You know I don't speak Spanish

I took Spanish classes for, like, six years and I actually used to be fairly proficient. When I went to the Dominican Republic for four weeks to build houses and work in a church, I actually survived the better part of the trip speaking nothing but Spanish. But it's been a good four years since I've tried to say much of anything en Espanol, save for the occasional puta sucia, which, by the way, a nun taught me in high school. The closest I usually get to the language these days is when I wear my favorite gold hoop earrings and my grandmother calls me a Latina.

But I digress. Actually, I haven't even started this post yet so is that technically even a digression? From nothing? Who wants more wine?

Lora over at Jakezilla honored me with The Proximity Award, for blogs that "invest and believe in proximity" with bloggers who "aim to find and to be friends." This is totally messing with my goal of building traffic by pissing people off, so clearly I'm not doing a good enough job. Yo, Lora, yo momma so ugly they didn't give her a costume when she tried out for Star Wars. Also, I made out with your dad last night. He says hello.

I think maybe Lora was just confused because THE AWARD IS IN SPANISH. And like I said, I'm a little out of practice, but I'm pretty sure that new award over on the right sidebar there, the one with the butterfly and the empty paper towel roll, says This blog sucks so bad it's fucking AWESOME. Kind of like Snakes on a Plane.

Thanks, Lora! This really is better than the Oscars. I'd like to thank my mom and dad, for shelling out mad dough every year so I could go to school and learn to write, and always encouraging me to reach for my dreams. B, for always being there for me. Rooney, for providing countless hours of bad dog blog fodder. And Lora's dad, for providing an unforgettable night last night. Call me.

As part of the award, bloggers are then supposed to choose eight other blogs who they believe are spreading the proximity love. Naturally, since I can never make up my mind about anything, it was difficult for me to choose only eight. Some of these bloggers I actually have met in real life, and can vouch that they are pretty good at that "friend" thing. Plus, they write pretty kickin' blogs. Others, I haven't actually met, but maybe I feel like we have. Or I wish we have. Or sometimes I sit outside their houses and watch them from their windows and pretend we have.

Either way, they're blogs that I read regularly and genuinely enjoy, and now you can too.

Hippo Brigade because she's feisty.

Lemonade & Kidneys because she once fed me the most delicious cake I'd ever had in my life and also she's strong, opinionated, and generally awesome.

Me, My Dogs, My Life because she's all about the chaos.

Simply Nutmeg because I have a crush on her husband because she's a talented writer who can tackle any topic, and she makes me laugh.

Spinning Yellow because I've only known her for a few weeks, and I already admire her for her strength.

SWOPE Files because I feel like we did know each other, we'd be great friends.

Well Read Hostess because she really does host a great party, and she constantly makes me laugh.

3 continent family for documenting the ups and downs with grace and beauty.

And if Lora hadn't given this to me, I totally would have given it to her, so don't forget to check out Jakezilla because she puts the kill in Killadelphia. By that I mean, she rocks.

Now that I've gotten that goo out of my system, I'm gonna have to walk to the office and punch someone in the face now so I feel better about myself. Maybe shove an old woman or something. Or call the cute Asian man on the corner a motherfucker. I feel better already. Tweet

UPDATED: The ultimate test of my lack of self control may result in alcoholism or death. But not my death. Probably B's

I come from a Catholic family. I grew up with all the Catholic traditions. I went to Catholic grade school, high school, and college. I know what Lent is all about. Sacrifice. But when it comes to the Catholics, what isn't about sacrifice?

Back when I actually considered myself a Catholic, I never once successfully gave up anything for Lent. When I was younger I would throw around ideas like giving up candy or soda, but I'd abandon those after a day or two, if I even ever tried at all, because seriously? Jesus gives a shit if I drink this soda right now? I don't think so.

And all the teachers and nuns would be all Jesus sacrificed HIS LIFE for you and I was all woah woah WOAH I did not ask that dude to get up there and also what the freck does that have to do with this cookie I'm about to put in my mouth?

Over the years, my friends tried (with varying degrees of failure) to give up things like cursing, eating after the bars, and sex. Sex? FAIL.

