The Boyfriend Says

The boyfriend is one funny-ass mofo. He might even be the funniest guy I've ever met. It's half the reason I like him so much. Here are some examples of the awesome shit he says: (But I'm only giving you a few; the rest are mine. Get your own hilarious boyfriend.)

He's even, like, laughably handsome

-- On the prospect of having children someday: "I would like to have kids with a bunch of different women. Then I would race them to determine which one is genetically superior."

-- On that Florida Georgia Line song in which Nelly guest raps: "The St. Lunatics must be spinning in their grave."

-- On our dog: "I'm going to buy him a pack of cigarettes and a bandana, then I'm going to set him loose. Turn him into a street tough."

-- On girlie liquor: "Bitches love blue cocktails."

-- On television: "The only reason laugh tracks still exist is so old people don't feel so alone."

This Weekend I... Volume 3

 

This weekend I... took a spin on the Traveling Tap in celebration of the boyfriend's birthday. It was a ton of fun, especially because my sister and I both maintained consciousness the whole time. 

We did the same thing for the boyfriend's birthday last year, but my sister and I both passed out by end of it. It was super unpleasant at the time and super embarrassing the next day. In our defense, it was seriously, like, a hundred degrees out and the only thing we had to eat that day was bloody marys. That, and we're both total lightweights. 

But this year we both made it through the bar crawl, and drinks at our house afterward, and dinner, and drinks back at our place again, and one more trip to a bar down the street at the end of the night. We actually ended up being the last two awake this time.

It's a long road to redemption.

 

This weekend I... introduced Gordy to a balloon for the first time. It might have been, like, the fourth best thing that ever happened to him. But, as is the case with pretty much everything else he ever gets his hands on, it was destroyed almost immediately. 

And that is why we can't have nice things.

It's Facebook Official

So I created a Facebook page for the blog.

I know, right? Happy 2006 everyone! Maybe I'll have a Twitter account by the end of the decade.

Anyway, you can go like it if you want. I did. Is that weird?

Straight Outta Compton

source

My boss saw this portable karaoke machine on Woot.com the other day. Since it was only twenty dollars and he is rich and awesome, he decided to order one for me.

This is amazing news, of course. So I was obviously really excited when he told me about it and thanked him a bunch of times. But I also warned him that he will undoubtedly live to regret this decision.

I am currently scouring the Internet for karaoke-compatible N.W.A. and 2 Live Crew CDs.

It's about to get real up in that office.

My Mother the Terrorist

A couple of years ago, my mom decided to fly down to Oklahoma to visit her sister.  Everything was going according to plan until she got to airport security. (So I guess that means everything was going according to plan for, like, thirty minutes.)

When her bags went through the x-ray machine, the TSA agent asked her to step aside. She politely obliged, a little confused. The guy started rummaging through her carry-on bag and called over a bunch of additional security officers who shot her some very stern looks.

"Ma'am," one of them said to her. "We're going to need you to come with us."

She followed them to a little room where the officers confronted her about the live ammunition in her luggage. That's right, live ammunition.

She was shocked and indignant for, like, a second before the pieces started falling together in her head. The bag she was using as her carry-on was the duffle bag my dad uses for everything. Including target shooting. And he had left a half empty box of bullets in an inner compartment that my mom didn't check before packing.

She tried to explain what had happened and had mostly convinced the officers when out of frustration she muttered, "Ugh. I am going to kill Mark [my dad]." Then she got in trouble all over again for making terroristic threats in an airport.

So, yeah, fun fact: My mom is definitely on the NSA watch list.

This Weekend I... Volume 2

This weekend I... was a bridesmaid in a wedding. My very best friend, Jessica, got married on her family's farm and it was absolutely beautiful. I'm not really an emotional person (like not at all), but Jess looked so gorgeous, and I was so happy for her, that I actually teared up. Twice. And that was the only uncomfortable part about the weekend. The rest of it was perfect.

This weekend I... was really hungover on Sunday. Again.

Vocal Legal Tender?

So last week I went to a concert at First Ave. The show itself was entirely uneventful, but this happened to me outside:

I step out for a cigarette between acts like I always do, when some creeper with long ass crackhead fingernails staggers up to me to bum a smoke. I know what it's like to really want a cigarette, so I never say no when people ask for one. Even when they're crackheads. While I'm digging through my purse to find my pack, Scratchy McCrackhead offers to sing me a song in exchange for the smoke. I try to tell him that there's really no need, but he insists. And then he breaks into song.

