.

4) WTF was the carpet for?

So yeah, a coffin is the logical next step and I know it must be of some importance to them to complete this project because at 8:30 p.m., Mr. Creeperton was still hammering away into the night. Talking at 8:30 p.m. on a Friday is reason enough to compose a strongly-worded letter to apartment management, but hammering a coffin is perfectly acceptable at the same time on a Sunday when you've got to get that shit DONE.

I thought I had it figured out earlier when I realized I hadn't seen Bitch Creeperton in a while and Mr. Creeperton was driving her vechicle instead of his own. However, Boyfriend said he saw her earlier when they went to buy...the first few pieces of wood. Alas, the coffin is not for her. Boyfriend says we won't get worried until we see him building a second one. But if they bring up a brand new chest freezer soon, I'm out.

Have You Heard the Rip Current Story?

This isn’t a funny story, it’s an educational one.

In 2008, the annual beach vacation that my friends and I enjoy took a serious turn when five of us almost lost our lives to the sea. Well, actually, just four of us. One of us immediately bailed on the other four of us to “get help,” which vaguely translated as “watching from the shore.”

It had rained and stormed throughout the entire preceding day so the water was a little rough. Our friends who don’t stay on the beach all day had headed back to the house to get lunch, play video games or just generally get out of the sun. D-Bag, B-Real, Jughead, Sparkles, and I stayed on the beach and decided to get in the water while it was calm in front of us. Note of importance: It was calm only in front of us. Rough on the left, rough on the right, but not too bad right in front of us. I believe we even said, “Hey look, it’s calm right in front of us, we should get in!” We thought it was a sign that it was a good time to swim so that we wouldn’t get manhandled by the waves, but it was actually the ocean beckoning us to our deaths. Like a siren, that ocean.

The ocean wasn’t as calm as it initially made itself appear. As we’re taking one wave to the face after another, I couldn’t help but think “If I can just get on the other side of the breakers, this will be much more enjoyable.” As we’re bobbing about, D-Bag says he has to pee so I begin feverishly trying to get on the other side of breakers and thus up-current, decreasing my chances of being surrounded by human urine. I get on the other side of the breakers and think I’ve made a wise and educated decision, not yet realizing that the ocean was in the process of transporting me to Spain, and with quickness.

When I look back at my friends, they are MUCH further away than they should have been in a matter of a few seconds it takes to dive under a wave and resurface. As soon as I realize that they look too far away, I see D-Bag hitch a ride on a wave and a look of shocked confusion on the faces of Jughead, B-Real and Sparkles. And they are FAR away. Getting only further away. It finally hits me that we’re in a rip current and I’m a long way from shore. I’m not in what one would call “good” shape, but I can swim like a fish and the amount of water between me and the shore was daunting even to me. I don’t panic, I just start swimming (mostly) parallel to shore, as you’re supposed to. I had to put a little angle in it b/c I didn’t want to exhaust all my energy swimming 300 yards to my left before even beginning to make progress getting back to shore and tackling those breakers again.

This rip tide was huge. It seemed at first like every time I’d take a break from swimming to check my progress and catch a breath, I’d start moving back out to sea. I’d also see D-Bag on shore watching the rest of us fight for our lives against a very angry ocean. When I finally started making progress, it wasn’t so bad. Until I came upon the breakers. I was already tired from going as far as I had and I realized very suddenly that the hardest part hadn’t come yet.

To keep from taking a wave to the face, you go under water. It’s natural. I have more control of myself under the wave than when it’s hitting me. Every time I’d go under, I’d come up and a wave would be looking over me, about to break so I’d have to go under again. Or I’d surface only to be abruptly hit again. It wasn’t until this point when I started to get a little scared. No one else was going to be able to help me, we’re in a freakin rip current and while Jughead is swole, no one’s that strong…and he was in it too. I’d go under, come up long enough to fill my lungs again and then go back under. The forward progress was massively hindered to say the least. Freestyling, and not in the fun rap way, was no longer working so I thought that switching to the back stroke would be more effective since I could get more oxygen that way. I could also see when waves were going to break on me. This abated my fear a bit. It’s amazing how breathing can assuage your fears of drowning.

When my toes finally touch the sweet grain of sand on the ocean floor, I feel relief like I’d never felt before in my life. I grip the sand like I have monkey toes until I can finally be somewhat steady in the surf. I make it about knee-deep and collapse, totally spent. I look up and Jughead has made it out and he’s with D-Bag in the surf, looking at B-Real and Sparkles, who hadn’t yet come ashore and looked to be struggling. When I walk over to where the two land-walkers are, I see B-Real is holding Sparkles and looks to be trying to drag him while motioning D-Bag, Jughead and I in to help. Of course, we don’t know the extent of his struggle, so we’re motioning to him to come OUT of the water because we—well, Jughead and I at least—are tired after just getting out of a rip current. I should probably mention that Sparkles has about 80 lbs of pure mass on B-Real so to say B-Real was being challenged is a bit of an understatement. I start to see Sparkles going under and B-Real finally showing sheer exhaustion so I get a dose of adrenaline and start walking out there because they’re so close, they just need a little help and I think I can do it. You know, because I’m in such an awesome shape and totally beast. Thank God someone ran out there with his body board. Just as Rescue Boarder got to Sparkles and B-Real, B-Real found ground and was able to start walking out. We’re finally able to catch our breath and listen to D-Bag is tell us what our adventure looked like from shore. About that time, we realize we’ve drawn a very small crowd of about 3-5 people. A woman takes this moment to walk over and tell us how to find the rip tide. She almost got punched in the face. I think if Sparkles or Jughead had had more energy, they may have actually pushed her down.

