Tuesday, October 6, 2015


I always hate when I hear about my ex-boyfriends dating new people.

But I should take a cue from my friend who can clearly see the bigger picture:

Me: "Have you heard from Josh?"

Her: "Yea he's dating some new chick."

Me: "You mad?"

Her: "No way...good luck to her watching him smoke weed on his couch all day.

...And having to pay for all his food."



I can totally picture it.


Wednesday, September 30, 2015

How to throw an epic bachelorette party

It’s safe to say that if you’re still talking about a party several weeks later, that means it was PRETTY EFFING EPIC.

Which is exactly what I was going for: To throw my twin sister, Joy, an EPIC Bachelorette party.





 (high-fives self)

Let me tell you about this party, ya’ll.

Just in case you want to throw your OWN epic party. 

Because aside from the surprise inflatable penis that made an appearance, this party could be the blueprint for any amazing family-type party—a literal family or a "friend family."

The key to success? Rent a beach house and have everyone equally chip in upfront for all the food and alcohol.

So that when they show up, all they need to do is take a deep breath and relax.


This is exactly what happened from Sept. 17-20, 2015. Fourteen girls spent the weekend at a beach house in Edisto Beach, SC, and the only thing on the agenda was go to the beach, eat, drink, nap, repeat.

Oh and there was an outdoor shower too.

Joy was the one who requested a beach bachelorette, and not because those words sound good together.

It’s because the beach is the most fun, relaxing place in the world and no one would have to worry about things like, uh, the real world for three days.

This particular beach, about an hour south of Charleston, SC, is also the most relaxed beach in the area (less people, no beach police) and unlike Charleston beaches, alcohol is expressly allowed.

Fellow bridesmaid Katy deserves all the credit for finding and securing our particular beach house, discovering that if you book after Labor Day, the prices go down considerably even though it’s beach weather well into October in South Carolina.

I mean, really.

The beach house was accurately described as “shabby chic,” and it had a huge kitchen/living room area for communal games, cooking and eating.

The trickiest part was coming up with menus for 14 that would be delicious, but also cheap.

I decided on a build-your-own-sandwich bar with two panini presses on the counter.

This was not only cheap (bread, meat, cheese, condiments, tomatoes, lettuce) but also in the spirit of doing whatever the F you wanted during those three days.

Don’t want lunch? Don’t eat lunch.
Want lunch? Plug in the panini press and go nuts.

It literally matched the theme of the weekend to a T.

Dinner was family-style sit-down meals, with taco night Friday and pasta night Saturday, which was expertly planned, because those are crowd-pleasers and good drunk food sustenance and ground beef can be used for both.

And sandwich items like tomatoes and onion and cheese can also be used for tacos and HOLY SHIT I’M A GENIUS.

taco dinner duty

(Breakfast was eggs, cinnamon rolls, etc. but I never woke up early enough to actually eat breakfast. I hear it was good.)

Food was purchased at Costco (with a scouting trip beforehand pretending to buy everything and get prices) and Costco won over everyone’s hearts in both the price and quality. 

(Consider them if you decide to throw your own 14-person, 3-day party.)

Now to the fun stuff: JOY.

This wasn’t just a girls’ vacation, this was A CELEBRATION OF JOY!!!! (Literally and figuratively)

Joy, who had 13 friends willing to spend nearly $100 each (plus the cost of gas) and take three days out of their lives to celebrate her final months of singledom.

Everyone pitched in to make the weekend so perfect for Joy—people stepped up to cook dinners and helped decorate the beach house with hand-made banners and “team bride” cups. 

Four girls actually flew into town for the party.

One girl battled with the TV’s five remotes to find the LSU college football game that Saturday, Joy’s favorite.

When Joy and I arrived at the beach house on Thursday night around 8, the house was already decorated and set up for the weekend. (THANKS FRIENDS) and I swear I didn’t see Joy stop smiling once.

I bought heart-shaped sunglasses (Thanks, China!) for everyone to wear on the beach. 

It was the perfect tie-in to show that we were all together celebrating the bride-to-be (Strangers on the beach stopped to say how cute they were and to give her marriage advice.)

Our friend Sara made a hand-made (hand-sewn!) sash and veil for Joy to wear on the beach over her bikini, and it was the most adorable thing ever, with her future last name on the back.


Charades was a fun post-dinner game on Friday, and we split into two teams and picked dirty bachelorette words that I got off the internet.

(I wanted to play, too, so I didn’t look at the words when I printed them and cut them out with my eyes closed so some were wonky and cut-off but that was fun, too.)

It was the perfect opening night game, and Joy’s first charades of the word "cocktail" was one of the most memorable moments from the weekend.

ring toss!!!!