When I was a senior in college one of my roommates convinced me to try giving up sugar completely for Lent. COMPLETELY. No sugar in our tea or cereal. No cookies, cakes, or candy or any kind. No soda. No nothing. My roommate wasn't Catholic, and at that point, neither was I, but we were up for a challenge.

I made it until about four days before Easter and then I broke because I just stopped caring. I stuffed a cookie in my mouth AND IT WAS TOTALLY WORTH IT.

Well this year I'm doing it again. B and I were discussing what we could give up yesterday, and he decided to give up cursing and I was all psh that fucking sucks for you, dude. Instead I'm going to try to give up sugar again.

Since yesterday was my last day of sugar, I went ahead and ate myself into a coma indulged. And then I had some real freaky dreams last night involving one small squid, a number of ferrets, and a coworker. And now all my coworkers that are reading this are like fuck I hope it wasn't me. Then today I woke up all jittery and apparently eating fist fulls of raw sugar before bed is a bad idea.

This will be a very long 40 days and I don't think B is mentally prepared to deal with the effects of a sugarless fiance because it could get nastier than it already is nasty.

I've been without sugar for seven hours now I can't even remember why I'm doing this.

There are three boxes of Thin Mints in my kitchen right now.

This is awful.

I better lose like 15 pounds because of this.

This will inevitably lead to alcoholism.

UPDATE (11:54): I am not using Splenda, Moira. CHEMICALS.

UPDATE (11:59): Unrefined sugars in fruits and vegetables DO NOT COUNT as sugar, Caitlin. You asshole. Tweet

Now I'm totally not allowed to watch TV unsupervised

I guess it's not really a secret that I love infomercials that promise products that clean the shit out of your house. And by clean the shit out of it, I don't mean literally clean up the poop, because unless you're me or Well Read Hostess, I don't really know why you have poop in your house to begin with. What I mean is clean it like it's never been cleaned before.

Anyway. The other day I was straightening up the cluttered apartment with the television on. And as I'm hanging up various articles of clothing and trying -- in vain -- to fit them into our too-small, overly-stuffed, hole in my bedroom wall that cannot possibly really be considered a closet, a commercial for the Wonder Hanger flashed across the TV screen. And the Wonder Hanger man is all TRIPLE YOUR CLOSET SPACE! WRINKLE FREE! ORGANIZED! for only $9.99! At which point I dropped the wrinkled pile at my feet and sprinted to my computer with my credit card because I WANT TO HAVE THAT.

And I'm so excited because as soon as my Wonder Hangers get here, I will have TRIPLED my closet space and who doesn't need three times more space? And then when B came home later that afternoon and I told him how I had just changed our lives FOREVER, he was all I am marrying the smartest girl in the world what the feck is the matter with you?

I am totally not sharing my Wonder Hangers with him.

So after my ShamWows and now my Wonder Hangers I've decided that maybe it's not normal for someone under the age of 72 who doesn't live in rural Illinois to be buying things from infomercials, no matter how much they will change your life for cheap.

But then a few days later, I was totally minding my own business when my mom e-mailed me to tell me she just saw a commercial for Celebrity Sexy Teeth for $49.99 with a $50 mail in rebate and she bought it. And I was all that is so fecked up. Who's teeth did you buy? Mel Gibson's? Tina Turner's? And she's all no no no, it's whitener so my teeth will be celebrity sexy teeth FOR FREE. And who doesn't want celebrity sexy teeth for free?

So I bought that too. $50 rebate, betchessss. And when I told B about that one, he was like you are NEVER allowed to watch TV unsupervised ever again and I was all pshh add it to the list of things I'm not allowed to do unsupervised but you'll be sorry when my teeth are so much sexier than yours that I'll be forced to dump you because my teeth will be out of your league. And then he just looked at me because he knows I'm totally serious. Tweet

After watching three hours of Ace of Cakes, I'm left wondering: Marry me, Charm City Cakes?

