great key west moment

Scene: Four rounds and one shot into the evening, talking to some local douchebag at the side bar at Sloppy Joe's.

Curly Girl (to local douchebag): I mean, you all have a need for criminal defense attorneys here, right? I mean, don't you all get DUIs all the time? Possession? Assault and battery? Need a little representation?

Missmo (to Curly Girl): Okay, Miranda.

Curly Girl (to Missmo): Whatever, Samantha.

EDIT: It has occurred to me that some of you may not get the allusion here. In Sex and the City Episode 13, entitled "Take Me Out to the Ballgame," the girls go to a Yankees game at Miranda's behest. After the game, they hang out aroudn the locker room so that Miranda can get an autograph, and lo and behold, the new super hot Yankee walks by. So the girls get to meet New Super Hot Yankee, and here is how Miranda introduces herself: "Hi, I'm Miranda. I'm a lawyer." And New Super Hot Yankee goes "Are you gonna sue me?" And then Miranda just kind of smiles and stares blankly for a minute and then goes "No. I don't know why I just said that." So haha. That's the joke. Except that Local Douchebag was far from Super Hot, and I was mentioning the law stuff not because I was trying to impress him, but because four rounds and one shot into the evening, I was seriously contemplating moving to Key West and opening shop.

if only it were true. my life would be so much easier.

My judge/boss thinks I'm a lesbian.

I mean, I guess if I were her I'd think the same thing. Three times now I've been like "Oh, my best friend is coming from Florida to visit" and I've only been here four months. I think she's starting to suspect the "best friend" thing is code for "lesbian lover." The first time she was like "Oh, that's nice." The second time she asked "How long have you been friends?" and then added "I think it's time that she looked for a job up here and moved up here." Then today we were discussing our holiday plans and once again, I was like "Oh, my best friend is arriving tonight." And then I added "Tomorrow's her birthday so I made reservations at Notti Bianche and then we're going to the Kennedy Center to see the Nutcracker." She replied with an "Ohhhhhh, that's nice."

I've yet to tell her "Oh, this weekend my boyfriend and I [have reservations at a fancy restaurant/are going to the ballet/are visiting some friends in Brooklyn/are going to lay low.]" So I'm pretty sure she thinks, or at least strongly suspects, that I'm a lesbian.

How does one rectify the situation? "Here you go, Judge, here is that opinion I was working on. By the way, I'm not a lesbian."

I'll be back Monday with some pictures from Missmo and Am Take DC Part IV.

Happy Turkey Day, y'all!

can it be that it was all so simple then

I was recently asked what my favorite memory was. Okay, it was in one of those myspace survey things, and it was one somebody else filled out, so in actuality, I wasn't asked anything, but it got me thinking. What is my favorite memory?

It didn't take very much thinking at all. Always, forever and ever, for the rest of my life, my very favorite memory ever will be my 18th birthday. I imagine that even after I'm married at Cesar's Palace in Vegas where I will fly all my closest friends for a weekend-long boozed-up celebration of me and my perfect, funny, smart, beefy, fun, wonderfully charming and manly husband, and even after I have curly-haired, well-behaved children for whom I will throw big extravagant birthday parties complete with ponies and clowns in the backyard of my beautiful four-bedroom home which will be painted white with blue shutters and have a lilac tree in the front, I will still think of my 18th birthday as my very favorite memory EVER.

Guess who this memory stars? Yes, that's right. Missmo and Am and that's it. No guest stars. Except maybe Bertha, Missmo's 1989 Mustang convertible with the black rag top. We'll never forget that beast. We drove it down to South Beach, where we stayed at the Breakwater Hotel, with NO PARENTS. Just me, Missmo, my sexy black and white leopard print XOXO dress (which I still have, by the way), and Missmo's knee-high white leather go-go boots. Except about a week before our departure, Bertha started acting like a pubescent teenage girl and would just completely shut off whenever she felt like it. It didn't matter if we were on I-75 going 89 miles per hour or in the Taco Bell parking lot at 1 a.m. She'd just shut off.