As the five of us walk back, we see Boyfriend and Phoenix have walked back down to the beach to join us. Or at least where they thought we’d be. Our landing was a few tens of yards away so they didn’t see us walking back for quite some time. Boyfriend thought the five of us had gone on a walk—because we’re that kind of friends?—so he grabs my camera to take a picture of us coming back from our walk of beach bonding. He didn’t know that he was close to returning to the site where his friends once sat, never to return again. He also didn’t know that we were really close to losing a decent chunk of one family as Jughead and B-Real are brothers and Sparkles is their cousin. Sorry S-Clan, we regret to inform you that you’re three members down because we did something stupid. When we all got back, we literally crashed on our towels and chairs while Boyfriend wondered what the Hell had just happened because apparently we looked a mess. Somewhat disheveled you might say.

Boyfriend laughed after hearing the story. I don’t think you quite catch the horror if you only hear about it. I was like, you know, seriously scared I might die and I think Sparkles and B-Real thought the same thing. D-Bag, not so much. His story is that he saw me get sucked out into the ocean and knew immediately what was happening so he caught the first wave back with the intent on “helping” from shore. That left the three members of S-Clan to initially wonder what was going on as D-Bag and I are separated from the group at about equal speeds in opposite directions. There were five of us and only one person helped someone else. Three of us watched him do it though, it was special. Sparkles was lucky to have B-Real there.

So, I said earlier this was an educational story and not one for the funnies. Here’s how you don’t die in a rip current:

1. Recognize the rip current. If you do this, you don’t have to worry about any of the following steps because you won’t be stupid like we were. If it’s a rough ocean day and you notice that down the whooooooooooole beach, there’s one section that’s not rough—don’t go there. That’s a rip tide. If, in that one calm section, the water is also a slightly different color—don’t go there. That’s a rip tide. The only way that we could have been alerted to the rip tide’s presence any more clearly was if a pilot and gone over and dropped a sign that said “That’s a rip current!” with a downward arrow.

2. If you find your friend has been caught in a rip current, but you haven’t crossed the threshold yet, catch a wave back so you can "help" from shore, or at least be the one who can tell the friends and family whenever they come back why some people aren’t hanging out any more.

3. If you find you have been caught in a rip current, swim parallel to shore. This part’s serious. Don’t try to fight it because you won’t be able to. If you’ve ever been able to swim directly back to shore, you haven’t been caught in an actual rip tide. Start by swimming parallel to shore, then when you think you might be out or close to being out, start swimming at a diagonal so you’re making inland progress.

4. You can also just ride out the rip current and then swim diagonally back to shore when you’ve stopped going out to sea, thus leaving you with saved energy and no rip-current-fighting. They don’t actually go all the way to Spain, or even Bermuda, and eventually they will stop pushing you. However, I’ve never liked the idea of waiting that long when you CAN just start swimming out of it and I don’t care to find out just how far it WILL take me before it fizzles out. I’m not scared of the ocean and I’m not scared of sea creatures, but I HAVE seen Open Water—all 88 grueling minutes of awfulness—and as strong a swimmer as I am, I want to always see the shore if I’m not on a boat. I don’t recommend this step. Start swimming out of it as soon as you realize you’re in it.

5. Maybe don’t take all members of a family out in one with you? This was probably a bad idea. Maybe leave at least one person in a family somewhere safe. Just so the family has at least one in case the other members don’t make it back.

6. To that end, maybe leave one person in the group on shore if you decide to disregard of all nature’s clear signs and go into a rip current. At least to tell the others why the rest of the group hasn’t returned. I’ve wondered since 2008 how long Boyfriend and Phoenix would have waited there for us to return from our friendship walk. I picture EMS vehicles and helicopters being involved and the two of them hanging out in their chairs wondering what all the commotion was down there…

Thankfully, we all made it out safely. We bonded through this (only in story-telling, not in like, stupid ways), and we learned from this. We will work more diligently to recognize the indicators of rip currents and never again tempt the ocean. We will continue telling the story as an educational tool, just as B-Real’s fiancé, E-Money, wishes us to. Above all, we remember that we did defeat death by not panicking and (kind of) doing what we’d learned in all of our years of rip current education (i.e. reading brochures, which are in every rental house you’ll ever go in and even tell you about the whole “if the ocean looks different in one place, blah blah blah” part that we disregarded). We did not become additions to the Graveyard of the Atlantic. We survived.