On Saturday night, Joy’s official “bachelorette party” night, we had pasta night, but there was a surprise: penis-shaped pasta!!!!

Can you see a tip???

I bought a box of these babies from an “adult” store (mom don’t ask). 

They also have penis pasta at Spencer’s gifts in the mall but the mall is depressing, with hardly any nudity. 

Surprise #2 was Joy’s favorite cake ever, A COOKIE CAKE FROM THE AMERICAN COOKIE COMPANY.

When I ordered this cake, I came across a problem: The “family” “Christian” American Cookie Company doesn’t believe in drawing penises on their cakes.

How rude!

However, with creativity I didn’t even know I had, I asked them to draw a palm tree...without any leaves.

I figured the base of the tree with coconuts would be a good representation.

“You just want...the trunk?” they asked.
“Yes.” I said, muffling my giggling. “We...uh...are adding our own leaves.”

When fellow beach-goer Kristin went to pick up the cake, they opened the box and said, “Is this OK?” and she also had to muffle her giggling.

 A chocolate penis!!!

Surprise #3 was Joy GAMES.

We did the popular bachelorette games including a lingerie party and the game where we asked her fiancé, Daniel, to answer questions and then asked Joy the same questions to try and match his answers.

It was very funny, very drunken and Joy got most of the answers right, such as Who has colder toes in bed? and What is something thoughtful Joy does? (“I can’t believe he didn’t mention that I wash his coffee cup”) haha

Then there was Joy and Daniel trivia.

I hosted the game, which was played like bar trivia.

I divided everyone into teams of two, of lifelong friends paired with newer friends and bought everyone a little dry erase board and asked 20 questions about Joy and Daniel.

The winning team got prizes that were also purchased from the adult store. (LOL. mom.)

And then there was more drinking and laughing and running around on the beach after dark and maybe some skinny dipping in the ocean and catching up with every single person for good quality time.

And then more eating, more celebration, more hugging, more wine.

...And then came the morning after.

(one person epitomizes how everyone feels in this photo, find her.)

And that’s how it’s done, ya’ll!!!

I could not have asked for a more perfect weekend, or a more perfect reason to celebrate.

If the weekend was any indication of the quality and wholehearted support we have of her marriage, then Joy will be just fine. 

Everyone was so happy. IT was so happy!
Happy happy Joy Joy!

There was not one argument, not a single ounce of negativity at all. The coolest group of friends ever.

Which is how a family vacation should be. :)

Now that I think about it, that's the secret to throwing a great party: The awesome friends you invite.

(Also the weather was perfect.)

I seriously would not have changed a thing.

Thank you, Joy, for bringing us all together.

And thank you, everyone, for helping me throw the most epic party ever!!!!

Love you all to the beach and back.


Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to go make a penis-shaped macaroni necklace.


Tuesday, September 29, 2015


If you’ve ever gotten into what you think is an “irrational” fight with someone, consider this:

There are guys out there who are actually MAD at their groomsmen for not being down with them cheating on their fiancées during their bachelor party.


I have heard of this happening on TWO different occasions.



Writing about guys who cheat (or try to cheat) on their fiancées during their bachelor party is an easy Toolbag Tuesday target. 

So, let’s take this a step further—guys who not only seek out to cheat on their fiancées...at their bachelor party...but guys who actually get MAD at the groomsmen for pointing out that the whole "cheating with every single bartender" thing isn't such a good idea.


Like, seriouslyMad at your friends for not OK-ing you cheating on your fiancée??


Mind you, this wasn’t being mad at them for TELLING the fiancée about the cheating. 

Just mad that they weren’t on board with the cheating plan.



Wait, it gets better. And by better, I mean, it gets even more hilarious:

The grooms were so mad, they UN-INVITED these friends to be groomsmen.





I guess he didn't want them to be part of that pesky "speak now or forever hold your peace” line either.

...Which, ironically, I find the most rational part of a wedding.


Tuesday, September 22, 2015


Jake and Lindsay had been dating on and off for a YEAR, and he never once acknowledged her as anything romantic on social media.

...Which is the 2015 equivalent of “not introducing someone to your friends,” which is annoying and lame. 

And before you think that maybe Jake just isn’t into sharing info with that one guy he took a class with 15 years ago, you’re wrong.

Jake was very much on social media. 

He was good-looking, a writer, and posted many photos on Instagram and Facebook of artsy things like buildings and bridges and his running shoes. Hashtag: #morningvibes.

...Just no posts of Lindsay.

It was obnoxious at first, but as time went on, it turned into a “really dude??!?!” when Jake would actually un-tag himself from group photos that she and her friends posted on Facebook.