So Missmo brought Bertha to the mechanic a few days before we left, who said that there was nothing wrong with her and we'd be fine to take her to South Beach. We trusted this mechanic, oh naïve teenage girls that we were, plus to have anybody tell us that our Super Duper Parent-Free Birthday Weekend at the Coolest Place on Earth would have to be cancelled would be the Worst Thing that Ever Happened, so we gladly took his advice.

So we're on Highway 1, bumping the DJ Clue and Puff Daddy (back when he was Puff Daddy) mixed tape (which Missmo still has, by the way), totally oblivious to the fact that we were totally going the wrong way when Bertha shut off. Luckily, however, out of nowhere, there was like a little spot where you could pull off the highway. In the miles and miles of Highway 1 that we had theretofore traveled, there was not one spot to pull off. It was a miracle, I say!

So we're sitting there on the side of Highway 1, no idea what to do, visions of sipping Malibu and Pineapple (because that was our drink back then) at Liquid dancing through our heads, when all of the sudden a tow truck pulls up behind us. So we're all "Yes, we're saved!" We get in the truck, the dude puts Bertha on the back, and we're on our way to South Beach!

Now, mind you, the Breakwater is on Ocean Ave (more about the Breakwater later). So we're on our way, butterflies in our stomachs, when all of the sudden it hits us. We're about to be TOWED ONTO SOUTH BEACH. Better yet, we're about to be TOWED ONTO OCEAN AVE. The humiliation was overwhelming. We were both near tears as we pulled off of Collins and onto Ocean. We begged, PLEADED with the tow truck driver, couldn't he drop us somewhere else or at least give us a discount since it was my birthday and all? He wasn't having any of it.

So sure enough, we pulled up in front of the Breakwater, and the valet guys had to actually valet park the car from off of the tow truck. Missmo and I ran into the lobby of the hotel as fast as we could so that nobody could identify us as the owners of the First Car Ever to be Towed onto South Beach and Valet Parked off of the Tow Truck.

Now, let me tell you about the Breakwater. It's classic South Beach. Missmo and I swore there would be house music in the lobby and a pool on the roof. We envisioned young, studly Cuban bellhops who would offer us champagne and strawberries when we arrived and accompany us to the clubs at night.

Not so, my friends. First, we were disappointed to learn that there was no pool; however, if we were ever on the beach and needed to take a shower, we could do so there for a mere $5, just like the European tourists standing next to us had done. Okay, we figured at least the rooms would be nice, and maybe there was still hope for the hot Cuban bellhops. Well, the bellhops never arrived with the champagne, and once we got to the room, we were appalled to find lots of polyester and bright blues and yellows. To top it all off, the toilet didn't flush.

So you might ask, "THIS is your favorite memory?" Yes. That weekend was the most fun I've ever had in my entire life. We hit Cameo before it was Crowbar and Prince's old club, and we had no problem getting served, which is a huge deal to 18-year-olds. We witnessed our first major bar fight, in response to which Missmo actually threw me on the floor and herself on top of me. We met our very first drag queens, and we saw topless dancing girls kissing on the balcony of a non-strip club for the first time. (I distinctly remember looking at Missmo and both of us screaming "Eeeew!" at the same time and turning to the boy I was talking to asking "Do you like that? Would you like to see your sister up there doing that?" Oh, so naïve I was back then.)

It was a rite of passage. We were never the same after that. We were no longer the teenage girls who sat out on my mom's lanai smoking cigarettes and drinking cheap ABC liquor. We were the party girls who partied like rock stars on South Beach. After that, we were there every other weekend. There was a new outfit for each trip. We switched to a different hotel, where we made friends with the manager (MISSMO!! WHAT WAS HIS NAME?!?!?!), and we went to Cameo often enough to know we HATED that stupid bouncer with those gay-ass tinted sunglasses. Some people had freshman year of college; Missmo and I had freshman year of the University of South Beach, and I've got ten bucks that says it was better than any frat party.