Last night I spent quite some time watching Ace of Cakes. It's freakishly addicting. If you've never seen it, these cakes are WORKS OF ART. They are extravagant and beautiful and probably delicious but I've never heard anyone talk about how they taste because how could you possibly EAT something that amazing? It'd be like eating an endangered species or the Mona Lisa or that pretty girl who sits in front of you in statistics class that you're too afraid to talk to but perfectly content to stare at for 40 minutes every day.

There's librarian cakes and birthday cakes and wedding cakes and cowboy cakes and goth cakes and puppy cakes and and flower cakes and truck cakes and bacon cakes and Chuck Taylor cakes and armadillo cakes and Loyola College cakes and bird cakes and traditional Chinese painting cakes and and and and and and I'm sorry I slipped into a temporary sugar coma at the thought of all those cakes.

And watching all these cakes come to life with sugar and flour and tools and sugar paint and sometimes wood got me thinking about the type of cake Charm City Cakes would create if their job was to make a Yellaphant cake.

How many layers would there be? One for every neurosis? How about a layer of irony, some sarcasm, delusion, and a small layer of humor? Would there be poop involved? Maybe some tampons, a pair or two of underwear, some squirrels, an insane dog, and lots of beer. Definitely lots of beer. When you put it that way, this Yellaphant cake sounds more like a crack addict's apartment on a Sunday morning than a delicious work of art. Not very tasty at all. And certainly not pretty.

P.S. I might have fallen asleep on the couch at the end of Ace of Cakes last night and when I woke up when B came home he was all what are you WATCHING? Because at this point some old dude in an ugly shirt was on TV talking about spices and then B was all how OLD are you? 80? And I was all I WAS WATCHING CAKES I LOVE CAKES but at that point I'm pretty sure he already forgot what we were talking about because he was drunk and rolling on the floor with the dog.

P.P.S. After thinking about cakes for the past 20 minutes I'm so hungry I can't stop thinking about slamming my face into a huge pile of baked goods. Now I can't wait to go to lunch so I can eat some of those cookies I made the other night even though they are totally not as good as my usual cookies because I had to bake them on cheap IKEA cookie sheets which DOES MAKE A DIFFERENCE, B. I MAKE DELICIOUS CHOCOLATE CHIP COOKIES.

P.P.P.S. MAYBE IF YOU GOT ME SOME PAMPERED CHEF COOKIE SHEETS THEY'D BE AS GOOD AS YOUR MOTHER'S.

P.P.P.P.S. JUST SHUT UP. Tweet

Google Ads is selling my dog

Today I got an e-mail from Phil, who in case you haven't noticed, sends me the best Yellaphant e-mails about things like elves and cookies and kiwis and New Zealand and your mom. And today's e-mail subject was Google Ads is selling your dog, so I knew it would be another good one.

And inside the e-mail was this:

THIS is the ad that Google provides your blog with.

Let's take a closer look, shall we?

So apparently there's a market for dogs actively eating poop. Really, Google? What's unclear here is who's poop they're eating. Is it their own poop? Other dogs' poop? Or my poop? Or do they mean they're selling poop that eats dogs? Because that's also a possibility and quite frankly it's terrifying. Or are they selling my poop eating dog for me because clearly, dogs eating poop isn't on top of my list of Things That Are Awesome. Or did they just know that after a long day of work, nothing makes me laugh quite like the word poop?

Personally, I don't want my dog eating anyone's poop because we all know what went down the last time that happened because B is still recovering and sometimes I still hear him crying in the shower when he thinks I'm not listening.

I'm also thinking I should have monitored my Google Adwords a bit more closely when I was so often talking about things like my va jay or my panties snatching neighbor problem because there's no telling what kind of totally awesome things they were hawking then. But I bet they were amazing.

I also think I should get a bonus check or maybe a free exotic trip from Google if someone buys the dog eating poop off of Yellaphant because what kind of person wants a dog eating poop? A Yellaphant person, that's who. You're welcome, Google Adsense. You're welcome. You know where to send my check and/or travel voucher. Tweet

UPDATED: I've been ShamWowed

Have you seen this infomercial?

It's for the ShamWow. And besides being completely flabbergasted by this dude's need for a headpiece microphone because when I see headpiece microphones, I expect a boy band crazed song and dance routine that involves lots of hip thrusting because who doesn't love hip thrusting? I was also amazed at this willingness to go on national television with a fauxhawk because really? Fauxhawk? In America? Dude.