And then we danced on the ruins of the stupid rip current.

The 48-Hour Film Project That Almost Got Us Invited to a Special Party

The other weekend, Boyfriend and B-Friend entered the 48 Hour Film Project in our city. For those who aren't aware of this project, as I wasn't before last year so don't buy my act of being a 48HFP seasoned veteran, teams have 48 hours to make a short movie. On Friday at 7:00 p.m., your team receives your genre and the one character, prop and line of dialogue that all teams must encorporate are revealed. So, each team gets a different genre, but all teams have to use the same character, prop and line of dialogue. That's not important to this story, per se, but I think that's one of the most interesting parts of the competition. Anyway, teams then have 48 hours to write, film, edit, and compose music for a 4-7 minute film. It's quite an undertaking.

The weekend was intense. From the very beginning, things didn't...work...as they were imagined. Things didn't go as planned. Locations had to be changed, an original cast member had to decline further involvement, and Boyfriend and B-Friend had to completely re-write the script they had spent all Friday evening writing. You try and make a plan, but the 48HFP laughs at your plans. I think that's probably true for all entrants.

Seriously, I act like I was a major part of this project, but in reality I just made what I approximate to be roughly a crapload of food and acted as chauffeur to the two young stars of the film. My involvement did result in a catering credit and my name looked beautiful on screen, I have to say.

But I have to be honest with you. Making the film itself wasn't the most interesting part of the weekend. No sir.

Saturday afternoon, Boyfriend and I are standing outside B-Friend's house when B-Friend's neighbor came outside to tell Boyfriend that he should park elsewhere because she doesn't look when backing out of her driveway and she's been known to run into cars parked in front of B-Friend's house when the former occupant had visitors. She even offered her driveway to us, but we think that's weird so we didn't take her up on her offer. We thanked her, judged her and went about our conversation, never moving Boyfriend's car until we had to leave again.

Later on that afternoon, our whole group returned from shooting a scene and we go inside. Not two minutes later, we see No-Look Neighbor walking up the driveway and we assume she's come to complain about us parking in front of our friend's house again.

Nay, this is not why she has come over.

B-Friend's fiance, E-Friend (Don't let my creativity intimidate you), goes out to talk to No-Look Neighbor to explain to her that there's really no place else for us to park. Neighbor again offers up her driveway, but E-Friend politely declines and tells her that we will be leaving shortly to go film elsewhere and we will be sure not to leave any of the cars behind her driveway. Indeed, she ensures that her friends don't park in front of her own house. The conversation then immediately goes somewhere none of us normal folk ever imagined it would go. It goes something like this:

E-Friend: "We're about leave to go shoot more scenes for our movie"
No-Look Neighbor: "A movie? Is it like a sex thing?"
EF: "NO! No, it's for a competition."
NLN: "Well I was asking because a few other neighbors and I are having a sex party later tonight..."
EF: "Oh, ok."
NLN: "Yeah. Do you have any beer?"
EF: "Um, we have some beer..."
NLN: "Can I have some?"
EF: "Well, not right now; we're about to leave."

Neighbor waddles back down the driveway and E-Friend returns inside. The look on E-Friend's face when she came back inside was, unsurprisingly now, total and absolute shock. She expected to discuss a ridiculous parking situation that wasn't really a situation at all but instead, she was both informed of and we think invited to a neighborhood sex party, asked for beer by someone holding a Mike's Hard Lemonade, and realized that her neighborhood was apparently full of partying swingers, all in about 2-3 minutes.

You know, you always wonder how people find themselves at such parties. How does the topic even come up? Doesn't that only happen in the type of movie that No-Look Neighbor thinks we were making? Now we know the answers. And the answer to the second question is "no."

Turns out that No-Look Neighbor's original intent had been to come apologize to Boyfriend "for being a bitch" but instead of being able to do that, she had to settle for informing E-Friend of a sex party that she declined in deference to our disappointingly non-porn movie. What lame neighbors B-Friend and E-Friend turned out to be. Prudes. I mean really, who turns down a perfectly friendly neighborly sex party?

And based on the time of evening and volume of music played, no, we do not think No-Look Neighbor was simply having a Tasteful Treasures party. No no, it seems B-Friend and E-Friend have put their roots down in that kind of neighborhood.

Rabbit Eggs and Ceiling Fan Fun

In some ways, I was an averagely smart kid. I'm told that when taking the test to see if I should go to pre-K or straight to Kindergarten, I was asked which way a ferris wheel turned, to which I responded, "Which side are you standing on?" I went straight to Kindergarten when the teacher thankfully confused my early development of sarcasm with intelligence. Otherwise, I was stupid.

Stupid, dumb, gullible...all of the aforementioned. I was that. I made stupid decisions and believed stupid things.

