Halloween

Well, it's Halloween again, or--as I know it--the night I turn off all the lights and pretend I'm not home so that I don't have to hand out candy to a bunch of ungrateful little mongrels.

For one thing, I'm not spending my money just to give away candy to some little bastard I don't even know who's wearing a Snooki get-up. I wake up at an ungodly hour and sit chained to a desk all day, playing office (a condition not to be confused with actual work or production of anything useful) to "earn" the money it would cost to buy cavity-inducing candy for a bunch of little monsters I have no connection to. How does that make any sense whatsoever?

For another thing, kids don't wear homemade costumes anymore. NOTHING beats a kid in a homemade costume, and CERTAINLY not some shit that cost $29.99 at goddamn Target. And spare me the shit about not enough time and blah blah...bullshit. My mom was working three friggen jobs when she dusted my hair with powder to make me a gray little grandma, and she sewed my sister into her Little Red Riding Hood costume as she was wearing it. Where there's a will, there's a way, people, and I'm not giving your greedy little ass shit if you can't even put in a minimum of effort to come out begging for candy. Lazy little bastards.

And for yet another thing, kids aren't even kids at Halloween anymore. They're goddamn teenagers, the greedy little motherfuckers. If your age ends in -teen, stay the hell home. Better yet, get a job so you can buy your own candy. Furthermore, not only do teenagers not have homemade costumes (see above), but they don't even wear costumes at all. They show up in jeans and sweatshirts, carrying a goddamn pillowcase full of practically-stolen candy, shove it in your face, and demand that you feed the Halloween beast. Fuck you, you entitled little piece of shit. Here, have a piece of dog shit. How's that?

Resolution: Starting tomorrow, I'm going to start saving up all of Lucy's droppings to hand out next year to anyone unlucky enough to come looking for a Halloween morsel. Next year's Halloween collection starts in 3...2...

And happy Halloween.

Tourette's Birthday

Today is the birthday of  Georges Gilles de la Tourette, for whom Tourette's Syndrome is named. Tourette's Syndrome is almost always very mild and is usually characterized by nothing more than slight motor or verbal tics. I guess what I'm trying to say is, since most of us are pretty fucked up anyway, a person with Tourette's doesn't really stand out in a crowd these days.

And while my heart goes out to people who suffer for anything, I think we can all agree that most humor is at someone's expense. So it is with little guilt that I give you this video of Eric Cartman's dramatic portrayal of how we have been sensitized by the media to think of Tourette's: a condition of hilarity.

And then there's Tourette's Guy:

Snowy Saturday Biscuits

If any or all of the following conditions apply:

a) It's Saturday

b) It's snowing out

c) You don't have anywhere else to be

d) You want to make yourself something delicious to eat, but you know dick about cooking

Then  I'd suggest that you make yourself some biscuits.

And I'd suggest you enjoy them plain or with butter or with black raspberry preserves. I'd also suggest you serve it to yourself in your grandmother's dish.

And I'd always, always suggest that you keep individual bottles of bubbly in your fridge--along with either orange juice (for a mimosa) or peach nectar and peach schnapps (for a bellini--my choice).

And I'd finally suggest that you enjoy your beverage out of a short champagne glass instead of a tall one, because that's just how I roll, and we all know how awesome I am.

These biscuits are so easy--I swear to God, Lucy could make these--and they take no time at all. And you can trust my fat ass when I tell you that they are delicious.

CREAM BISCUITS

2 cups all-purpose flour, plus some for the counter
2 teaspoons sugar
2 teaspoons baking powder
1/2 teaspoon salt
1 1/2 cups heavy whipping cream

Adjust oven rack to the upper-middle position and heat oven to 450. Line baking sheet with parchment paper or aluminum foil. Whisk flour, sugar, baking powder, and salt together in a bowl. Stir in cream with a wooden spoon until dough forms, about 30 seconds. Turn dough onto floured counter, gather into a ball, and knead briefly (about 30 seconds) until smooth.

