Tales from La La Land

At some point during her 5th birthday party this weekend, my niece Sophie and her cousin Avery slipped away to make an audition tape for Shear Genius. I knew that they were into painting their nails, putting on eye shadow and dressing up in princess attire. You know, things that can wash off or be taken off. So when the two of them disappeared for an unspecified amount of time on Saturday, there was no reason to be alarmed.

My sister told me that she did become a little concerned when she realized it was just too damn quiet.

Apparently, it was so quiet because Sophie was focusing very, very hard on her client, Avery. Specifically, she was trying to make sure to get Avery’s bangs into a perfect V just in time for school to start next month! I’ve been told that Sophie’s cut is actually worse, but you can’t see it here. She’s apparently got a giant bald spot on the back of  her head.

This is probably more funny for me, and for my mom, because we don’t have to send those kids to school. We aren’t those parents. We aren’t the kids who have to hit up school on the first day with jacked hair. I can just hear Sophie now, “Avery, sit here quietly while I make you so beautiful. Your hair is definitely NOT going to be a hot mess!”

And then my memory started coming back to me. I didn’t have the heart to tell my mom (after she proudly proclaimed, “None of you guys ever did that”) that while she was away working and providing for her kids, a lot of shit went down that’s probably better left unsaid (i.e. light matches on the side of the house, playing with firecrackers, snooping through Christmas presents). One of the things that went down (a lot) was me using my brother as my muse.

Now, this could be a  softball muse (i.e. he catches while I learn to pitch), refining my eye-shadow applying skills, having him test out the giant hill with his big wheel before I go down it with mine, making him take the lead role on doorbell ditch, and most importantly, practicing my beautician skills.

Sidenote: Taking the lead role in doorbell ditch basically meant that he walked up to the house across the street, rang the doorbell, and had to run away fast enough to hide. All while I watched safely from our living room window.

Sidenote 2: I definitely made him let me put make up on him. A lot.

Sidenote 3: If it makes everyone feel better, I once took my bike down a steep trail and flipped over my handle bars, which led to a huge fat lip. He didn’t always get the short end of the stick.

Sidenote 4: I wrote my brother a really nice card about 15 years ago apologizing for an enormous list of things I did to him (including stealing all of his money during monopoly and eating all of the fruit roll ups before he could have any).

Sidenote 5: Fuck, I still feel really guilty about all this.

ANYWAY, while I was thinking about Avery and Sophie going to school with those bangs, I remembered something. I once cut my brother’s hair for picture day. I do not know a) why I was allowed to do this and b) why it wasn’t fixed before the photo.

So, yeah, hopefully Mike can talk to Avery and tell her how pimp it is to go to school with sweet bangs. Because, truthfully, I’m starting to think that this kind of debauchery runs in the family. Laef doesn’t seem to remember going through any sort of hair-cutting scandal with his sister. I have checked with co-workers, and they both deny ever being in such a predicament.

When I was younger, it was hard for me to not take scissors to my hair. If I wanted layers, then I would simply just try to give myself layers.

Exhibit A (Before):

Dude. Perfect hair. Perfect bangs. But, noooooooooooo, I had to get my layer on before picture day.

Exhibit B (After):

Damn. Apparently I was that kid.

So, yeah, Avery and Sophie are just following in a long line of Ross traditions. And maybe someday Avery will be lucky enough to have Brady write a blog about her and put super cute pictures of her for the whole world to see!

Tonight will be our last night in our little beach cottage. All this time we thought it was a modest 700-square foot dwelling that we made work because we were steps from the beach. It’s easy to justify having no closet space when you see this everyday. However, the other day Laef got out his measuring tape to figure out what the actual square footage.

500 square feet.

That made it even easier to continue packing boxes in anticipation of moving into a place with some real space. Not that our new place is huge, but compared to what we’ve been making work for 3 years, it’s going to feel like we can breath a little. I honestly don’t know how we made it work, but I guess we just like each other a lot to be that close day in and day out.

Despite the size, the lack of air conditioning and the commute to work, it’s a little bittersweet to be leaving. When I ran the Eugene Marathon in May, one of the things that kept me occupied was the fact that by running 26 miles around Eugene, I went past almost every place I lived in when I was in there. Between 1996-2007 I lived on Harris St., Mill St., 18th Street, Ferry St., 245 Marche Chase Dr., 295 Marche Chase Dr., Crest Dr., and Cal Young Rd. I moved almost every single year while I was there.

