Monday, October 31, 2011

How R. L. Stine Became My Boyfriend... Practically.

Remember that time R. L. Stine tweeted me and called me crazypants? Even though he's the one who writes creepy books about creepy kids with questionable lines such as,

"'I've blown much bigger than that,' Lindy said with a superior sneer."


Even so, R. L. Stine is officially my favorite celebrity of ever. We had an awesome giveaway going on over at Childhood Trauma, my second home where we snark on books from our childhood. Goosebumps is always a favorite, because they're just so easy. Since it's Halloween, we decided to have a theme week and review all three Night of the Living Dummy books and have a Halloween themed giveaway.

After putting all of the entries in list formation, Lorraine tweeted R. L. and asked him to help us choose a winner by picking a number 1 - 20. Within seconds, he responded "16".

R. L. STINE IS SO IN LOVE WITH US, Y'ALL. He's practically a spokesperson for how fucking awesome Childhood Trauma is. We'll be rich in no time!

After thanking him via Twitter for making this the best Halloween ever, he said,

And by everyone there, I'm pretty sure he means all of us. So R. L. Stine just wished us all a Happy Halloween. You're welcome, bitches. Now go read all the Night of the Living Dummy reviews over at Childhood Trauma and eat a shitload of candy!

Monday, October 24, 2011

Game. On.

When Andy's dad came into town for the wedding, he brought a ridiculous number of presents. He left before we woke up from our wedding night coma and left two packages on our front porch, one labeled "Andy's statue" and the other labeled "Emily's statue".

We ran in the house to grab our suitcases for the honeymoon (from hell) and only had a moment to open the package and see what exactly Andy's statue was. After opening it, we found an old Asian man statue.

"Is this something your dad gave you when you were a kid?" I asked, obviously confused. "I've never seen that statue before in my life," Andy said, equally confused. What the fuck?

We left Emily's package on the couch and reminded ourselves to ask her later what the hell those statues were all about. When we returned home from our honeymoon and had caught up on enough sleep to keep us from being psycho devil people any longer, I remembered to ask Emily if she had opened her package.

"Uh, yeah, what the fuck are those statues and why did my dad give them to us?"

The only ideas we could come up with were either a) their memory really sucks or, the more likely b) their dad was cleaning out his house and wanted to get rid of a bunch of old shit without going to the dumpster. Touche, old man.

Since we didn't have a clue what to do with these Asian people statues, Andy and I decided to make a little game of it. When the SSSS was over at our house last Sunday, we set our plan into action. Emily made a very loud announcement that she would be going in the bathroom to poop, and that was our cue. The moment the bathroom door closed, Andy made a run for her keys to unlock her car. I grabbed the statues and darted out to her backseat. The dome light on the inside didn't come on, and I couldn't figure out how to get the back door unlocked in the dark. I started motioning wildly for someone to come help me, and the next thing I knew, there were four of us frantically trying to get the door open and buckle the two statues in the back seat of her car. (Safety first, y'all!)

When we finally got them safely bucked in, we slammed the door and ran to sit on the porch like OH HAI, NOTHING HAPPENING HERE INVOLVING TWO ASIAN PEOPLE IN THE BACK OF YOUR CAR, WHAT?

Emily was the first to leave for the night. She got in her car and drove off, without ever checking her back seat, which doesn't make sense to me at all, because I ALWAYS check my back seat at night before driving off, so I don't end up being the main character of a serial killer story, thank you very much.

Thirty minutes later, I got a text.

"Game. On."

And now, my friends, these two pointless Asian statues will provide endless entertainment in the form of The Game.

The statues must always stay together. If you get caught trying to move the statues, you lose. If you pawn the statues on someone else successfully, you win. Anything goes.

Aaaaand Emily has a key to my house, so I'm a little terrified of how this game could end up going.

Attention SSSS:

Fucking, game ON, bitches.