Pat the dough into a 3/4-inch-thick circle. cut biscuits into 8 rounds or use a knife to slice into 8 wedges (which is what I do, as evidenced by the awesome photography above). Place biscuits onto baking sheet. Bake about 15 minutes until golden brown.

If you'd like a free batch, just spend the night here at the house with me and Lucy--they'll be waiting for you when you wake up. Otherwise, you'll just have to make your own. :)

Snow in October

Here's the view from my balcony this morning:

And here's a view off to the side. Notice those lovely yellow leaves on the tree? Yeah, that's what I thought. They're there because it's still fall, people. And there is snow on the ground.

Mercifully, Lucy is very good about doing her business quickly when there's bad weather, so our morning Walk of Glamour didn't drag out too long this morning. We got back in the house and she wanted to do two things she is VERY good at: shnuggle and look out the window.

So now Lucy and I are trying to decide what to do with the rest of our day here at the Great Indoors. I started on Lucy's Christmas dress yesterday (just cut it out and stitched the edges), and I'm thinking that today may be a good day to finish it. Here's Lucy, wondering how long before she has to wear this thing and pose for pictures:

But for now, we're just going to shnuggle and work on this here blog, enjoying being warm in the house. Hope that you good people are comfy and shnuggly, too. If not, Goose can help:

Crack Creme (heh heh)

Ladies and gentlemen, courtesy of my sister who has a gift for finding humor in the damnedest places, I give you Crack Creme. How I haven’t heard of this stuff until now is a mystery, but now I’m letting you in on the action. You're welcome.

I realize that you don’t need any reason beyond the name itself to run out and buy an industrial-sized tub of this stuff, but allow me to further convince you of your need to own this. Word around the campfire is that Crack Creme is more than just a pretty face, more than just the kind of bathroom-countertop item you leave out for guests to see so that they know that they're dealing with someone of the highest class and most refined tastes: Out of 29 reviews on drugstore.com, Crack Creme averaged 5 stars out of 5. That's how you do it, bitches. Are you as curious as I am to hear people rave about the creme for the crack? Read on for some Crack Creme reviews. God, how I love the internet.

Actual quotes from Crack Creme user reviews. Some of these are funny for how much folks are willing to share, some are just painfully no-shit-Sherlock obvious, and some are just flat out ridiculous. Each one, though, has made me a new Crack Creme convert:

My skin was like leather.

Thank God I found Crack Creme.

We tried alot of creams for my Husbands foot.

I burned my fingers nearly 40 years ago by using a product with lye in it.

I like this better than some of Zim's other products. This is a cream. It has a distinct odor (my work-mates say they like it). This works REALLY good for chapped skin. I also like this because I could use my FSA card for this (in 2010).

I don't find the smell unpleasant at all. It smells like cloves.

Loved the cream, it has an interesting scent to it!

I held my nose and used it for several days, with excellent results on my cracked feet. Now I'm noticing that the odor no longer seems bad to me, but instead seems clean and refreshing.

My husband is a diabetic and nothing saves his hands in the winter time like Zim's!

It's perfect for hands that are so dry they crack.

I am the queen of hand creams.

This cream is my constant companion.

 And my favorite:
Finally a product that's true to life!!!! So many mornings I have had Grandma lips attached to a mouth wondering who did it and ran. Now that I have Zim's Crack Creme I don't feel so alone in my recuperation from the month. I feel confident enough now to search for that job I lost this month due to the circumstances leading to the reason that Zim's Crack Cream is so important in my life.

If anyone does cross-stitch, I will pay you ONE MILLION DOLLARS to write that last one in needle and thread onto fabric so that it may grace my entryway.

Parking Garage Nuggets

Yesterday I cried looking for my car in the parking garage. Not bawled, mind you, but I did shed a tear. I walked away from my desk at 11:45 to go to an off-site meeting. By the time I got in my car, it was 12:15. You can do the math on your own and see how I could get frustrated looking for my car.