Cousin A and I picked what we thought were beautiful plants one weekend we were on the Outer Banks. We brought our findings back to the house where Uncle Bubba told us we were going to jail because it was illegal to pick sea oats on the Outer Banks. They hold the dunes together, see. I was terrified the rest of the night that he, as a police officer, was going to call other police friends and put my 8 year old butt in jail for picking sea oats. I seemingly couldn't escape my dark future confined in solitary, gazing longingly out of the barred window at the blowing plants in the breeze, constantly reminded that I had single-handedly contributed to the destruction of the entire chain of barrier islands on North Carolina's east coast and wondering which of those pretty plants would land the next little girl in a Jem shirt and bright blue bangles in the slammer for the complete ruination of a community.

And that was probably my least dumb. I was at least lied to in that instance.

The Outer Banks also has a large rabbit population. While frolicking in the dunes alone, probably after having lost yet another game of King of the Hill to my brother who was a dude and 3 years older so duh, I came across what were most definitely rabbit eggs. I scooped them up in my tiny hand, intent on having pet rabbits of my own at home, which my parents would, I'm sure, be totally cool with. So I take the rabbit eggs to my dad and say with unrestrained glee, "Look Daddy! Rabbit eggs!"

My poor father. Here he is looking at his doe-eyed overjoyed little girl, undoubtedly immediately sullen that though once thought to be somewhat intelligent, his daughter was actually on the borderline of being too dumb to walk and was standing there not only oblivious to the fact that rabbits are mammals and thus do not hatch, but she's unwittingly presenting to him a handful of rabbit crap and she's quite excited about it. All of his hopes and dreams of her capitalizing on her love of space, geology, volcanoes, and other extremely cool science-based professions, for which you must be incredibly smart and able to understand calculus (and the difference between poop and eggs) vanished into thin air and he realized that she was likely to become a 30 year old administrative assistant.

Did I grow up and prove to my understandably worried parents that the "rabbit egg" incident was just the adorable mistake of a small child? No. On yet another weekend at the beach, Brother was off riding his bike. He came back to the house with one of his legs covered in blood and what appeared like a gaping hole where his knee used to be. Apparently he hit a rock and flipped over his bike, leaving him with red socks that once were white and a leg covered in iodine. After offering him an Icee pop, Cousin A and I decided that we were going to go look for something. Something that we couldn't believe we hadn't thought to look for before.

We were going to find the skin that once covered his knee.

We went around and around Section E, to no avail. We did not find his knee skin. I'm sure the two girls on Strawberry Shortcake bikes looked completely normal pedaling away, eyes looking straight at the ground, scouring every flake of mica in the asphalt.

We also thought the driftwood in Section E was a pirate ship wreck. Cousin A and I probably shouldn't have been allowed to be off alone at any time because it's painfully obvious my rational thinking skills were not where they should have been and she would have been too small to care for both of us when I made a stupid decision that put us both in great peril, particularly around all that water, sand and empty houses.

Above all that, one of the hardest times we've laughed didn't happen on the Outer Banks. Nay, this comedic and idiotic wonder took place at my regular house. Playing in my room one day, we had become bored with perfectly normal toys. Instead, one of us had the genius idea to put stuff on the ceiling fan and then turn said fan on "high." It started out with popsicle sticks. We turned that ceiling fan on and watched those things fly and we thought it was great. Then I thought it would be even funnier to put mousse up there (hair product, not dessert). Now, mousse shooting off the ceiling fan was hilarious. Well I ran out of mousse. What did I still have? Suntan lotion. With self-tanner. We've never laughed harder in our lives watching that liquid shoot around to every corner and crevice of my bedroom. 20 years later, there are still suntan lotion stains on my dresser, mirror on the back of the door, and on the slats of the closet door in that room. That was our fun. Suntan lotion on the ceiling fan, forever staining the walls, closet doors, bedroom door, and any other surface of that room. My mom was displeased, but we couldn't find it in our hearts to be sorry.

But honestly, what's to be expected of a child who thinks it entirely appropriate and functional to clean up cat poop stains on the carpet with her brand new bottle of Vidal Sassoon Air Spray?

Dear Creepertons, It's About to get Real.

Things have reached a boiling point with the Creepertons. This time, they haven't done something particularly creepy per se, but bitchy and weird. Boyfriend and I have been stewing over this since Saturday and the more we think about it, the more mad we get. However, I don't think we can start at this most recent occurrence. Instead, I'm going to start at the beginning. For your convenience, this will be broken down into the Creeptastic Time Scale.

The Precreep Eon
(September 2008-October 2009)

During this period, a family lived above us consisting of a young new mother and father and their baby girl, whose gravel-smooth transition from crawling to walking we were lucky enough to hear. As well as her quickly-acquired ability to run. And fall. We always knew when the child would be put to bed because it would get suddenly quiet. As annoying as the small running elephant could be, we weren't really bothered by the sounds of a child learning (and failing) to walk, even if it meant the occasional bump and thump. Did we enjoy the month or so between them and the new guys? Of course.