In case y'all hadn't heard, Halloween is right around the corner! And you know Childhood Trauma couldn't go through the scariest holiday of the year without doing something special, right? For the next week, we'll be covering all of the Night of the Living Dummy books from Goosebumps. (You know, the ones with Slappy the ventriloquist's doll?)

Not only are we having a special Slappy week (insert masturbation joke here), we're also having a giveaway! Our very first giveaway! And this is legit shit, y'all. As our Childhood Trauma Facebook page says, "If you like the 90's, wearing clothes and eating cookies, this giveaway is for you! If you don't like these things, I don't think we can be friends." Word.

Check out the first Night of the Living Dummy post and giveaway info hiz-ere.

Friday, October 21, 2011

Seriously? SERIOUSLY?!

An hour away from home, the lights on the car went out. It was 4:00 in the morning, and nobody was on the road. The car just died right there on the interstate like a little bitch. Andy tried to figure out what was wrong with it, but considering we were at least a few miles from a gas station, there wasn't much we could do.

Like I said before, we were on 4 hours of sleep in 36 hours. It was 4:00 AM, and we had been in travel mode since 11:00 AM the day before. We were in pretty awful moods. I wanted to be home to see my puppies and kitty. We had just been hating life two hours before. And that's when I burst into tears.

While Andy looked in the engine to see if he could figure anything out, I sat in the car and bawled my fucking eyes out. Like, serious babyface sobs, y'all. "This is the worst honeymoon everrrrrrr wahhhhhhhh" was basically all Andy could hear (which might explain why he stayed out of the car for a while). I just wanted to go home and go to sleep.

I called my amazing parents, and they got to experience the joy of being woken up at 4:00 AM to their daughter sobbing into the phone. "Your dad is on his way," my mom said before trying to make me feel better, which totally wasn't working.

My sister called a few minutes later and also tried to make me feel better. "I saw your pictures on Facebook, and it looked like you had fun!" "It was awful! I hate everything! And life! And baby Jesus! And also I'm bleeding from the vagina and I can't even change my tampon and I hate everything, including fluffy baby animals and ice cream and happiness! Wahhhhhhhhh!"

My amazing dad finally made it out to pick us up, and he found a grumpy faced daughter and a son-in-law who was trying his best to be in good spirits. We jumped our car and drove it less than a mile when it died again. Oh, totally awesome, so it's not the battery which would have been a nice, easy fix. OF FUCKING COURSE. We charged it again, just long enough to get it to a ghetto gas station, so we could leave it there and come back for it the next day. Then we headed home, and my poor dad had to go to work all day after waking up before the crack of dawn to save us. Have I mentioned my dad is amazing?

We got all of our belongings out of my dad's truck, thanked him a million times, and went inside the house to take a three hour nap. We woke up, groggy as hell, but happy to be home. I shotgunned one coffee and inserted another directly into my veins so we could take care of all the shit we had to take care of that day. It was Friday, and we both had to be back at work on Monday, so all of the legal crap had to be done immediately.

Right after depositing a paycheck into our sad, sad excuse for a bank account, we headed to the courthouse to get a copy of our recorded marriage license.

And that's where our second shitstorm began.

"It turns out that the second copy of the marriage license wasn't signed by all the right people, so we had to mail it back to you and can't give you a recorded copy until it's signed."

"So, technically, we aren't married yet?"

"Technically, you aren't married yet."


Turns out, our chaplain didn't look at the documents before throwing them in an envelope and mailing them in to the courthouse. So, you know, the one thing she was supposed to do didn't get done. -_-

I walked out of the courthouse and started angry crying almost immediately. "Just ONE THING. Can just one fucking thing go right for us? Is God just pissed because we got married in a Unitarian church by a lesbian woman? I'M SORRY, GOD, SHE SEEMED LIKE A VERY NICE CHRISTIAN WOMAN, MY BAD, DUDE."

I started calling everyone I could, and whadyaknow, not one damn person was answering their phones. My anger was so strong, that I'm pretty sure when they looked down at their phones as I was calling, a picture of Satan showed up, laughing maniacally, until the phone just burst into flames and collected into a tiny pile of demon ash in their hands.