At first, I was on the wrong floor. And there's no easy way to get up and down floors. Then I got mad at myself for not writing down where I had parked. Then I walked. And walked. And walked. I was wearing unforgiving heels and gott dayum! my feet were killing me! I pressed the panic button, hoping that I was close enough to make my car honk--no luck. Then I started thinking I would be late to the meeting. Then I got madder at myself. Then I started thinking how I hate living like sardines and this miserable parking/working situation. Then I started wishing I lived somewhere else. Then I started missing Arkansas. Then I started missing my family and the people I love. Then I just felt lonely.

You can imagine my relief when I finally found my car. And so I attribute to my weakened condition the fact that I looked at the license plate of the vehicle next to me not with eye-rolling disdain, but with an exhausted sense of kinship and understanding:

What else could I say?

And--in case you're wondering--I made it to the meeting just fine and all was well.

Serendipity

I won't beat around the bush on this one: I met a guy today. I had to attend a meeting off-site this afternoon and he was there. Easily the best-dressed, most charasmatic, and most charming guy in the room. He was working that meeting like goddamn George Clooney, and the girls were just lapping it up.

And you know how some people aren't even that good looking, but they really do have that "it" factor that makes them irresistible? Well, Clooney had it, AND he was crazy hot!

Anyway, all through the meeting, I noticed him glancing and smiling at me, but I wondered if maybe I was just seeing what I wanted to see. I mean, he made eye contact with everyone and he really never did stop smiling, so maybe he wasn't really paying me any special attention. BUT, at the end of the meeting--at the point where I usually duck out while everyone joins in a big circle jerk hands out business cards and networks--he came over to talk to me. OMG. He had the smoothest voice and the nicest laugh and the sweetest demeanor! You guys--I was swooning!

And then it happened. He asked me if I had plans later this evening. This was no time to play hard-to-get! I said I was free. He asked if I wanted to follow him to his place, and of course I said yes. And anyone who knows me knows that I'm not the kind of girl who's impressed by a fancy car, but his ride just made him look all the more sexy. Work it, Clooney!

As you may well have guessed, we got to his place, one thing led to another, and, well...let's just say we never even made it out of the house for dinner. After it was all over, he mumbled something about having to get up early tomorrow and maybe I should go because he needed to get some rest. He promised he'd call... and now I'm sitting here missing him.

I wish I could've gotten a picture of his gorgeous smile or his rock-hard abs or his handsome face for you, but no such luck. I did, however, manage to snap this pic as I was following him to his place:

God, I hope he calls.

:)

Hiking

Went on a little hike recently with my dear friends Alan, Lacey, and Bear (Lacey's dog), and...some days are just too beautiful to be true. I mean, just look at this sky.

And these trees? Gorge.

And this curved tree proved too tempting, both for my inner 5-year-old and for Alan's inner photographer:

If it looks as if I'm hee-haw laughing in this pic, it's because I was. I just knew that this pic would find its way onto Sweet Tea, Please, BUT both the rocks and the tree itself were so slippery (and that water was hard and fast) that all I could keep thinking was a caption that said, "BITCH GOES DOWN!"

If you're thinking to yourself that I must've finally allowed my cheap ass to buy a decent camera to take these pictures, well, you give me too much credit. For the forseeable future, this here little blog will be punctuated with picture after crappy picture from my free-with-contract cell phone. The gorgeous pictures above were courtesy of my budding photographer-friend Alan.

A Little Something I Found

Happy Belated Birthday To Daniel Boone!

This past Saturday was the birthday of frontiersman Daniel Boone, who, upon learning that one of his sons may actually have been fathered by Boone's brother while Daniel Boone was out on one of his little expeditions, said, "Well, at least he's kin."

Also, it's an excellent excuse to share this video with you fine people.