But besides all that, when I saw the power of the ShamWow I was Shamazed because I want to use that thing that can clean up all those things because who wouldn't want to clean up that gallon of spilt milk with a single cloth?! How does it DO that?

So the other day at work, a few people were discussing scary infomercials like that one with the cross that you can look through and see a Bible verse or the day you're going to die or your dead cat or something like that? And someone at the table brought up the ShamWow and I was like confessions: I want that. And that very day, when I opened up my mail I had a package from a "secret admirer," otherwise known as B's mom, AND IT WAS FILLED WITH SHAMWOWS. And the weird part is, until that morning at work, I had never even said anything out lout about a ShamWow IN MY LIFE because what type of 24 year old talks about ShamWows? Better yet, what type of 24 year old writes about them? A very sad one, that's who. It's like B's mom is a ShamWow clairvoyant. Or she sees random infomercials on television and knows I love random cleaning products and is it sad that I asked for a vacuum cleaner for my last birthday? So the fact that I got a bag full of ShamWows for Valentine's Day? Seriously awesome.

Also, while searching for a good picture of the ShamWow dude, I came across a lot of photos of frat boys who peed their pants and some cross dressing stage performer who goes by the moniker Sham WOW and I think that's an understatement. Also he looks a lot like my neighbor and if it is, I hope that's not my underwear he's wearing and if it is, then you can just keep them, dude.

Updated: So apparently I have told people that I want a ShamWow before. I just don't remember. On a totally unrelated note, who wants another glass of wine? Tweet

UPDATED AGAIN: A weekend of love with Yellaphant

This weekend was all about love. And because Saturday was Valentine's Day, B put his years of practice of perfecting the way to my heart to work for the entire weekend. He bought me flowers cooked me dinner gave me fancy jewelry pumped me with booze and let me have my way for a full 48 hours.

On Friday B met me at our corner pub after work for happy hour. I love happy hour. And after a few drinks, we decided that we enjoyed this happy hour so much that we would stay for a few more drinks and maybe a cheeseburger or two. Which we did. And before we knew it, it was late and we were on the couch watching episodes of Always Sunny in Philadelphia and we love Always Sunny in Philadelphia.

Then on Saturday B sent me to the liquor store to pick out a bottle of wine for the night's dinner and I love going to the liquor store to pick out wine. And for me, choosing the right bottle of wine is kind of like eating potato chips. I can never buy just one.

Then there was dinner. And besides the delicious wine there was also food. And oh my gah the food. And one bottle of wine and some sauteed tilapia and grilled flounder later, we were on our way to the Ben Folds concert because B got us Ben Folds Ray LaMontagne tickets for Valentine's Day but we decided to head down to see if we could scalp a couple tickets anyway. We couldn't. But remember that bottle of delicious wine we just drank? We still had fun standing in the snow together.

So we went to the bar. Our favorite bar. And we talked and talked and talked and laughed while enjoying large glasses of heavy beer. And not only do we love laughing, but we love good beer.

And the next day, after a night of doing all those things we love, we did even more things we love. B went to play paddle tennis for the afternoon, and I spent the afternoon drinking cosmos with some fellow bloggers. Because after doing this blogging thing for a little bit of time now, I've found that the best part of the whole process is definitely getting free tampons connecting with people. So when Bossy (marry me, Bossy?) invited me to little meeting of bloggers, I proposed jumped at the chance.

Spending the afternoon in a room with intelligent, irreverent, and funny women was exciting. I met the ladies behind i am bossy, Well Read Hostess, Simply Nutmeg, Spinning Yellow, A Child is Born, Lemonade and Kidneys, The New Girl, and more but I can't remember the blogs that I'm forgetting right now because yesterday I was feeling the effects of something I like to call I drank far too much last night and while all the other ladies in the room were operating at a tick tick tick tick tick pace, I was feeling a bit more like tick ... tick ... ti ... ck, which is why those cosmos really came in handy. And by the end of the afternoon, I was in love. Marry me, ladies?