Ahhh…those were the days…

the bennigan's parking lot incident of 2005 (well, one of them)

Missmo and I were on the phone last night, and we were laughing about the drunken incident that I talked a little bit about in this week's Silly Bitches Association of America (SBAA) survey. We both decided that to really appreciate the story, you must know the whole thing. We think it's hysterical now, although that night neither of us thought that there was a damn thing funny about it. Those of you who know us will see the humor in the story too, we believe.

So let me give you a little background. I was home for Christmas break, and I had met this dude (go figure – a dude causing trouble) who, for reasons that are far beyond the scope of this post, Missmo DID NOT like. But I liked him. I liked him a whole lot. So the one night we went to Bennigan's, which believe it or not is the Bonita Springs premier hot spot, and he was there. So I got on the vanilla Stoli and Diet Coke, and Missmo got on the Citron and cranberry, and next thing you know, I'm all at the bar with this dude, chatting him up all night and Missmo's running around Bennigan's, growing more and more unhappy with the situation.

So then the lights come on and it's time to go, and I go and find Missmo, or she finds me, whatever, and she turns around to me and she's like "They [the dude and his cousin] are scumbags and I told them that." So I'm like "What? Why would you do that?" And she's like "Cuz, Am, they're scumbags." And then I'm all "Missmo, why are you being such a hater? You are being such a hater right now." And what's really funny about that is that I was using the term "HATER" in all seriousness, and it was just pissing Missmo off that anybody, especially me, would call her a hater. So I can't really remember what was said after that, but I remember standing in the Bennigan's parking lot, telling her that I didn't care, I wasn't getting in the car with her because she was being SUCH a hater, and I was just going to get a cab.

So next thing you know, I'm standing in front of Bennigan's, waiting for my cab, nose all up in the air and shit, and she pulls up. First it's all civil, and she's using an appropriate volume, and she's like "Amy, come on. Get in the car." And I'm all "No." And that just pissed her off even more (she's a fire sign) so then she busted out with the "AMY [MIDDLE NAME] [LAST NAME]! YOU GET IN THIS GODDAMNED CAR RIGHT NOW, I SAID!!!" So now everybody who knows her, picture Missmo in the front of Bennigan's, leaning into the passenger side of the Benzito, and screaming at me with the finger all pointing at me and shit. And then me in front of Bennigan's, arms folded in front of me, nose up in the air, pretending like I can't hear her. In front of Bennigan's, I said.

Well, eventually I actually did get in the car and she did drive me home. We screamed at each other the whole way home. I mean, the whooooole way.

I'm giggling right now because anybody who knows us knows that this is so unlike us. This is actually the one and only time we had a huge argument like that, and we've been as close as we are now for a decade. (I love saying that). Anybody who doesn't know us and witnessed this might have thought we were lovers or something the way we were carrying on. We know that really we're sisters, and we can scream at each other and say nasty things to each other (i.e., "I can't believe you're breaking up with me over a boy!" "I'm not breaking up with you!" "Well I'm breaking up with you!") and it doesn't change a thing because we got it like that.
So the next day, I waited til like noon and called her, and of course, everything was fine. It was like "You pissed me off last night." "Well you pissed me off." "Well, want to come over?" And, it turns out that she didn't really tell the dude and his cousin that they were scumbags. That's just what I thought she said. So actually, I was being the HATER that night.

everybody reach up for the ho-zone layer

Missmo and I are having a "ho war." That's when everything we say ends in "ho." Like, "Oh my God, you and Geoff will be here tomorrow, ho." Or "You like getting text messages at 3 a.m. on a Tuesday night that say 'Are you still awake?', ho." Or "I don't care that you have to work seven days a week. We're going dancing until 3 in the morning on Friday so stop being lame, ho."
In honor of the current ho war, I'm gonna post this actual footnote from an actual case out of California. I so wish that I was the clerk who got to write this footnote. It is my very favorite piece of legal writing EVER. It's just absolutely genius.
___________
Footnote 1 from U.S. v. Murphy, 406 F.3d 857:
The trial transcript quotes Ms. Hayden as saying Murphy called her a snitch bitch "hoe." A "hoe," of course, is a tool used for weeding and gardening. We think the court reporter, unfamiliar with rap music (perhaps thankfully so), misunderstood Hayden's response. We have taken the liberty of changing "hoe" to "ho," a staple of rap music vernacular as, for example, when Ludacris raps "You doin' ho activities with ho tendencies."
__________
Everyone have a happy ho day.