The Neocreep Era
(October 2009-March 2010)

The day before Halloween 2009, the Creepertons moved in. Boyfriend and I remembered thinking, "Oh a couple with no kids, this shouldn't be too bad. But they look a little weird." Halloween fell on a Saturday that year and Boyfriend and I had a party. There were eight of us there at the time, and we heard a loud rapping on the door. I answered the door (dressed as Boyfriend-hit-by-Suicidal Bird I might add) to see Mr. Creeperton, who has asked us to keep it down. It was around 9:00 p.m. or 10:00 p.m. on a Saturday, Halloween, and they had just moved in so we found it a little ballsy and weird, but whatever. We recognized that it was, in fact, a party and louder than no party, so we turned the music down and tried to bring it inside as much as we could.

We attempted to stay hyper-aware of our noise levels from then on. We didn't hear anything else about our "noise" until the beginning of the Mediuscreep Era.

The Mediuscreep Era
(March 2010 to present day)

From Halloween night 2009 until March 2010, we didn't have any problems with the Creepertons directly. Sure they were freakin weird and we still hadn't figured out their relationship (are they siblings? Dating? Roommates? Mother and progeny? Who can tell?) But in March 2010, our real issues with the Creepertons began.

Boyfriend is an avid movie fan and in March 2010, we decided to host an Oscar party. Gentlemen were to wear suits and ladies were to don their most red carpet worthy dresses. We laid out a red carpet, had some cinema-type refreshments and sat down to watch the show. We were having a grand ole time sitting down and watching TV when we heard a knock on our door. B-Friend looks through the peephole and informs us that a police officer is outside. We don't immediately believe him so he opens the door and we see that a police officer is indeed outside. Boyfriend and I go to the door to address the officer's questions.

He says that he has received a call that we are having a party that is too loud. He asks what we're doing and we tell him of our party. We had to explain that it was an excuse to get dressed up and watch the Oscars since "We're having an Oscar party" didn't adequately explain what we were doing and he was still confused. Apparently, he hadn't before heard of an Oscar party. He asks if we had any music playing and Boyfriend tells him, "Only the orchestra on TV." As he stands before us on a red carpet while Boyfriend and B-Friend are wearing suits and I'm sporting a floor-length bridesmaid gown, he says he thinks someone must have been mistaken on the address they gave him. He then let us know that he sat outside for about 15 minutes and could see that our windows were open and could see us inside but never heard us. Before he leaves, he tells us to have a good evening. Doesn't even tell us to keep it down, because there was nothing to keep down. The look on his face was total confusion and a pinch of disbelief and he looked around to see a bunch of dressed-up nerds with posters of the Dark Crystal and Lord of the Rings lining the darkened room and a counter top adorned with popcorn, candy and fondue. On a Sunday.

We never confirmed that the call to the police came from the Creepertons. Indeed, I defended them at first, stating that they had come downstairs and addressed us directly last time so I don't know why they'd go straight to the police this time. Looking back, we're most definitely sure it was them.

The Bitchcreep Epoch
(February 2011 to present day)

February 2011 marked the emergence of a significant hole in our ceiling, the event which sparked many a question about the Creepertons and which brought to light their creepiness to people who weren't Boyfriend and I. The numerous subsequent entries on this very blog illustrate the increased ridiculousness that is the Creepertons in the Bitchcreep Epoch.

Boyfriend and I actually thought that the ceiling hole episode would probably get the Creepertons to lay off for a while because SURELY they can't complain about our not-really-loudness when we had to go without part of our ceiling for a week. In March no less, when those of us with allergies are having a hard enough time without direct exposure to mold in our homes, brought about by complete morons who let a sink leak for so long it rotted out a chunk of their kitchen, necessitating the complete replacement of their entire front kitchen counter and a portion of the ceiling below them.

This past weekend marked the pinnacle of our disdain for the Creepertons.
Boyfriend and I also believe that it may have initiated the countdown of our numbered days.

Friday night, two of our friends came over to hang out. D-Friend arrived at about 8:00 p.m. and A-Friend arrived about an hour later. At 9:15 p.m. or so, I left to run to the store and A-Friend left to get himself something to eat. This left naught but Boyfriend and D-Friend at the apartment. When I returned at 9:30 p.m., I could see Boyfriend and D-Friend on the patio, but even as I was walking past them, I couldn't hear anything they were saying, just that sound of someone's around close by and maybe talking to someone. You know, the normal sound of Friday nights in the late Spring/Summer when the weather's nice. In fact, I contemplated yelling "What up ninjas?!" but deemed the outside situation somewhat quiet and didn't want to disturb that. Nor look dumb.

As I was coming to the breezeway to go to my door, Mr. Creeperton was coming down the stairs. He catches me as I'm about to walk by, saying "Excuse me, I don't mean to be rude, but can you guys keep it down? It's getting kinda loud up here. Don't mean to be rude." I, completely caught off guard, just say "okay" and continue walking to my door.