I Know What You're Thinking

Awwwwwwwwwww yeeeeeeeeeaaaaaaahhhhhhhh!!

Pervert.

Speeding Tickets (How to Get One)

Pretend you're a constable on patrol (aka cop--I just like the word "constable"). Pretend that you clock this seemingly unremarkable car going just over the speed limit:

Do you give the driver a ticket or do you let him/her off with a warning? Does THIS help you make up your mind?

I realize that "Zoom, Zoom" is the Mazda motto, but I think that Mazda does just fine on its own without any help from anyone looking to make a clever little reference with a license plate. Dumbass.

Guess who?

Someone got a bath this weekend. Someone smelled like a pile of garbage, but now someone smells like flowers. Someone was looking a bit raggamuffin, but now someone is EXTRA fluffy...

Just look at that shiny coat!

I tried to get a picture of her wet (she looks hilarious), but she wasn't having it. She was flipping me off for bathing her (as she was rolling around on my just-vacuumed carpet).

And I definitely can't get a picture of her in the bath because I have a hard enough time bathing her with just two hands. Also--this is the voice of experience, kids--I wear nothing but a bra and panties when I bathe Lucy. It's just easier than getting my clothes soaked. I'm sure we'd make a great picture at bathtime.

But she needed a bath and a trim--I'd put them both off for quite a while. Anyway, now you know what I did with my weekend. :)

Metamorphosis!

Remember Ugly Chair?

Well, she's no more! Check her out now, as demonstrated by my assistant, the lovely Lucille:

I used a chisel (at least I think it's a chisel--it's got a handle and the tool end is flat) to loosen the old staples, and I used some needle-nosed pliers to pull them out. I discovered that there were THREE covers previous to mine, so you can imagine all the staples involved:

That tag you see is a maker's sticker on the bottom of Pretty Chair. Turns out, Pretty Chair was made by Tell City Chairs in Indiana. American made, folks!

Goose, of course, supervised:

Don't be fooled into thinking that Pretty Chair is all beauty and no substance. Not only is she holding me and my considerable ass as I type this, but she is also holding Lucy, who is sleeping on a pillow on my lap.

And there you have it. Buh-bye, Ugly Chair! Hello, Pretty Chair!

License Plate Laureate

A vanity plate--no matter the inscription it bears--is usually a sufficient piece of evidence to convince the rest of the world that the car is being driven by an idiot. Witness this here Toyota 4-Runner:

Oh, really? You're a star? How nice for you.

Or maybe your name is Star. Your parents must've really hated you. How lovely.

Or maybe you're a general in the military and you pinned on your first star in 2008, so it's good you have this license plate because God knows if there's one thing generals need, it's further acknowledgement of their military rank by the rest of us low-lifes.

And don't you just love how there's not only the word "star," but there's also an actual star! OMG you guyz! That is, like, soooo smart and funny and clever and awesome!!!

But some idiots aren't content to let just their license plates do the talking--they want to confirm their stupidity to the world by further adorning their cars with all-too-convincing proof. Why, just take a look at this here parking sticker situated in the rear window of our esteemed 4-Runner:

Ah, NoVA. The ol' Northern Virginia Community College. NoVA: Where the "N" is for "Knowledge." And look: enrolled in Fall 2008! I see what you did there, STAR08! You're such a stupid motherfucker clever guy!

Chick-fil-A: Kickin' Ass, Takin' Names

Chick-fil-A takes an awful lot of heat from the liberal press for being a Christian company. They don't support gay rights and they are closed on Sundays. Whether or not you agree with either of those things, I don't see how you can't respect the general principle. They could make a TON of cash by bowing down to the liberal pressure, but they don't.

CFA was the first fast food restaurant to post its nutritional information (no sandwich is over 500 calories)--and with no pressure from the media and no social reward to reap. And their service? Nothing short of excellent, 100% of the time. Further, if there's a better french fry out there than their waffle fry, then I've certainly never had it. OH. AND. Sweet tea? Yes, please! Served all day, every day (except Sundays, like I done told ya).