I have no idea why I did that.

Poinsettia Ave. in Manhattan Beach has been our home for 3 years. That is the longest either of us has lived anywhere since leaving home at 18.

There are a lot of memories.

The Six Man. That was one of the first things we did after moving in. We didn’t know what to expect, and let’s just say it became one of our favorite things to do every year. People are insane. And, it looks like we’re moving just in time because the city is trying to crack down on it big time.

Perfect Sundays. There was no better place to walk out your front door and go on a walk. We could walk to the beach, or we could just walk around the neighborhood and look at all the houses we will never buy. We went on many, many walks. It was also the perfect town to train for a marathon. I think I’ve ran on almost every street in Manhattan Beach. There’s no other place I would have liked to train. I will miss my running routes.

The Check Out Lady At Ralph’s. OK, this is random, but the same lady has worked at the self-checkout line at Ralph’s since we’ve lived here. I love going through self-checkout whenever possible because I really hate the way people bag my groceries. Yes, I am anal, but honestly, when grocery baggers put 3 things in one bag and then double bag it, I hate it. As we all know, I used to have problems with the self checkout. But, I got better, and this lady is always there to quickly save you if things go wrong. Eventually, she stopped asking for my ID (I guess she kind of got used to the wine purchases), and would exchange eye rolls with me when there were people with 700 items trying to go through the self. Randomly the other day I said bye as I was leaving and she said, “I don’t know why, but you always make me smile when I see you.” I already liked her before she stroked my ego, but that was so nice to hear at the end of a long day. I told her that I felt the same way. Then I told her we were moving. I couldn’t believe that me and the Ralph’s check out lady had gotten so close.

That’s the thing about moving. It’s hard to leave your routine behind. I have my favorite grocery store, my favorite sushi restaurant, my favorite bar, my favorite dry cleaner, my favorite gas station, my favorite breakfast spot, my favorite running routes, and my favorite memory of all: my wedding day.

Sanch has his favorite windowsill and his favorite barf spot, so he is also struggling. At this point he has no idea what is going on, he only knows that there is a lot of cardboard to eat, and a lot of boxes to play with. What he doesn’t know is that he’s about to enter a world with an air conditioner. His life is going to change forever.

We will have an extra room, and I won’t miss  people having to sleep on an air mattress on our living room floor.

Will also not miss: The 405, overpriced touristy restaurants and questionable plumbing.

Brentwood here we come!

The other day I spent several hours throwing away a lot of random things that were taking up space in our house. I thought about Art then entire time. When it comes to “cleaning”, we see things the same way: Throwing stuff away is the easiest way to go.

I can be somewhat obsessive about clutter. We live in a small place, so every little scrap of paper makes me a little twitchy. Unfortunately, Laef does not suffer from the same affliction. Laef does not seem to notice when there are 12 crinkled up Popsicle wrappers with melted juice lining the coffee table. He also thinks it is necessary to save EVERYTHING he has ever gotten in his life.

Maybe I watched Up In The Air one too many times. Maybe after hearing George Clooney tell me that my “back pack”  was weighing me down I got a little crazy and started throwing away random crap that was collecting dust over the past 15 years.

Or maybe I got it from Art.

Two years ago to the day, I wrote an Ode to Art for his birthday. No need to really write a new Ode because I pretty much covered everything in that one.

Today is Art’s birthday, and since he is one of the few people I know checks the blog, I figured I’d give him a shout out. Also, my mom made a point to let everyone Facebook know that it was his medicare birthday so I’m guessing that’s a big deal.

Oh, Art. Where would any of us be if not for your Mr. Mom ways? All of my high school friends can attest to the fact that I had the best lunches at school. Particularly on the days that Art made egg salad sandwiches. Everyone from high school can also attest that our house was the best because there was always an abundance of Miller Lite in the fridge. We could always count on Art to give us the condom talk, and in the next breath ask us if we wanted more sour cream for our baked potato.

Art and I had our battles when I was in high school (I know it’s hard to believe, but I was a psychotic bitch who liked to do the opposite of what I was told to do). Back then, I definitely was NOT of the mindset that things should be kept tidy. No, I believed that I needed to save every single issue of Vogue magazine from 1989-1992. And they all needed to be stacked in my room in a somewhat neat pile. (Sidenote: I am very, very pissed at myself that I threw those magazines away at some point). I never made my bed, picked up my clothes, turned down my music or got off the phone. My room was a disaster area, and I’m sure it made Art crazy.