Let's recap:

1) When Mr. Creeperton was coming down to complain that it was "kinda loud upstairs," there were only two people at my apartment at the time.
2) It was so "kinda loud" that I couldn't hear them. When I was outside. Twenty feet away.
3) It was 9:30 on a Friday night. My 2-year old nephew is occasionally still up at this time. My 8-year old little brother is still at least an hour away from bedtime. Twenty years ago, TGIF would still be on.

I go inside and tell Boyfriend and D-Friend that we've been asked to quiet down. Looking at me as though I've just suggested we attempt to achieve positronic distillation of subatomic particles, I explain what just happened. The sheer ludicrousness of the request sparks a running joke the rest of the night where we'd "shh" a person who laughed too loudly. I didn't say it was humorous, just a joke. At 11:30 p.m., I call it a night and go to bed, where I had my door cracked and no fan on so I could ensure it didn't get too loud. Even with the main sliding glass window open in the living room, I could barely hear the other three people. I fell asleep quickly and didn't awake until 1:30 a.m. when Boyfriend and D-Friend were snoring like hibernating bears to Daniel Tosh. After talking with Boyfriend, we estimated that they came inside around 12:30 a.m. (on a Friday night, mind you, because we're all awesomely lame) and fell asleep shortly thereafter to the Chapelle Show, before Boyfriend awoke again and changed it to Tosh.

Saturday morning I received a phone call from our management office at the apartment, inquiring as to whether or not we had had a party the night before. It seems she had "received a very strongly-worded letter" and was checking up on it. I didn't feel it was time to tell her all the things we normally hear in an attempt to prevent the situation from becoming childish and reminiscent of "well THEY did THIS first" so I was simply honest with her about the happenings of the night before. She sounded as confused as the Oscar party police officer appeared, and ended the conversation by saying "Well you ARE allowed to have friends over" and then recommended that I remind them not to park in the front row, as a courtesy to residents. Sure thing.

Fast forward to Monday night and Neighbor Friend tells me he received a phone call asking about Friday night as well. He assures us that he did not hear us and adds that he's never heard us, even when he can see we have more than four people on the patio. I'm assuming that others received that phone call as well and I'm confident that everyone else will give the same answer as Neighbor Friend. I should also add that Neighbor Friend is the type who will most definitely let you know when you're doing something he doesn't think is cool. For example, when our building spent the whole day shoveling snow from the lot in front of our building and someone from another building was going to park there because their spots were covered and Neighbor Friend told him to move and shovel his own lot. Oh and also, Mr. Creeperton helped shovel the lot that day. And he didn't say a single word to anyone.

So now Boyfriend and I are really pissed and also fearful, as it seems the Creepertons may not receive the support they were looking for from apartment management, which may only incense them further. We could sit and do nothing but we feel that we need some sort of documentation since there is apparently a "strongly-worded letter" about our "parties" in our file. We've lived below someone with a toddler who went to bed at 8:00 p.m., beside the Marlboro Man and his wife who appear to be in their 50s or 60s, and across from someone who has called police on other neighbors' parties when they got too loud. If anyone was going to complain, you'd think it would be one of those, not the youngish couple above us who seemingly have no real normal job responsibilities because they're always at home and they stay up until all hours of the night. Running their garbage disposal. Dropping small explosives. In the dark.

We feel we should also write a letter. How does one sound professional in a letter while wanting to write that the people who've complained about our talking have awakened us in the middle of the night from running their garbage disposal and dropping what can only be assumed are bowling balls or frozen heads, dropped items so heavy that the impact has caused things to fall from our shelves in the utility room, stared at our apartment from their cars, and oh yeah, were too utterly stupid and/or irresponsible to notice and/or report a sink that had leaked so profusely for so long that it rotted out their cabinet, floor and our ceiling?

During all of this, we've never submitted a complaint about them, nor have we gone up there to ask them to please hold things more securely--partly because we understand that with apartment living comes the noises of others and partly because they scare the bejesus out of us. However, we do want something on file that indicates our aversion to filing complaints while also acknowledging that we do not live below quiet, peaceful people who we thoughtlessly disrupt. Instead, we live below extremely loud creepy people who, for some reason, do not like us and grind their victims' bones in the night while running their air conditioner every day for the past year and a half, the unit for which just happens to be right outside of our patio and my gosh, let's talk about noise, shall we?

My hypothesis is thus: Mr. and Bitch Creeperton have realized that Boyfriend and I are on to them. They themselves cannot move because they have too much delicate cargo to transport and possibly cannot afford the required refrigerated truck for the bodies that have not yet been taken care of. As such, they want us removed.

Quickie Post: Acronyms and Store Names

One of my pet peeves is the spelling of acronyms as words. There are a few common examples:

SEALs
The US Navy has an elite force knows as the SEALs. They do not have a collection of adorable sea mammals who jump from helicopters and land on beaches in the dead of night even though I think we can all agree that such a force would not only be awesome, but would exponentially increase the element of surprise to unmatched levels. Alas, they are humans with seemingly super-human abilities to operate successfully in all environments. They are able to kick ass at SEa, in the Air, and on Land. Thus, they are SEALs, not Seals.