And after only knowing them for one day, they've already taught me a valuable lesson: I am not ready to have babies and could you please pass the booze? So be prepared to hear more from this growing group of bloggers because we've got plans. And as soon as we figure out what they are, we'll be all over them and I promise you there will be a lot of pants shitting when we are.

Updated: Now that I've had a few cups of coffee and I'm well into the midst of Monday, I remember who I forgot to remember in my haze of fatigue and cosmopolitans. Say hello to MemeGRL, Dream Kitchen, and Mothers of Brothers.

Updated Again: Take a look at Bossy's Favorite Things today for some photos of the group of nauseous women. And only one of them is pregnant. Tweet

Some boyfriends are full of shit. Mine is covered in it.

Yesterday I got a phone call at work.

me: helloooooo?

B: Oh my god. Oh. My. God.

me: What? Are you okay? Are you home?

B: I'm covered in shit.

me: What? Shit? Like poop? You're covered in shit?

B: YES. I am covered in shiiiit. I was walking Rooney and we were walking through the real woodsy part of the trail when he ran over to this pile of stuff and started eating it. Like inhaling this crap. So I ran over and started pulling it out of his mouth. And he was squirming and then I realized it was poop and it is all over me. Oh my god I can smell it. It's overwhelming. I think I'm going to puke. STOP LAUGHING.

me: I'm sorry. I'm not laughing.

B: You are laughing and if this happened to you and I laughed at you, you would cut me and you know it.

me: Damn right I would cut you.

B: I'm seriously going to puke. I tried to wipe it off and it's not coming off. This is disgusting.

me: Where are you now? Are you almost home?

B: No. We're still about two miles away. Oh my god I need Purell. I want to bathe in it.

me: Don't touch anything when you get home. Don't touch the doorknobs. Use your shirt. Ew, you're going to get poop all over the place.

B: My hands. I'll never be clean again. I'm going to smother your face with my poop hands if you don't stop laughing at me. Oh and now Rooney is puking. That's what you get for eating shit, dude.

So I walked home for lunch and opened all the doors and turned on the shower so B wouldn't have to touch anything with his poop hands because if there's one thing I can't stand, it's poop on my doorknobs. When B got home, there was poop caked into his nail beds. You know what your mechanic's hands look like? How you know he goes home and he can never truly clean all the black from his fingers? That was what B's hands looked like. Only the black stuff was more of a dark brown. And also it was poop. And then I was like dude, remember the time Hurley ran away and when he came back he smelled like toxic waste and then when we were in the car he projectile vomited the neighbor's compost heap all over the back seat and I had to drive home with my head out the window because it smelled so bad? This is almost as bad as that day. And B was all I love dogs.

And THAT is why if your dog wants to eat shit, you should probably just let him because he's gonna puke it all up anyway and if you're really lucky, it'll be in the car, which is awesome. Tweet

Mykonos

I was obsessed with this song last summer. Now it makes me all nostalgic. So much has happened since the first night I heard this song, driving through the city on a sticky summer night.


Mykonos from Grandchildren on Vimeo.

Saw this on Brendan's These are Things, and had to post it, for the sake of nostalgia. Tweet

Confessions

It gives me a weird satisfaction to stalk the Facebook photo albums of people I dislike, just so I can hate on them even more. Tweet

If I knew a Tim Tams jingle, I'd totally be singing it right now

I've been talking New Zealand an awful lot recently, and Phil, who knows a thing or two about New Zealand himself, e-mailed me this delicious piece of NZed news today: TIM TAMS HAVE COME TO THE STATES. And in case you've never traveled to the other side of the world to try one yourself, Tim Tams are awesome. And I know it says Australia blah blah blah, but they were sold in New Zealand too. That is just so Australia to not even mention New Zealand.



Everything that comes from New Zealand is awesome. First they give us Lord of the Rings. Then they give us Flight of the Conchords. Now, they've given us Tim Tams. And all we've ever given them is a giant hole in the ozone layer right above their sunburned little heads.