According to the very sweet women at the courthouse, we had to go back home to get the unsigned copy they mailed to our house, go thirty minutes away to my best friend's work to get it signed, and drive back to the courthouse again to get it recorded, because, you know, Baby Jesus hates us and all.

But, somehow, we managed to get it all done. We got our marriage license, changed my driver's license, merged our bank accounts, and even had time for a Starbucks drink before going home and crashing the fuck out. We even apologized to Jesus for yelling at him. I'm pretty sure we did a fist pound explosion, and we were all good.

The next day, we picked up my car, took it to the repair shop, and were told that it just needed a new battery. As annoying as that is (because we didn't actually have to get it towed), we were happy because a new battery costs a fuck of a lot less than a new alternator (whatever the hell that is). It seemed like things were finally going right for us!


Be real. Haven't you learned anything from this story??

Our car was fixed and driving and happy as can be. We had apologized to God, Jesus, and the Holy Spirit, just to cover our bases. Monday morning, Andy headed to work and..... you guessed it! The motherfucking fucker of a car broke down, OH FOR THE LOVE OF GOD AND ALL THAT IS HOLY AND JESUS, YOU FUCKING OWE ME ONE, DUDE.

I retract all of my apologies.

Andy said, "I want to fucking sell this piece of shit fucking car!" and that's all it took for me to SKKKRRRTTTTT into a parking space at the Dodge dealership within minutes. Done, son.

Two days later, I was signing a bunch of terrifying looking papers as Mrs. Sara Bee, and what the fuck, I just bought a car??

Her name is Pearl, and she's lovely.
Did I mention she has a motherfucking refrigerator in the glovebox for all of your frosty beverages?

Since all of this bullshit has been taken care of, things have been going wonderfully. Besides being exhausted and behind on all of my bills, of course.

I like to think of the week after our wedding as the first big test in our marriage. If this had happened last year or possibly even 6 months ago, it's very likely that Andy and I would have blamed each other, gotten into a fight, and not spoken for a few days. But through everything - the car breaking down, the obnoxious people on airplanes, the lack of sleep - we didn't fight at all. We yelled at the entire fucking world together, and then we figured out how to solve our problems together. We laughed about the things that couldn't be fixed, because seriously - What else can you do but laugh when you're getting molested fifteen times at an airport?

Some girls want a guy who is a certain height. Some girls want a guy with a certain color hair, or a certain taste in music. But the only thing I've ever wanted was a guy who could make me laugh. Because when you're going through hell and you're turning into Satan and destroying people's phones, when you're scared of the look on your face that you can't see and seriously contemplating throwing yourself out of an airplane window thousands of millions in the air, a 7 foot tall guy isn't going to make you feel any better. But a guy who can point out a man in the airport who looks disturbingly like a vampire and follows people around and literally glitters in the sun? The kind of guy who can make me go immediately from crying to laughing and trying to take a picture of said glittery vampire on the down low? That's the kind of guy I want by my side for the rest of my life.

Plus he's pretty awesome in bed.

Ahem. Glittery vampire. Twilight was totally for reals, y'all.

Wednesday, October 19, 2011

Airplane! Can Someone Please Throw Me Out of One?

I got married on October 8, and it was possibly the most perfect night of my life. Everything was exactly what I'd hoped, everyone in attendance had a good time, and I physically could not stop myself from smiling the entire night.

The honeymoon began.

Now, I had a lovely time on my honeymoon, don't get me wrong. But holy shit, if the good Lord wasn't punishing us for some unknown sin, I just have the worst luck in the fucking universe.

We decided a few months ago that we would be super smart and super thrifty by flying out of Dallas instead of Shreveport, because it's way, way cheaper. So Sunday afternoon, we started the drive to Dallas in preparation for our 10:30 PM flight. After getting lost once or twice along the way, we made it to the airport where we again got lost once or twice trying to find the poor people parking. Apparently, there aren't signs up that say PO' PEOPLE THIS WAY which makes things a bit tricky. We had planned on parking in the $8 a day parking, but OH AWESOME, WE PARKED IN $19 A DAY PARKING COOL, NO BIG. Fuck you, Dallas/Ft. Worth Airport.