NASA
I actually saw this as "Nasa" written in an article by a pretty reputable newspaper recently. It's understood that most government agencies' names in acronym form are letters that stand for longer words, right? So we didn't just name this agency "Nasa," but rather the National Aeronautics and Space Administration. Then, because that's far too long to say in normal conversation, or even formal conversation, we recognized that we have enough vowels to that we could conjure up a real fake word out of the initials. Hence, "NASA." Not Nasa. Like a pet's name.

AIDS
AIDS stands for Acquired Immune Deficiency Syndrome. Because those letters stand for something and the word is not a clever adaptation for a brand name (e.g. "Nabisco," which actually stands for "National Biscuit Company"), those letters should be capitalized. The disease is not "Aids." "Aids" is a misspelling of a collection of helpers. "AIDs" is marginally better, but the "syndrome" is really kind of important to the whole "disease" classification and all, so it really does need to be capitalized. Otherwise it's just Acquired Immune Deficiencies and that's just not the same.

I'm okay with "Scuba" because while it used to be just an acronym for Self-Contained Underwater Breathing Apparatus, it has become perfectly fine to refer to this type of underwater diving as "scuba." It's become its own word now. Navy SEALs, NASA and AIDS have not.

And, lastly, not all store names are possessive. It is not Barnes and Noble's. It is not Kroger's. It is most definitely not Target's OR Targets. There is but one Target and it is not in possession of anything.

Boyfriend's sister gave me this for Christmas and I think no one was surprised. Well, except for me considering I most assuredly did not make all As in my English classes. Granted, some of that isn't because I don't know how to punctuate (I try to use semi-colons when I'm supposed to but sometimes I don't when I should and do when I shouldn't) but because I didn't necessarily read the book about which I had to write a paper. Trying to get through Hawthorne's one long run-on sentence known as The Scarlet Letter was akin to torture for me and Lord of the Flies lost any fun when my teacher insisted that every single thing in that book was a symbol and never just how Golding pictured the characters or the setting. I did enjoy The Great Gatsby, To Kill a Mockingbird and The Crucible but that's perhaps because they are significantly easier reads, though by no means as enthralling as Harry Potter. In eleventh grade, I also got to read In Cold Blood by Truman Capote and felt sorry for all those suckers who didn't choose it for their papers.

A Ridiculous Obsession with the Thriller Video and a Hateful Brother

When I was a kid, I loved Michael Jackson. I LOOOOOOOOVED Michael Jackson and every song I ever heard that was sung by him. I also loved Rockwell's "Somebody's Watchin Me" because it sounded like Michael Jackson. To be clear, I still love Michael Jackson, but he's not putting out as much new stuff anymore so there's not as much to get excited about. Anyway, the Thriller record was my best friend. I loved folding out the cover to see Michael with that tiger. How bad ass Michael Jackson was! I played that record all the time.

Side Note: When we were little, my cousin Amber and I used to put records on my record player and play with the speeds. Thriller and the Rescuers stories were often subjected to lightning-fast and tortoise-slow changes to their rotation speeds, all at the expense of our riotous laughter. However, this was also the one time when Thriller was a second choice to anything. What we really loved was putting Olivia Newton-John's (who is NOT related to Elton John, as I assumed as a child) "Physical." Oh man you've never seen little girls laugh harder in your life then when Olivia Newton-John sang "Physical" like a chipmunk or like a very slow deep-voiced man. If I came across the opportunity to do that again, I would laugh just as hard.

Back to the original topic.

Thriller. I loved it. One day MTV aired the full-length 14-minute version of the Thriller video, followed by "The Making of Thriller" and my parents taped it. We couldn't tape over my episode of Rainbow Brite, however, (which just so happened to be "The Mighty Monstromurk Menace" if you're interested) so somewhere there's an 80s pot of gold existing in the form of Rainbow Brite episodes immediately followed by the entire Thriller video and The Making of Thriller featurette...on BETA.

I watched that tape constantly. I learned every move of that dance, every word spoken in both the video and the "Making of" and I'm surprised I didn't wear that thing out. I watched it literally all the time. When the video ended, I would rewind it and watch it again.

Problem is, I was 2 years old when that video was released. Which means, I was watching this video relentlessly beginning at about 3-4 years old. My dreams did not hold the same admiration for the video as my awake-self did. The only nightmares I can remember having as a child were werewolf nightmares. They would chase me through the moonlit, foggy forest and I would inevitably fall on my back in a pile of leaves, just as poor Ola Ray did in the video before werewolves moved in to rip me apart. They also chased me around a warehouse one night, and I have no idea where that came from.