So, AJB III, enjoy the silence in your empty, clean, well-kept nest today. And thank you for always feeding us and cleaning up after us.

Have a Miller Lite and cheers to the fact that you can now get a discount at Denny’s for breakfast, lunch and dinner.

The blog is suffering. I guess I can attribute it to writers block. There’s also a small part of me that rebelled after finishing the marathon. For months, I had to be diligent about running. The training became another thing in a never-ending to-do list.

Blogging is not necessarily a “to-do”. Obviously, if I don’t want to write, no one makes me. But, I do feel a little guilty when I leave it for weeks on end. Like I’m letting the domain go to waste. I mean, what is the point of owning the domain or having a blog if you never write on it?

This past weekend, Laef and I drove to the Bay Area to visit my family. If nothing else, I wanted to put something up for my sister and Art, who claim to check everyday.

So, here’s a brief history of what’s been going on post-marathon.

The weekend after the race, I went to San Diego for a girls night with Erin, Debbie and Kristen. It was exactly what I needed to get me out of my funk. I hadn’t been able to run the whole week, and I definitely felt “off”. Maybe it’s because my feet looked like they went through the woodchipper Fargo style. Seriously, my feet were a hot mess, and my girl Erin either didn’t want to be seen with me in flip flops, or she’s just a sweet girl (all signs point to all of the above) so she treated me to a pedicure in San Diego before the start of girls night.

It is amazing how far a little pampering can go. I didn’t even know my toes could look that cute. I ventured way out of my comfort zone (I’m usually a black nail polish kind of girl) and got bright pink toes with little white flowers. Again. WHO am I? It was so fun to sit with a friend, read trashy magazines and have my feet rubbed.

Debbie sent us a message the morning of girls night and warned “Make sure you carb load for lunch. You’re going to need a solid base for tonight.”

Erin and I decided that wine and sushi were a perfectly acceptable base.

Girls night was, um, goofy. Pictures have been deleted to protect everyone. You know, in the event they decide to run for public office.  Let’s just say that there were multiple costume changes, wigs, sunglasses, bright red lipstick, and a lot of vodka. We capped the evening by watching Betty White on SNL. I may or may not have passed out on the couch in full makeup and a sparkly blue tank top I stole out of Kristen’s closet. (I wanted my girls night clothes to be as cute as Debbie’s, and felt very un-girly in my UCLA sweatshirt).

This past weekend, Laef and I headed North to visit family. What it boiled down to was the usual – my sister and Neil did a lot of cooking (I made the mimosas so I did contribute something); my sister stole from her younger baby brother; I dominated everyone at Wii table tennis (wakeboarding is a totally different story); Laef, Neil and Mike actually combined to drink 5 beers; I somehow convinced Neil to allow the TV to be on collegiate softball; I gave Sophie candy at 10 a.m. which is apparently a big no-no for kids; and I left my cell phone sitting on a park bench only to realize it once we made it all the way back home. (Surprisingly, it was still sitting there when I went back. Damn. Kind of wanted an excuse for an iPhone).

Hanging out with the family is complete and total chaos BLISS. I actually love the madness and wouldn’t have it any other way. On Sunday before Laef and I headed back home, I took Sophie to a yogurt shop that lets you do everything by yourself. You serve your yogurt and then you get to put whatever toppings on that you see fit. In the end, you are charged by weight. Of course, being  the aunty (and being that I got to leave before her sugar high hit), I let Sophie get whatever toppings she wanted. I can tell you that she opted for: Gummy worms, chocolate sprinkles, Reeses Pieces, Reeses peanut butter cups, chocolate syrup and M&Ms. All on top of rasberry yogurt. Who would of thought chocolate syrup and gummy worms go together?

We are back home now, and because I don’t have running to keep me occupied, I am focusing my time on moving. Sadly, we will be vacating our little beach bungalow in July. It is definitely bittersweet as we have so many great memories from living in Manhattan Beach. However, we have outgrown the place and are tired of commuting to work everyday. So, on the bright side, we will be living closer to UCLA to avoid the madness of the 405 freeway, and we will finally have a guest bedroom!

Because of my excitement re: more space, I may or may not have already starting packing. This type of behavior makes Laef insane. I’m just trying to avoid one of those 13-hour moving days where you do everything in one day – pack, load the car, unpack. Those days SUCK. I’m pretty sure I will see the Longeteig’s on my doorstep in July since I think I’ve helped them move once. Or 9 times.