Once we got inside, we started going through security. I was sent through that body scanner thing, so probably there's a fat, hairy man jerking it to my skeleton right now. Yum. Right after I walked through, the woman was all, "Um, do you have anything in your pockets?" "Nope." "Oh, um, well, I'm going to have to send you through one more time."

I walked through again, and she still had a very uncomfortable look on her face. "I'm going to have to ask you a personal question. Do you have any..... piercings..... in personal areas?"

The fuck??

I turned around to look at the screen and saw a body scan with a red ALERT box right over my freaking vagina. Seriously, box? Why you gotta do me like that?

"Um, no, no piercings or anything," I told her, while my face turned super red. "Are you wearing any panties that may have metal on them?" "Are you really asking me about my panties right now?"

Apparently, I'm the strangest girl on the planet for not always remembering what panties I have on at any given time. She said she would have to pat me down and asked if I would like to go in a more private room. Bowchicawowow. Except not, because this woman is not exactly my first choice to get a pat down from.

Her request for the private room (rawr) made me especially uncomfortable because uh, wtf are you going to do to me that would make me want a private room? Turns out, she was just going to molest me quickly and send me on my way, so awesome.

Once she finished molesting my life, we realized that stupidly, we didn't check the bag with all of our toiletries in it. So even though we could have fit it in the big bag we had previously checked, we didn't think about the fact that you can't bring all that shampoo, conditioner, etc. on a plane. You know, in case I made a Panteen Pro-V bomb or some shit like that. So we had to go back to the front gate to check the bag, go back through the body scanner for another nudey skeleton picture for creepy Joe in the back, and I got to be molested all over again by the odd looking TSA agent. Awesome.

After making fun of a methhead who didn't know how to get through the glass to sit down and several men wearing suit jackets with jeans (Andy votes no, I vote yes, it's totes okay), we finally boarded the plane to Vegas.

I'm not a great flyer on account of hating heights more than anything ever, so I was already in a notsogreat mood when the plane took off. And then the jackass in front of me reclined his seat so I got to stare at the top of his head for 2 and a half lovely hours. I almost asked him if he would just rather lay across Andy and me because then, at least, I might get to stretch my fucking legs out. I passive aggressively handled the situation by opening my soda next to his ear, kicking the back of his seat every time I moved, and making gagging noises as often as possible. Bitch didn't move an inch. I think we were in a passive aggressive war at that point, and HEY BUDDY, I'M MARRIED NOW, I WIN EVERY TIME. I'm like a fucking professional passive aggressiver now, that's just how it works, 'kay?

When we finally got off the plane and sucked two cigarettes down at once, it was 2 AM our time, and I was ready to get the fuck in a bed.

We had a lot of fun times and a few cranky times on the honeymoon itself, which I'll get to later, but today is about traveling experiences, so BE PATIENT, JEEZ.

We noticed the day before we had to get on a plane to come home that our flight left at 7:30 PM but our hotel check out time was 11 AM. Awesome.

We realized we would be spending seven fun filled hours at the airport, which did not exactly start our day off well. When we got to the airport Thursday morning, we hated the entire fucking world. Every single person on the planet. Yes, even you. We fucking hated you. We were complaining about life in general, douchebags who use the only two plugs in the terminal to plug in their laptop and cell phone, as if you can't charge your goddamn cell phone IN YOUR FUCKING LAPTOP UGH I HATE YOU, and people who sat directly behind us and talked as if we had all paid three hundred freaking dollars to listen to their life stories. If Edward fucking Cullen had been there to read my mind, all he would have heard was, "IHATEYOU IHATEYOU IHATEYOU SHUTTHEFUCKUP SHUTTHEFUCKUP UGH I FUCKING HATE YOU."