I would wake up from these nightmares and have to use the restroom, which was located an easy 14 miles from my bedroom in hallways that could not be lit, lest their bright lights wake the family who all slept with their doors open. I was certain, absolutely certain, that there was a werewolf waiting for me when I left the restroom and I would haul ass back to my room and jump from the doorway to my bed, trying to keep myself a fast-moving target until I got to the safety of my bed, where werewolves don't go.

One night I was lying in my room, fearful of falling asleep because I had watched Thriller that day (again) and I was just sure that werewolves were coming. As my head rested anxiously on the pillow, I heard scratching noises.

Everything on me tenses.

I'm on alert.

Then my bed moves. I move! A very small movement that lifts me up just a hair. I realize that I have heard scratching and my bed has just raised a bit. Then it raises a bit higher. Holy God there's something under my bed. I've suddenly realized that my bed is not safe after all.

If I can clench it, it's clenched.

I just know that under my bed is a werewolf who has waited. Waited for his prey to become separated from the protection of her family and be alone in the dark where no one would ever believe her should she scream that something is under her bed. This werewolf was intelligent. A mastermind of hunting, if you will. It was also a spiteful werewolf, taunting its dinner for reasons I could only assume include an increased flow of blood so that the meat would be that much more tender and juicy when it ripped me apart.

I lift again.

I feel like crying out, but don't want to let the werewolf know that he's been discovered. Maybe my parents will come save me accidentally, the werewolf's position never having to be revealed while I leap to the safety of their arms.

That's not going to happen. My parents are watching TV that they don't get to watch while the kids are up, so they're not coming upstairs. I have to see what's under there and face my death like a lady. In a Care Bears nightgown. I lean over and lift the bedskirt, intent on looking my attacker in his yellow eyes.

I am shocked to see my brother lying on his back under my bed, with his finger to his lips going "SHHHHH!" I'm shocked not because it's more surprising to see my brother than a werewolf--but, actually, yeah, that IS more surprising. My brother hates me. He doesn't like playing with me and is quite mean to me most of the time. I would fully expect to see a werewolf before I saw my brother under my bed, engaged in what could only be called "play" with his little sister.

He tells me to be quiet, because mom and dad would probably yell at him for being in my room when we're supposed to be in bed. Then he tells me that I can have some of his rock candy he got that day for not saying anything.

Hooray! I wanted the rock candy so badly! It looked like diamonds but I could eat it and it was just pure sugar. Definitely worth the increased adrenaline I was experiencing. I tell my brother I will not tell on him and thank him for the rock candy. He leaves and I lay the rock candy on my pillow while I went to the bathroom. See, I had been roused awake which means I HAD to go to the bathroom again because that has to be the very last thing I do before going to bed and I need to not do ANYTHING after getting in bed or I'll have to go again. That's still true today.

I need to leave the restroom now and dart back to my bed. I'll be fine though, because there's rock candy waiting for me and I need to hide it before Brother takes it back. I run as fast as I can back to my room and look under the bed to make sure neither werewolf nor Brother is under there. Then I go to put my rock candy away.

The dick had already stolen it back. I went to ask for it, to no avail. I still have to be quiet, though, because I'm supposed to be in bed so I can't even tell on him.

All I got out of that experience was a fleeting glimpse of stolen rock candy and having to go to the bathroom twice in a span of 20 minutes.

And more werewolf nightmares.

Quickie Post: Creepertons Make a Move

I've written a lot about the Creepertons. Part of that is because they are, in fact, incredibly creepy and another part is that Boyfriend and I want this whole thing to be documented should you start to notice that we're not hanging out anymore or won't answer our phones, etc.

The excessive garbage disposal use continues.

The constant running of the air conditioner continues, despite relatively cool temperatures in the 50s and low 60s at night time and highs only in the 70s during the day.

There are some new things we've noticed:
1. Mr. Creeperton has developed a recent affinity for wearing large puffy winter coats on these 70 degree days. Bright sunny skies, temperature a moderate and quite comfortable 70 degrees and Mr. Creeperton driving off with a black puffy winter coat (and sometimes shoeless, which I cannot even begin to wrap my head around). We don't understand this, especially considering that they apparently feel temperatures over 55 degrees is warm enough to necessitate the A/C running so you'd think they'd be melting when temperatures reached the 70s.

2. Bitch Creeperton took out the trash last weekend. That would sound benign enough except that she took out naught but one bag. One HUGE black trash bag. It was as large as she was and she was having quite a lot of difficulty navigating it to her vehicle. Whatever was in there was large and heavy. She had to drag it. When she went to put it in her vehicle (not a car, but not an SUV...I believe they're called "crossover" or something), it wouldn't fit through the door. So she beat it.

Repeatedly.

Bitch just started beating the crap out of this huge, heavy black trash bag to get it to fit in the vehicle. Then she drove away...

But away from our garbage Dumpster. We don't know where she dumped...whatever's in that bag, but we know it wasn't in our Dumpster at the complex.

If anything happens to us and our cats are spared (unlikely), I'd like Freaky and Velvet to go to my Mom. Just wanted to have that in writing. They eat special expensive food Mom, I'm sorry.