What the F

Jake then moved on to going completely out of his way to keep Lindsay out of his very active social media presence.

He would post pictures of places they would go together but not tag her or make any mention of her....even though he was only in those places because of her.

(Like, when he and Lindsay went to Wyoming to HER brother’s wedding, his post was just a photo and a caption, “Just experienced a Wyoming wedding under beautiful western skies. #Epic.”...Without mentioning Lindsay or her family whatsoever.)

Often, Jake would spend his time checking the “likes” and comments, which Lindsay noticed were often comments by girls who posed in their underwear, who also used the hashtag #morningvibes.


Is this what 2015 has come to??? Is this the equivalent of a wandering eye?

Because anyone (including Lindsay) can see those posts, and can see that uhh someone was very prominently missing.

It soon became clear that Jake was more interested in appearing single in his social media presence than spending time with his real life girlfriend.

And it was lame.

2015 lame.

But the lamest of the lame came when he won tickets to a music concert on Sirius radio.

Jake won two tickets and asked Lindsey if she wanted to go.

Of course she did.

Jake told her that he’d let her know when he got the tickets emailed, let her know if they were V.I.P. or not, if they were for all the days or just a few, etc. etc.

But before she heard from him about the tickets, she saw his Instagram page.

It was a screen grab of the email from Sirius Radio congratulating him for winning.

His caption: “"who out there wants to come with me?"




Yes, instead of forwarding the email to Lindsay as promised, he posted his “congratulations” email to Instagram.

Lindsay was fuming when she saw it, and then looked in horror as comment after comment poured in by girls: "I hope we get to rub elbows, and maybe more, at the concert."



This isn’t just a generation thing.

2015 or 1915, asking a girl if she wants an extra ticket to a show, and then asking, uhhhh....4,000 others is downright rude.


Fucking delete.


Tuesday, September 8, 2015


My friend Gina doesn’t drive a stick shift.

So imagine her surprise when she was driving her drunk date home one Saturday night and, right as she merged onto the interstate, she felt her hand on a very hard, very large STICK.



Mike, her date, had unzipped his pants while sitting shotgun and decided that Gina needed to touch his bare penis, so he placed her hand around it. Unwelcomed, unwarranted. Going 60 miles per hour.


Oh, and this was a first date.

An online first date.





This has GOT to be some sort of assault, right??? You can’t just put someone’s hands on your junk, right??!?

I mean, girls don’t even want to see your dick PIC on their phone, let alone an unwelcomed SURPRISE!!!!!!!!!!!!!! hand around it in their very own car.

This is the epitome of a toolbag. 
A gross, desperate toolbag.

Gina said Mike honestly thought she’d be down for this activity even though, as she describes, “We weren’t even being sexy and actually had just gotten into an argument about a song on the radio right before that.”

This is the true definition of a perv.

Gina said she continued looking at the INTERSTATE and took her hand back. 

She didn’t know what to do. Twist it? Yank it off? She then became very aware that she was in her car with a complete stranger-pervert.

“I’m...driving,” she said, not wanting to make him mad.

She said Mike kept bringing her hand back to his pants even though she insisted she was NOT playing that game.

She mentally kicked herself for driving him home in the first place. BUT F THAT. It’s not her fault her date was such a creepy perv he couldn’t keep it in his pants.




But he kept on.

“Come inside and meet my cat,” Mike said once Gina pulled up to his house.

OMG. Really.

“No, I’m going home,” she said.

“NO. I WON’T LET YOU!” Mike said, insisting. “YOU HAVE TO MEET MY CAT!”

“I don’t want to meet your cat,” Gina told him calmly. “I’m very tired.”

“Nothing is going to happen if you come inside,” he said. “It’s a safe place.”



I mean, he actually said "a safe place," which means it wasn't.

After much arguing back and forth, where this drunk disgusting PERV wouldn't get out of her car, Gina said he finally gave up after she dropped thoughtful curse words such as, “I’m not going inside your fucking house.”

Mike then got out of the car and stumbled to his door.

He’s lucky she didn’t call the cops and make him file as a sex offender for the rest of his life.

Mike then woke up to a nasty text message from Gina about “whipping out your dick” with the words, "disrespectful" and "disgusting" and a sexual abuse report to the online dating site to get his profile flagged for removal.

“And I had to drive home using just my right hand pinky so I wouldn’t get his gross PENIS GERMS on my steering wheel!” Gina said.


At least it wasn’t a stick shift this time.



P.S. Mike is his real name

Tuesday, September 1, 2015

My first dog

Tuesday program interruption: I GOT A DOG!!! A retired racing greyhound!!!