The thing is, I very rarely go. Unless someone else suggests it, I never eat fast food. But if someone else DOES happen to suggest a fast food lunch, my vote is for CFA. Every time.

Anyway, a new CFA has been built less than a quarter-mile from my house, and I had heard that it was opening tomorrow morning at 6. Since I leave the house at six every morning for work, I figured I would stop in and be the very first CFA customer at the new location. WRONG.

On my way to work this morning, I noticed some activity at the CFA, but it was dark and I was barely awake, so I didn't pay much attention. But coming home tonight, the activity was not to be missed. PEOPLE WERE CAMPING THE EFF OUT AT CFA!

My curiosity got the best of me; I paid them a visit. Turns out, there's a little thing called Chick-fil-A: First 100. As one of the campers told me, any time a CFA opens, there is a 24-hour camp-out the day before. AND, for the entire 24 hours, the CFA is open to the campers only, providing them with free food and use of the facilities. When the store opens for the first time, not only do the campers get free breakfast, but they also get free CFA food for a year.

Check it out:

And there was a DJ, people! These CFA fans, seen here doing The Chicken Dance (a classic if ever there was one), asked me to join in the Hokey Pokey on my way out. I declined because I like to pretend I have a shred of dignity, even though we all know nothing could be further from the truth.

And here's the part where the campers go inside for sustenance/refreshments. The newest CFA employees were getting a pep talk from their boss:

Believe it or not, there were lots of families there. Despite the fact that it's ball-shriveling cold and wet, I'm sure it's a great little adventure with lots of memories for a family.

Anyway, I guess I won't be stopping off at CFA in the morning for a chicken biscuit, but I will likely hit the drive-thru for a beverage on my way home from work tomorrow: sweet tea, please! :)



Something to Melt Your Black Heart

 Have a box of tissues handy for this one, kiddos.

Seems that Gordon and Norma Yeager, married in 1939 in Iowa, died holding hands last week. They were in the hospital, surrounded by their children and their families, and the hospital staff could see they didn’t want to be separated, so Gordon and Norma were left together, holding hands until the end. Norma died one hour after Gordon.

It gets worse. After Gordon stopped breathing at 3:38 pm, his children couldn’t figure out why his heart monitor was still going. The nurse determined that, because they were holding hands, the heart monitor was picking up Norma’s heartbeat as it went through Gordon.

BAWL BAWLBAWLBAWLBAWL BAWL!!

OMG. I haven't cried like this since Old Yeller.

Shiny, Pretty People

Have you ever felt really good about how you looked when you left the house, all shiny and pretty, and then gotten around other people--shinier people, prettier people--and felt a little less good about yourself?

You'd think I'm fairly used to this feeling. I grew up with a sister who was not only beautiful, but likeable. Lovable. People wanted to be around her. And why wouldn't they? She's a hoot, kids. Hell, even her husband (a catch if ever there was one) has gotten so used to all the attention to get that he just shrugs it off. Good man, that one.

Anyway, I was at the wedding of a dear friend recently and EVERYONE there was shiny and pretty. I love them dearly, so there's no jealousy, but let's just say that pictures don't lie. Let's examine, shall we? ROLL that beautiful bean footage!

Here's the lovely Tina. Georgeous. Tina's hair is so goddamn shiny I can see my reflection in it, the (beautiful, lucky) bitch. And she's hilariously, self-deprecatingly funny. And smart. Damn:

And here's Jen. Best body in the world, great dresser, adorable laugh, crazy smart. That's how you do it, bitches:

And then there's Lacey. Where do I start? Eyes blue enough to swim in, blinding smile, and so funny you'll pee your pants. Bow down:

All these pictures were taken the same day. Don't these girls look shiny and pretty? How did I look, you ask?

And because no photo album is complete unless someone has a little string of spit going from the top lip to the bottom lip:

And, lest you think this is selective editing just to make a point, trust me when I tell you it is not.