9/11/01

Well, it's that date. That one date that conjures up feelings of fear, anger, sorrow, and solidarity all at once. Last night, my roommate and I watched a special on CBS about the firefighters who lost their lives in the World Trade Center. It has been about a year since I really sat down and watched the whole thing happen again on television. It reminded me of that day, how confusing and scary it was, and how surreal it was. Still to this day, I don't think I really understand the totality of what happened. I was in Florida when it happened, getting ready for my Biology lab. I hadn't been to New York in years, and at that point in my life, I had never been to DC. I had seen the towers before, but I was very young. I still can't really remember how tall they were; how grand they really were. In 2003, I visited Ground Zero. I remember looking up at all the other skyscrapers and thinking to myself, "These buildings are so tall, but they're nothing compared to what those towers were." I stared into the void that is now where the towers used to be, but I still couldn't wrap my mind around what had really happened there. I wonder if I'll ever truly understand.

There is one image that I've seen on television over and over again that makes it real to me. I watched as the second plane crashed into the tower; I watched both collapse in real time. I saw the people running down the street, crying and screaming, and since then, I've seen the footage of the staircases - people in business suits going down the stairs; men in fireproof jackets going up the stairs. But still, there is just one image that makes my heart sink as low as it will get and gets me all choked up every time I see it or talk about. It's a young woman, with dark curly hair if I remember correctly, standing on a corner in Manhattan, holding a picture of another young woman, her eyes wide with desperation, holding the picture to the camera and pleading to anyone who will listen "Please, I need to find her. This is my best friend. Please."

I'm even getting a little emotional right now writing about it…

This is the image that makes it the most real to me. The planes, the towers collapsing, the people running through the streets – it seems like a movie. The firefighters climbing up the stairs – I don't know what it would be like to be them. Did they know they were climbing to their deaths? Were they scared? I have no idea.

But I know how that woman felt. My heart breaks with her every time I see her. I know about having a best friend, a friend that you just couldn't live without. I don't know what it would be like to be her at that very moment, but I know how I would feel if I were her. I know that getting there and finding her would be the only thing that I would be able to do with my life. I know that I would stand on the street corner with her picture, day in and day out, pleading, hoping, fearing, crying, searching. Nothing else in my life would matter.

I wonder if she ever found her. I hope so.

yo quiero tacobell

Somebody in my office is cooking microwave popcorn or something, and it smells like a chicken and cheese quesedilla from Taco Bell. Now I really, really want a chicken and cheese quesedilla from Taco Bell. And I want it NOW.

Just a little FYI - if I were to have one now, it would be my first sober chicken and cheese quesedilla from Taco Bell experience. Missmo and I always share one on our way back to the house after a night out, but I don't think I've ever had one during the day. They usually serve as a little appetizer until we can get in the house and get into the Grilled Stuffed Burritos with extra sour cream, please.

Jesus Christo. And I wonder why I'm not a size 4.

on that note...

PERHAPS ONE OF THE FUNNIEST THINGS MISSMO HAS EVER SAID

Dude who once ripped my heart out of my chest, threw it on the floor, and then stomped on it (but I'm not bitter): So, have either of you girls ever had sex with a black guy?

Missmo (damn, she's quick): Yeah!!! And actually, we made movies and posted them on the internet. You can find them and double u double u dot i'm a racist prick dot com.
My friends are so damn witty, they put me to shame.