His eyes half closed as he lost himself in the song, and he threw in an arrhythmic finger snap that must have been included purely for showmanship. He was singing some Michael Jackson ballad, though it was hard to determine which one given the lack of discernable melody. All I know is that it lasted forever. Between each verse I tried to inch away, hoping he was finished. But he just kept leaning in, singing his heart out, right in my face.

People were definitely staring.

This Weekend I...

 

One of my favorite MN bloggers, Syndal, does a weekly post every Monday called, "This Weekend I..." I like that idea and am therefore going to steal it.

So, without further ado...

This weekend I... came home to an unexpectedly large party. A bunch of the boyfriend's friends were going to the Kenny Chesney concert at Target Field on Friday night. Since we live just a few blocks from there, we decided to let all of his friends park their cars and tailgate at our place.

 

I was expecting maybe ten people to be at our place when I got home from work on Friday. Instead, I came home to find about thirty five people on my front lawn and the boyfriend doing a keg stand. Great fun.

 

 

 

This weekend I... went camping with the boyfriend, my sister, her husband, and a crap ton of our cousins. Well, kind of. It wasn't real camping. More like get-drunk-around-a-fire-and-eat-too-much camping. We had so much booze and so much fun.

 

After we were all sufficiently drunk, we played a few rounds of Catchphrase. We split the teams into boys against girls and made a rule that the losing team got shocked with my dog's shock collar after each round. That shit got real serious, real fast.

 

 

 

This weekend I... took an eight hour nap on Sunday. Not joking.



The Nail

The boyfriend and I have had almost exactly the same discussion at least a thousand times:

I don't get what's so hard about saying, "I know, babe. You're a god damned hero sometimes."

A Golden Shower of Mischief

My mom is one of eight kids, so I played with my cousins a lot when I was little. A couple of them lived on a lake outside of town, so we spent a ton of time there in the summer. We swam all day, and after dark we played night games. Specifically, one we made up that was simply called "The Game," which was a sort of vicious, every-man-for-himself version of Capture the Flag.

One night while we were playing The Game, I heard my younger cousin, Seth, wailing somewhere in the woods. He came stomping through the yard with absolutely no regard for strategy. It was clear the game was over so we all emerged from our hiding places to see what was the matter. And what was the matter was that Seth was covered head to toe in urine.

Seth had been creeping through the woods looking for a route to get him to the flag and paused next to a tree to form his plan. Our older cousin, Justin, happened to be hiding in that very tree and saw poor, unwitting Seth crouched beneath his feet. Ever the opportunist, Justin couldn't resist whipping it out and peeing all over his cousin.

In an effort to not get his ass chewed out by the parents, Justin claimed that the whole thing was an accident. That he was just hiding in the tree, had to pee, decided to just go from where he was standing, and Seth just happened to be struck by the stream.

And Seth totally believed that story for sixteen years. It wasn't until a couple of years ago that he found out. We were on our annual camping trip with all of the cousins and reminiscing about some of the times we spent out at the lake. Obviously, this led to us giving Seth plenty of shit about getting peed on.

And Seth responded with, "I know; it's so crazy. What are the odds that I would walk under that tree at that exact moment?"

He was surprisingly mad when we found out that the odds were in fact very good, considering it was on purpose.

You are Free to Burn

The idea that people just hand over Sparklers to children all willy-nilly is absolutely preposterous to me. It is an absolutely reckless approach to parenthood.

"Hey little four year old child, put this stick in your chubby little unreliable hand. But let me light it on fire first. It's going to burn at two thousand degrees of freedom and sparks of fun are going to shoot out in all directions. It will be fun! Now go run around and chase your sister with it."

Maybe I'm just not that into fireworks in general. The boyfriend and I took a very lazy approach to them this year.  We just watched the ones at the baseball stadium from our balcony. Actually, the boyfriend did. I saw them from inside. On the couch. Out of the corner of my eye while I really watched cartoons on T.V.

Make Them Boys Holla

This weekend I went to a bachelorette party for one my very best friends, Jess. We rented a bus and went to a bunch of tiny farm town bars up north. And in some sort Mary Magdalene miracle, one of the bars we went to was holding a bikini contest. It was ridiculous, and gross, and awesome.

First of all, we were in a town called Nimrod, population 69. So I'm sure you can imagine the caliber of talent we were seeing. Also, if I remember correctly (but with all the vodka sloshing around that night, there's a good chance I don't), the stage was made of plywood and round bales.

Seven or eight contestants came out all slicked up in baby oil and showed of their sluttiest dance moves, grinding all over each other in front of a bunch of people who probably know their parents. One girl flashed nipple. She didn't win.

I mostly just wanted to talk each and every one of those girls into enrolling at community college.