If you look at the Tim Tam story on the Pepperidge Farm site, you'll get a taste of how much people lose their minds for these cookies. For example,

Tim Tam™ cookies are ranked as one of the best inventions since sliced bread, trailing only the World Wide Web, penicillin and the TV remote.*

*Source: 2008 poll conducted by The Times in the UK and news.com.au in Australia

Excuse me? What the feck are they thinking? Tim Tams are good and all, but I could name a thousand inventions better than this particular brand of cookies. Australia should be thankful the airplane was invented so countries like America can import their cookies while they're still fresh. Or how about sunblock so when the U.S. and China continue to eat the shit out of the ozone layer, the Aussies can lather up for some UV protection? Or what about those sneakers with the wheels that come out of the bottom? Or the Snuggie? Huh? What about them?

But then Phil said he understood because he'd consider ranking E.L. Fudge cookies up there with penicillin too. And that's when we noticed for the first time ever that E.L. Fudge spells ELF, which blew my mind because hello, elves make E.L. Fudge cookies, so not only are elves great at baking cookies, but they're brilliant marketers too. Then Phil told me how that was like the time he first noticed the arrow in the FedEx sign and I was all what are you talking about? But then I Google-imaged it, and he's right.

My mind has been blown open so many times today that I can barely think straight. Somebody get me a drink. And a Tim Tam. Tweet

In case you were wondering, I'd rather drink snot.

The other day in the car we were playing Would You Rather game. You know, when you ask each other questions like, would you rather freeze to death or die in a fire? Or would you rather drink a cup of snot or eat poop? And the question would you rather live without your arms or without your legs came up. And because I can never make up my mind about anything I was all ARMS. LEGS. NO, ARMS. NO, LEGS. ARMS. And as soon as I made arms my final answer I knew it was the wrong one and as some sort of sick cosmic joke it's very possible that I'll be hit by a bus this week and will wake up with no arms and then I'm totally fecked because at first I was like whatever at least I can still have sex walk but now every time I tie my shoes or type or pour myself a bowl of cereal I'm like shit I will totally not be able to do this without my arms I'VE RUINED MY LIFE. Kind of like the time my mom told me about the little girl who dropped dead from a brain aneurysm and I walked around for the next two days convinced that every step was my last because IT COULD HAPPEN TO ANYONE. So really, what I'm trying to say is that if I get hit by a truck on my way home from work tonight and the doctors have to make a choice between saving my arms or saving my legs FOR THE LOVE OF BLOG tell them to save the arms. Tweet

I need a vacation

Tweet

You know it was a good weekend when you have a hard time spelling "piece of shit" on Monday

This weekend in Boston was pretty much spectacular, as was expected.

So spectacular, in fact, that I'm having one of those days when I have a hard time adjusting back to normal life. This usually happens after weekends with my college friends. It's like a week-long hangover, only worse, because instead of having a headache and feeling like I'm going to puke, I mope around and feel sorry for myself because having a job and paying the bills and doing things for my future is RUINING MY LIFE, you know?

I'm also a little bit slow on these days. I need a little bit more time than usual to do things like think and speak and adjust to the fact that I'm not sitting in a pub enjoying an afternoon black and tan with my friends. My life is so unfair.

And today I know I must be a bit off because I just had a really hard time spelling the word "piece." Like I had to keep writing it out and switching around the i and e because for some reason it didn't look right (you know when words just do that sometimes?) and I find it really annoying when I can't even call my friend Kevin a piece of shit as quickly as I want to.

And I needed to tell Kevin he was a piece of shit because our other friend Kevin is engaged. There's two Kevins. One is engaged and one is a piece of shit. And I don't remember why these two facts are related because, hello, slow day, remember? But they are. And I could go back and look it up in my e-mail, but I'm not going to. And just for clarification, Kevin's not really a piece of shit. He's actually quite a nice fellow. I don't just befriend any old piece of shit. Well, I might, depending on how many drinks he's bought me. But this Kevin in particular, stand up man. Both of them. Keep with me please.

Kevin proposed to his girlfriend at the Philadelphia Art Museum this weekend, which is so romantic, and we're all so happy for them. Because now this means we get to go to another engagement party which is awesome because the last time we had one of those ... well I don't know exactly what happened because my friends got me so boozed and I'm still not ruling out the possibility of a roofie from Brett. But I'm pretty sure there were streamers. It also means they're going to get married and be so happy and blah blah blah join the club.