Anyhow, here are the four of us together, looking as shiny and pretty as we can. WERQ it guuuurrrrllllls!

Adventures in Secondhand Stores

So I went the the cutest little fabric store on Saturday, and there was a little secondhand shop next door. You know I had to go in and poke around, and--lo and behold--wisdom awaited:

In case you're blind as a mole and can't read this--right below the part that says, "ALL PISS-STAINED MATTRESSES HALF OFF!" and "SHIT YOU DON'T NEED--ALL ON SALE!"--it says:

"The thing about quotes on the internet is you can't confirm their validity."--Abraham Lincoln.

I think I just found my new signature block quotation.

And check out this next one. Sometimes there are no words.

Purrfect Murder. Aha. Ahaha. AHAHAHAHAHAHAAAAAA!!!

It says, "The New York Times Bestselling Series" at the top! And did you see the authors' names? By Rita Mae Brown and (sweet Jesus, I'm laughing so hard right now I can barely type) Sneaky Pie Brown. SNEAKY PIE! That sounds like a game mommy and daddy play when they're able to get a sitter on a Friday night and have a little adult swim time. It's Sneaky Pie time! Oooh! And Sneaky Pie Brown??? Well, sir, that's just something different altogether...!

Heyyyyyy, Pretty Girrrrrrrrrrl!

Men can be such assholes. Why, just this evening, I was out taking Lucy for her evening walk where she is supposed to handle two items of business: Number One and Number Two, if I ain't being too subtle. So there I was, walking down the road with Lucy, and some dipshit driving by gives me a honk and a wave. Jesus H.

I mean, I was following behind my little white fluffy dog--HAND INSIDE A SHIT PICK-UP BAG, ready to pick up Lucy's steaming hot dump at a moment's notice--and this dick honks at me. I gave him the ol' Northern Virginia howdy with my middle finger, but it was, sadly, hidden by the aforementioned shit pick-up bag. (And I'm sure there's a more technical term than shit pick-up bag, but I'm not bothering to find out what it is. I think you get the point.) Not that I wasn't working the living SHIT out of that shit pick-up bag! You know I totally was!

And all the gays say, "Ooooooooooooooh! WERQ it, guuuuuuuuurrrrrrrrrrrrlllllllll!!!" Where my 'mos at???

And another thing: Lucy was on a mission. If she doesn't focus like a goddamn laser, we'll be out there forever. Dick's honk totally broke her concentration. Lucy is many things. She's a 10-pound beast of superlatives: cutest, sweetest, funniest, shnuggliest, most adorable, most loveable pup you ever did meet. She is also--and I say this with love and no judgment whatsoever--the dumbest little dog in all the wide world. I mean, she's been known to lose concentration over a gust of wind, for God's sakes. The last thing she needs is some dick in an '88 Nissan Sentra honking at us from the road when she's trying to do Big Business.

Damn.

Ugly Chair: Progress Report

Ugly Chair is still ugly, but I’m making some progress—albeit slow—in making it into Pretty Chair. Hey, man, Rome wasn’t built in a day, and Pretty Chair isn’t, either. Especially if I’m the project foreman.

Step one: I’ve procured the fabric that I’m going to use to re-cover Ugly Chair. (Hey, this one time, driving down the road, I saw a big ol’ delivery truck from a furniture repair business, and on the side it said, “Old furniture repairers never die. The just re-cover.” That’s my kind of humor right there.) Have a look:

See what I did there? See how Crazy Dog Lady worked in a picture of Goose? Here's a better shot:

Step two: I’ve procured one of the necessary tools—a big ol’ badass staple gun!—that I’m going to use to staple the above fabric onto Ugly Chair. (Hey, this one time, at my old job, there was this idiot who “worked” there and stole everyone’s oxygen. People called him a tool. But he was more than a tool. He was the whole toolbox. So he became known as Toolbox, or Box for short.)