We’re heading home to my parents for Easter weekend. All of my siblings, nieces and my nephew will be there. Should be tons of fun.

And educational.

When you hang out with a group of small children, you learn very quickly that most of your vocabulary is not acceptable. Therefore, E-V-E-R-Y-T-H-I-N-G has to be spelled out. Many times, this includes multiple words in one sentence, which after 3 cocktails (absolutely necessary during a family weekend, and any member of my family who is offended by this statement, should glance at the d-r-i-n-k in their hand), is extremely hard do to.

I used to wonder if it was necessary to talk like your competing against a 5-year-old for first prize in the spelling bee. Like, do we really need to spell out b-a-t-h? Don’t they figure this shit out after the tenth night in a row? I figure they hear the letter “b” and they are like, “F this. I’m outty.”

Then we got The Sanch, and while it is evident that he definitely knows what we are saying (“come here”, “NO”, “get the fuck off the counter”), he ignores everything that is ever said to him.

EXCEPT for the word treat. That little biatch learned that word immediately. He could be in the deepest REM sleep of his life and if we say “treat”, he is up and at ‘em immediately. So, I can definitely understand the need to spell out certain things when you are trying to avoid conflict.

My sister, Brooke, stopped through LA on her way to Mexico last week, and she brought her two daughters with her. Brooke and I were reminiscing about the last time she visited. The time we got absolutely shit-faced on Tequila on a Thursday night.

Me: “I have not been that drunk since”.

Brooke (whispering to Laef and I): “Shhhhh…don’t say drunk.”

Laef: “Remember that time when you visited and you hung out with your friends Dru n’ K?

My niece:  “You were drunk!”

Sadly, there is an age limit to the spelling/play on words tactic. So I guess this weekend I will have to use huge words like inebriated and lavation.

I don’t know if it’s the fact that it’s 80 degrees in November in LA or that I’m working today, but it certainly hasn’t felt like Thanksgiving at all.

Because Laef leaves today with the basketball team and will be gone through Sunday, I am heading to San Diego to spend the holiday with friends.

Being with friends for holidays is a super fun party, but it totally lacks the “did my mom really just drink Two Buck Chuck from a plastic cup?” or the “Is my 3-year old niece really pooping on the toilet with a newspaper?” or the “Is my sister really licking the turkey bone?” or “Is Allison seriously puking on Thanksgiving Day from being hung over?”

Nothing beats family during the holidays.

Even if Laef wasn’t going to be gone, I’m pretty certain we wouldn’t be doing our own Thanksgiving dinner. Cooking a turkey for two doesn’t make any sense, so we would have gone somewhere else and watched other people cook and other people’s families interact.

But, some day, we’re going to have our own stories. Someday, I will be cooking a turkey, Laef will be playing WoW in his boxers and our babies will be passed around among aunts, uncles, cousins and grandparents. Someday, The Sanch will wonder what the fuck happened to the good ol’ days when he ran this town and there were no mini-humans to speak of.

Can’t wait.

By the way, come back HERE on Monday to read about a SUPER exciting holiday giveaway! I can’t believe I am giving away a present and I have to keep it secret for six days. This is torture for me, but I think you will like it!

Happy Thanksgiving!

XXOO

In fifth grade I had a diary. With pink roses and a lock.

In junior high, I read Flowers in the Attic, got a journal (diaries are so for little kids) and had the pleasure getting my period while no one was around except for my dad. Unless you’re a girl, you can’t even begin to understand how humiliating that is.

Or how shitty maxi pads are. And hairy legs (no shaving until 7th grade!). And boy hair cuts. And the no makeup rule. Or skinny, twiggy legs with no sign of two bee stings up top.

There is absolutely nothing glorious about the adolescent years.

I have NEVER once wanted to revert back to a younger version of myself.

Of course, I have a list of things I’d do differently, which is why I have embraced my 30s.

Age = knowledge. Knowledge = power. Power = Not sweating the small stuff.

I recently pulled out all of my old journals because I was curious as to what was going on in my life.

Angst.

Worry.

Black hair.

Boy problems.

Parental issues.

And a whole host of other shit that I, for good reason, have kept hidden in those journals for the last 20 years.