At age 32, I finally got my first dog.

Yes, I grew up with dogs. Yes, I’ve lived with dogs. But this is the first dog that is mine. Me, totally responsible for its well-being.

(uhhhh nobody call PETA)

I fell in love with the greyhound breed back in March, when I traveled to Rock Hill, SC and stayed with my friend Becca who owned a greyhound named Ranger. 

I had never seen a breed that chill and docile and quiet before. All Ranger did was sleep and ask for hugs with his long face.

And I wanted one.

After several Greyhound “meet-n-greets” in Charleston to confirm that they all had this temperament, I applied to be a foster and she arrived on Sunday. 

She’s going to be three years old in December and her last race was on July 17, 2015.

I have the first dibs on the option to adopt her, but they’re giving us a month together to make that decision. 

Many greyhounds need to be with other dogs, since they’ve been raised their whole lives in very close quarters with their litter mates.

Her name is Kiawah, because her racing name was Kiowa and I wanted to keep it. But I changed the spelling to Kiawah because that’s a gorgeous island in South Carolina.

But it’s not like she knows her own name anyway, since greyhounds are never called by their names.

They only have names so people at the racetrack can bet on them. They stay in cages 23 hours a day with a muzzle on.

What I've read about greyhounds is that they don’t know how to be “dogs” because they are raised to essentially be machines. Only existing for one job to do, run as fast as possible for 30 seconds to 1 minute. 

They don’t know how to walk up stairs, they don’t know how to walk on a leash, they don’t know what love is.

We went on our first walk this morning—it’s likely it was her first walk, period—and she didn’t know that she could leave my side.

Like...leave my side as in she was glued to my leg as if we were conjoined twins.

I know!!!! How sad!!! Go get those squirrels, Kiawah!!!

And I’m short, so she was basically leaning against my waist. With all 60 pounds.

Currently, Kiawah whines at night (I hope she doesn’t miss her dog friends too much) and she needs to work on her table manners (especially because she’s so tall, her head sits perfectly on the table).

But I am in love. 

When I bend down to hug her she leans into me. When she walks around, I’m in awe of her size and hind legs. She can run 40 miles per hour, which is higher than the speed limit on my street.

And she follows me all over the house which is totally endearing.

She doesn’t seem to mind my bad taste in TV, and the “why the long face?” jokes write themselves.


I need to bring her to PetSmart so she can pick out her favorite toy in the store.

She is wholly uninterested in a tennis ball or stuffed animal. She did, however, take a liking to my sock (next to her head, above) that was promptly taken away. 

When she’s being playful she drops her front legs with her tall butt in the air, shaking it.

She’s learning how to be a dog, and I’m learning how to be a dog mom.  

And this is a race I hope I win.


(Kiawah on her way to Charleston! The volunteer saw a photo opportunity by a greyhound bus.)


Friday, August 28, 2015

Five lessons Hurricane Katrina taught me

1. Buy real estate following a disaster. Houses in New Orleans are now being sold for HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA amounts of money, houses that you wouldn’t even walk by ten years ago. Empty lots have STARTING bids at $80,000 at auction. Think about that during the next major natural disaster in your town!

2. You don’t need home insurance. Katrina showed us that it doesn’t matter if you put money every year into home insurance, flood insurance, disaster insurance, etc. everyone got paid out (or bought out) from the government. And what didn’t get paid out, religious groups came down to fix it for free. ‘MERICA!!!!!!

3. Keep an ax in your attic. Before Katrina, I certainly didn’t consider the possibility that anyone would have to exit their house from the roof. And a roof does not have a human-sized door. Keep an ax in the attic so you can hack your way out in an emergency, or, you know, if a serial killer was lurking below.

4. Kids need therapy. When I was a newspaper reporter in New Orleans after the BP oil spill in 2010, I wrote an article about how BP was paying for therapy for all the children on the Gulf Coast who were traumatized by the spill. An excellent PR move and wholly important. And I’m sure there were some therapy programs for kids post-Katrina, but nothing that springs to mind. And now the “kids of Katrina,”—not the ones who were born ten years ago, but those who were impressionable 10-year-olds then who are 20 years old now—just may be EFFED up. I have no way to prove a correlation, but New Orleans has a major problem right now with teenagers and 20-something young people shooting, stabbing, terrorizing the French Quarter and beating people senseless for no apparent reason. I can’t help but wonder if these are children of the storm.

5. It forced you to care about your ex.  No matter how much you hated them in the end, after Katrina, you got in touch with your ex, asked them where they were, if they were OK and even asked them about their mamma. 

...Even if they were a toolbag.

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