This staple gun comes courtesy of my colleague Bill. You know how you just know that certain people will have certain things you can borrow? Well, I felt pretty sure that Bill would be the kind of guy to own a staple gun. How did I intuitively know this about Bill? Well, take a gander at this here picture of Bill (from a recent vacation expedition) and tell me if you wouldn’t assume that he’s just the sort of guy who would own a staple gun:

Yep. For sure, you just know that, somewhere between the Green Bay Packers Christmas ornaments and the bow and arrow, there's a staple gun in Bill's garage.

I’ll be sure to keep you updated on Ugly Chair’s progress.

Love, Dove, Glove: A Poem for the Day

So many uncool things about me are true: I dress like a librarian. (My hair is even in a bun today—bow down, bitches!). I majored in English. I LOVE grammar. I think the funniest (punniest) jokes involve puns. And every day I listen to this little five-minute radio show called “The Writer’s Almanac,” hosted by Garrison Keillor. GK has a voice that’s so warm and furry, like a big fuzzy bear rug I just want to roll around in and fall asleep. His voice makes my eyelids heavy, like somebody's 80-year-old meemaw who’s snuggled in bed at 8pm under about 25 handmade quilts, having just turned off an episode of “Murder She Wrote” and just had a glass of warm milk with a Metamucil chaser.

Anyway, GK read this poem on Writer’s Almanac  recently, and I thought it was just lovely.  Hopefully, you will find it life-affirming and not morose.

Unveiling

by Linda Pastan

In the cemetery
a mile away
from where we used to live,
my aunts and mother
my father and uncles lie
in two long rows,
almost the way
they used to sit around
the long planked table
at family dinners.
And walking beside
the graves today, down
one straight path
and up the next,
I don't feel sad, exactly,
just left out a bit,
as if they kept
from me the kind
of grown-up secret
they used to share
back then, something
I'm not quite ready yet
to learn.

Presented Without Comment

Guy out hiking:

Things That Make You Go, "What The...???"

On the way to our hiking destination today, we happened upon this head-scratcher:

And because I'm the kind of girl who gets all giggly over a sign that essentially says, "Pump First, Pay Later," I also grabbed this shot:

You're welcome.



Shaggin' Wagon

If you have a weak stomach, you should probably stop reading here. You've been warned.

So there I was, out for a Sunday hike with Lacey, Alan, and Lacey's very handsome dog Bear. We were driving back (and I have to say here that Alan shifted his Prius into low gear to better maneuver the terrain on Skyline Drive, and if you've never had the chance to see anyone shift gears on a badass Prius, you just haven't lived) and we happened on what looked like a normal minivan:

As we got closer, Lacey noticed that the "University of" sticker in the back window said, "University of Margaritaville," and I noticed that the little frame around the license plate said, "ASK ME ABOUT SLUMBER PARTIES"! (For those not in the know, this means, "I sell sex toys.") WhatWHATWHAAAAT????  The minivan said, "We have kids," but everything else said, "We're here to party!"

We HAD to see this couple. We HAD to pass them. Would they look sexy-glamorous or sexy-low-key? Would they be smokin' hot, the kind you just knew got it on all the time, or would they be more couple-next-door, the kind who was always lovingly playful? Let's find out, shall we?

"Oh, my God!" Lacey screamed. "Pass! Pass! Pass these people! I can't look!"

The woman in the passenger seat looked as bad--or worse--than the man you see driving. It was awful.

Anyway, if you just lost your lunch, don't blame me. I warned you in the first place.

Wait, Wait...Don't Tell Me...

You hate your commute?

Look, EVERYONE in the DC area has a crappy commute. And if you don't have a crappy commute, then you must live close to where you work, so THAT sucks. But to put "hate" on your license plate? I don't know, man. Seems kinda dumb to pay an annual license plate fee directly to the state that serves as a home to the very road you claim to H8. Jus' sayin'.