But there was one day in March, 2001 where I had stuck an old photograph of my brother and I from 1978 and went on to write:

“The things I cherish about this photo is how utterly happy Michael and I were. We were still completely innocent. Like the virgin snow, we had such a newness. Our faces flushed with the excitement of snow – snow!! We had never known such a thing! It made everything perfect. My mother wrote our names on the back of the photograph and it reminded me of how much I always looked up to her. The writing was so precise and I loved it!”

It should be noted that my mother has perfect cursive. It should also be noted that I don’t give her nearly enough credit, so now she can rest easy knowing that she is in my journals where I don’t have to say things out loud.

Sometimes it’s just easier to write them.

This picture brought me so much joy, even 21 years later. Because it’s true. Back then we didn’t have a care in the world. The weight of the world was not yet on our back.

Grown up life was so. far. away.

A couple of days after I found this old photo in my journal, I got a text picture from my brother of my niece, Avery and my nephew, Brady.

A brother and a sister.

Just like us.

So happy about a bath.

Ahh…to be 4 again. As long as there’s no 1 in front of the 4.

Yes.

It was that kind of Bridal Luncheon. The kind with cute flowery invitations, champagne, gourmet cheese, seafood quiche.

And cock rings.

I don’t know why I ever thought I was the Bridal Luncheon kind of girl. Because let’s face it. My mother smoked a cigarette INSIDE the airport within five minutes of meeting two of my bridesmaids, my sister got me a cock ring and Amy wrapped up some garter thing in a pretty pink box.

Oh, and there were boys at my luncheon.

And basketball.

All I can say is thank goodness for Angie Sit. She brings the girliness to my party. Not that Annett, Amy and Missy aren’t super girly. After all, I am pretty sure Amy and Annett could have done without basketball and Missy wore four-inch-bright-red skank heels (which she used to kick me directly up my asshole, bruising me in a way that only a stripper could understand).

So, anyway, I arrived in Portland on Friday to find a text from Amy.

“Your mom is a hoot.”

If I had any Xanax, I would have taken eight right then.

“My mom is a hoot” can mean about a billion things.

I found Amy and my mom in the Portland airport bar and we ordered some wine while we waited for Annett. My mom was gracious enough to buy Amy and I our wine, but asked that we leave the tip. No problem, I say. But, I only have a ten dollar bill. So, I hand my mom the 10 and ask her to trade me for two fives.

She hands me one five.

Mom: “Oh! This is perfect! You give me a 10 and I give you a 5.”
Amy: …
Me: “How is this perfect?”
Mom: “It’s the first five you’ve ever given me!”
Me: “I’m on a budget and I am pretty sure getting one five for a 10 was not part of the budget.”

Such is the story with my mom. I can’t wait to read the comment she leaves on the blog.

After picking up Annett and dropping my mom off with my sister, we hit the town for some drinks. It was standard operating procedure: acting ree ree with my most favorite peeps.

We downed some late night pizza and a shot of patron before heading back to the Longeteig’s to sit in the hot tub. For some reason, we thought it was a smashing idea to drink two bottles of wine while sitting in the hot tub. Which led to a huge grilled cheese session.

Amy Longeteig can be blackout fucking wasted and make a grilled cheese sandwich that will make your head spin. OK, so it might have been the 12 glasses of wine combined with the hot tub, but my head was spinning while eating my grilled cheese.

At almost 3 a.m. I snuck away to rest my eyes for a minute.

Next thing I knew I was at the shower eating brie and drinking champagne.

We played games. I realized I shouldn’t have let the boys play. They won cheated.

All joking aside, the shower was amazing. The whole weekend was filled with all of the people that I love, eating, drinking, laughing, being highly immature and generally having a blast. Even my mom brought her 23-year-old game and had a blast.

It made me realize how special the whole wedding thing is and how excited I am to spend time with my friends.

Real life is not nearly as much fun as bridal weekends.

Heart.

Tons.

P.S. I have not tried the cock ring. But, I can assure you that it is by far the best wedding gift we have received thus far. According to Laef.

Well, my sister has returned to LA to run the half marathon with me this Sunday. I am not sure if you remember her last stay, but let’s just say that the bruises from a long night of drinking have just now healed. She is recently single, which means she is 43 going on 21. For as awesome as I always thought I was, I can not keep up with her in her current state.

I picked her up at LAX last night, and thankfully she did not smell of tequila. I knew we’d be off to a better start. We made a quick stop at Whole Foods and Pinkberry before heading home.