I figured I could take a nap in the terminal, except for the fact that a million people decided that they were going to win their retirement on the goddamn slot machines right next to us. SHUT. UP. Not to mention the airport was kept at a breezy 10 degrees. Awesome.

We made our way to an empty terminal so we could sleep somewhere quiet and warm. I found the one spot of sun in the whole damn airport and curled up on the floor like a fucking cat. After laying there for ten minutes, a man walked up, and I swear to God, started playing motherfucking paddy cake with himself. Slapping his knees, high fiving himself, tap dancing with his hands, WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH YOU, SIR?

Right before boarding the plane, we got a super fun announcement. Our flight had been chosen for a special extra security measure check! Mother. Fucking. Awesome.

These security checks were chosen completely at random. And by 'completely at random', I mean 'not even a little random, not even close to random, not even at all'. Because I'm pretty sure that when both my husband and I, plus the couple in front of us all get chosen to be patted down and extra searched, that's not exactly random, but hey, what do I know, I don't molest people for a living.

I'm thinking we were 'randomly selected' because of the death rays I was sending to the TSA agents. Bitches, I don't need a bomb, I WILL KILL YOU WITH MY EYES. After that pat down, I really hope I'm not pregnant.

We boarded the plane and within three seconds, the loudest woman in the world was seated behind me. And not only was she the loudest person in the world, but she was also a Dallas socialite. AWESOME! AWESOME! AWESOME!

"Oh, I always go to the club on the weekends. Our country club is just lovely and perfect. None of those poor people looking us in the eye, ew."

"My husband was out of work for two whole years, so we could only afford to send our daughter to three camps that summer! Poor girl felt so unloved."

"I use fifty dollar bills as tampons sometimes, just because I can!"

If you've ever seen the movie Airplane!, just picture the scenes where all of the passengers next to Ted Striker are committing suicide to get away from his constantly moving mouth, FOR THE LOVE OF GOD. Andy and I were pantomiming shooting ourselves in the head, hanging ourselves with a rope, drinking straight gasoline, lighting ourselves on fire, and trying to throw ourselves out of the tiny airplane window. Anything to get away from this awful, awful human being.

When we made it off the airplane, it was after midnight and it looked like the other passengers thought that I was going to hulk out at any moment. They kept their distance and kept looking at each other with SAVEME eyes when I walked past. When we picked up the luggage my mother-in-law let us borrow, it was broken because God obviously wanted me to throw myself off of a building at the end of my honeymoon.

I couldn't see the look on my face, but even I was terrified by me. At one point, Andy and I were walking upstairs to get a shuttle and had to go through a one person door. A woman cut me off by throwing her stupid fugly ass in the doorway without saying excuse me or apologizing and I finally let out a "Seriously? SERIOUSLY?!" at her before launching into the most cuss-filled rant I think I've ever made.

"I fucking hate people! Fuck people! Fuck big cities and their stupid goddamn city-ness and the people in them and fuck everyone! I hate life! I want to be in a small ass town where people say fucking EXCUSE ME when they cut you off! I hate buildings and cabs and homeless people and those stupid goddamn pigeons who look like homeless people. Fuck those fucking pigeons."

After breathing into a bag for a few minutes, we made it out to our car where I literally ran to hug it and seriously considered making out with it, too. I wasn't looking forward to the three hour drive home, but I was so, so happy about not having to share space any more with people I wanted to stab in the face.

For the first thirty minutes of the drive home, Andy and I shouted at everything. We yelled at Circle Ks, buildings we didn't recognize, and confusing highways. We did not, however, yell at McDonalds, who has totally always been there for us in times of need. What up, McD. *chest pound*

For the next hour and a half, we started laughing about how insane we are when we're on four hours of sleep in 36 hours and cranky as hell. We realized that these were going to be pretty good stories to tell one day, and all was well. We even had the most delicious hamburger ever from Carl's Jr's which we don't have in Shreveport. It was a very happy ride home.



(A lot more shit happened, so I'll post the other half later this week!)