And this was just a really long aside about how much fun I had in Boston and how much I love my camper girls. And also congratulating Kevin. The one who's engaged. Two birds with one blog post. BOOM. I'm even on fire on my slow days. Tweet

And it breaks my heart

"Fidelity": Don't Divorce... from Courage Campaign on Vimeo. Tweet

And now I will entertain you with another entertaining camper story

We've been in the camper for two days. Only Lori and Tara can drive because they're the only two who know how to drive stick, which is fine by me and Mia because we're perfectly content to sit back and play sudoku while we're on the road and when we did try to drive there was A LOT OF YELLING. We're steadily making our way from Kaikoura to Nelson when we notice a line of black liquid trailing from our camper. I'm no expert in campers, 'cause you know, I don't know how to drive stick, but I'm fairly sure black liquid is bad. Just guessin'.

We pull into the next town we come along, and park in a gas station parking lot. Almost everything is closed. Tomorrow is Easter. The afternoon is slipping away. We walk into an auto store to see if anyone inside knows anything about camper vans and come out with two New Zealand air force mechanics in suits who were on their way home from a wedding because, you know, I guess stopping on the way home from a wedding to pick up some new brake pads happens pretty often if you're a mechanic.

They roll up their sleeves and crawl under the camper, suits and all, to find that the gear box has leaked all of its oil. We cannot drive the camper. It's amazing we've even made it this far, which is fantastic because remember, it's the night before Easter and everything, including the camper rental office, is closed. The office promised us a new camper, but not until late the next day.

Thus we are presented with two options: spend the night in the gas station parking lot OR accept a shower, bed, and night out with two members of the New Zealand air force. And thus, we foresee two potential outcomes: we are found two weeks later half buried in a ditch, bloodied, dismemebered, and lacking all identification OR we have perhaps the most classic of all backpacker stories, a night with the natives who have come to our rescue.

Obviously.


And that night we learned one thing. If New Zealand is famous for anything, it's breathtaking scenery fascinating culture an overwhelming sense of adventure an amazing rugby team Footrot Flats.



And also picking up random travelers is something these people do all the time because that's so kiwi. After spending the night on an air mattress on Matt's living room floor on the air force base, we accepted a ride in Matt's car for a tour around the base and the countryside of Blenheim while Tara hopped on Johan's motorcycle for a tour of their own and that sounds a lot more scandalous than it was because there really was a motorcycle and what do you take us for anyway?

Later that night, when we finally caught up with the other Americans we were travelling with, the girls were all you people are lucky you weren't DRUGGED and we were all psshh I wish and then I'm pretty sure Tara said something like feckity feck fecky up your boozehag arses because that's so Tara. And then we laughed like arseholes and made Lori teach us how to tell someone they dropped their book in sign language over a dinner of peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and beer and then took pictures of Mia peeing in the bushes because that's so us. Tweet

UPDATED: Camper nostalgia

When I was in New Zealand, I spent a few weeks living in a camper and driving around the entire South Island with three other girls who ended up becoming three of my closest friends when it was all said and done. Because how can you not get close after spending two weeks sharing tiny camper beds going on your fourth day without a shower and maybe you fart in your sleep?

We climbed a glacier, bunjee jumped off a bridge, hiked through forests, boated through rivers, took pictures in front of pristine lakes, rode a ferry through a foggy sound, drove a camper around winding curves, drank beer, ate pancakes, peed in bushes, played endless hours of Celebrity, shared stories, got piercings, walked through cities, chased buses through dark streets, and pretty much had the adventure of a lifetime.


And since then, some of us might have gone on to do other adventure of a lifetime things like living in an Amazonian jungle for six months but those people can just shut their mouths and let me have my moment.

A few years later and a few hundred miles in between all of us, we're getting together again for a quick weekend filled with oh my gahs and no she didn'ts and cheers and catch ups. Tomorrow we're road tripping to Boston to ambush the little one at dental school. I know right? Who'd have thought such a small, loud-mouthed, crass, drunk would do so well sticking sharp instruments in people's mouths? That's what she said.