She came in like a hurricane, leaving The Sanch speechless and scared. For starters, she plopped all of her belongings in the middle of the floor, made a quick assessment of the house, broke a glass, let the cat get out (twice) and took over the lone computer in the house. All while making me watch Private Practice.

Once The Sanch realized that my sister was no maverick, and that she would certainly make many more mistakes that would lead to his escape, he decided to follow her all over. Well, it was part her inability to not close doors fast enough, and part the shredded beef she gave him from her Whole Foods spread. So, he cuddled with her all night and slept in the bed with her.

Prior to falling asleep, she went ballistic on her blackberry, texting and talking on the phone like a little school girl. I was simply in awe of her ability to maintain such a high level of energy at 10 p.m.

It seems she wakes up with the shakes from missing her blackberry all night because I was awoken at 6:30 a.m. to the sound of her voice on the phone. She was laughing and giggling and carrying on a full conversation. 1. Who talks on the phone at 6:30 a.m.? 2. Who talks on the phone for a half hour at 6:30 a.m.? My brain cells don’t even know the meaning of life until I have a shower and coffee.

Anyway, I am now at work and have gotten the following texts from the Zoo that used to be my sister.

8:50 a.m.: Where’s your iron?
8:54 a.m.: Any hair product stuff? Forgot mine.
9:57 a.m.: Sanch is psychotic. He is under the sink and won’t come out. He is trying to escape out of the hole under there. OK. He is fine now.
10:08 a.m.: I just fell off the back step out to the back yard. There’s a weird dog out there. Sanch ran out.
10:12 a.m.: Is gorgeous out. Heading to coffee then the beach!
(BTW, I sure did love getting that one)
11:12 a.m.: Where is your sunscreen?
11:56 a.m.: My nice vaca buzz just burst by a $40 ticket for not curbing my wheels??!! WTF??
12:10 a.m.: Back at home with Sanch.

I am nervous about what the next few hours will bring. I hope she doesn’t fall, break a glass or kill my cat. Oh wait. She’s pretty much already done all that.

The record needs to show that I am no longer the biggest cluster to come out of my mother.

XO

Here I am on Monday morning watching Regis and Kelly, drinking coffee and fantasizing about how wonderful it would be to be a stay-at-home blogger. I really think I could get used to sauntering out of bed at 9 a.m. with nary an email request in my inbox.

I am finally getting around to blogging after a busy week and even busier weekend.

Last week my oldest (she loves when I say that) sister and her older (by six months) friend had a layover in LA on their way to Mexico.

You should know that this particular sister is very business-y and has taught me about budgets, 401Ks and how to live below your means. The other one showed me how to shotgun a beer. I hope it doesn’t sound like one is better than the other, because both have been equally important in my development as a human being.

Anywasted, to my surprise, when I picked up my (oldest) sister at LAX at 8 p.m. on a Wednesday, I was planning on a quick dinner out and then back home. But, seeing as she was already drunk (two shots of tequila and two beers on the plane will do that to you), she was ready to go out. And, because of the tequila, she offered to buy dinner an drinks.

So we went to a new sushi and sake bar in Manhattan Beach where the drinks were $15 and the sake was even more. BUT, part of that money goes towards them putting a flower on every effing dish.

I had just seen the Real Housewives of Orange County where Tamra hosted a dinner party with food that was to die for – oysters, sashimi, etc. – so I was craving oysters. Little did I know that later that night my sister would also follow in Tamra’s lead in forcing me to do tequila. I think she was trying to get me naked wasted.

As everyone knows, tequila leads to bad things. Like my sister befriending some guy from Texas named Clif (one F as he told us many times) and his friend with a velour blazer, gold chain and ample chest hair exposed.

But, we didn’t care. Clif (one F) and his friends from Texas became our BFFs for the night, and it was nice to not be the bad influence for once in my life.

UPDATE: Yes, I am well aware that the story just kind of ends abruptly. I left out details like getting home at 3:30 a.m. with a cop shining his light on us and Laef having to find my sister a cab at 6 a.m. since I clearly was still unable to drive. Or be awake. Or how Brooke’s friend was none to pleased to be going to Mexico at 6 a.m. and that Laef and I were jolted awake by the following conversation:

Brooke: “Get up! We gotta go!”
JaReda: “I am NOT going!”
Brooke: “You’re going.”
JaReda: “Wake me up when the cab gets here.”
Brooke: “You have to put on a bra.”
JaReda: “I am NOT wearing a bra! I am not going! I want a Clif bar!”