My excitement level is hovering dangerously around inappropriate and remember the last time I was all hyped up on excitement and I told you about the time I woke up under my desk with no pants after a night of heavy drinking? That was after a night with these girls.

And being as this is the second time in a month that I've talked about being outrageously excited about something, I'm starting to think that maybe I'm too easily exciteable. Like what's going to happen to me when I have something coming up that's a little bit bigger than a weekend with friends? Like that whole wedding and honeymoon thing. WHAT IF I GO CATATONIC? Maybe I should be drugged. Starting now. I hope my insurance covers this. I wonder if the pot dealer on 33rd Street takes insurance cards.

(only) comment of the day: No comments? come on people! we're talking adventure of a lifetime here! we're talking two weeks of nothing but open road, beautiful scenery, sukoku and SPIT, camper breakdowns, getting rescued by 2 of New Zealand's finest, waking up on movie sets, pb&j for breakfast, lunch and dinner, relieving yourself in the great outdoors, not knowing when where the camper will end up at the end of the day. we're talking roundabouts and kilometers of highway and listening to the same mixes over and over so that all you associate with those songs is that trip! oh yea, and what bridget said. - Lori Tweet

My neighbor keeps touching my underwear

My apartment is an old Victorian house that has been divided into three apartments, one on each floor. Actually, it's an old Victorian twin house divided by floor so technically there's six apartments, but we don't associate with the other side of the house because it smells and they have dirty windows. Anyway, the three apartments on our side share a washer and dryer in the basement. This means whenever I do my laundry I have to lug everything down the steps, out the front door, around the side, and into the basement through one of those cellar doors that reminds me of the Wizard of Oz because sometimes when I pull it open I pretend I have to get in that basement real fast because THE TORNADO IS RIGHT BEHIND ME.

Since there's only two other people who share the laundry area with us, we don't often have overlaps. But recently we have. Because we share the facilities, I'm usually quite on top of my laundry timing, so I can get everything in and out as quickly as possible. But recently, no matter how precise I try to be when switching my laundry, it always seems like my downstairs neighbor gets there before me. And if he does, he usually switches my clothes from washer to dryer, or from dryer to clothes basket.

THE MAN IS FOLDING MY UNDERWEAR. And at first I didn't mind because okay, he's in a rush, I was too slow. But I swear my stuff doesn't even sit there for five minutes before I'm down there to switch machines and somehow he always gets there first, no matter when I do my laundry. WHY IS HE ALWAYS THERE?

And a few weeks ago, I had a pile of delicates that I left on top of the dryer -- DIRTY delicates -- and when I got back down to put them in, they were gone. I'm talking underwear, bras, tights, a dress, WOMEN'S THINGS. So I figured he accidentally grabbed them off the dryer when he was down there. He has a daughter, it could happen. But after a week of my stuff not reappearing, and without having bumped into DN at all, I knocked on his door. DN was out of town but his teenage daughter was visiting for the day and she checked his bedroom for me when I explained that he probably picked them up by mistake and blah blah blah. She comes back a few minutes later with a folded pile of laundry with a few lacy pairs of underwear resting right on top. Just like a cherry on top of a sundae. Oh my gah. So I thanked her profusely and hurried up the steps.

When I sorted through everything though, I noticed my dress was missing. And currently, it's my favorite casual dress even though every time I wear it B tells me I like like I'm just wearing an oversized man's plaid shirt with a belt but clearly B has no sense of anything and it's awesome, just trust. I'm also missing a particular pair of underwear so unless it was the ninjas, I assume it's still in DN's apartment. I also assume that DN spends his evenings walking around in my dress, wearing my underwear, and flashing some pretty rocking stilettos because why else would he be hanging on to my dirty laundry?

I don't even know where I'm going with this post other than the fact that my neighbor is always touching my underwear and now I have to knock on his door again and ask for my dress and by the way do you have my thong?

And yes, this is the same neighbor who controls the house's heat. Asshole. Tweet

I just pooped my pants

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