Category Archives: Wipe the Drool

eHopeful Part 3: High Altitude

“I feel like I’m dreaming,” I texted to one of my closest friends back home.

I was sitting on a piece of sun-bleached driftwood, my feet in the sand, staring west across the Strait of Juan de Fuca. The water stretched between the Whidbey Island Naval Air Station, where I was planted, and Victoria, British Columbia, approximately 25 miles away.

eHarmony-Frank-naval-base-beach

Every five minutes, a deafening roar pierced the silence. I looked up. This time, two fighter jets soared across the horizon. It was like they were performing synchronized swimming in the sky.

“Cooooooolllll,” I thought. “I’ll have to ask Frank about that move.”

Just a few months earlier, I separated from my husband, got laid off from work, and wondered where my life was headed. Thanks to the wonders of online dating and a penchant for making the first move, I now found myself 3,000 miles from home, on a 3-day-long first date with a Navy pilot named Frank.

We had met face-to-face in Seattle just two days before (for more, check out Part 1 and Part 2!), and by then, I was pretty sure I’d met my soul mate. I mean, what were the chances my second eHarmony match would mention a love of bacon, hiking and dental floss all in one profile?

I dug my toes a little further into the sand, smiling. The earth was rockier than at Discovery Bay, where we’d been yesterday, serenaded by a nearby group of musicians. We had sat mostly in silence, in between bouts of making out, punch drunk and full of chocolate from a tour of Theo’s – one of the many surprises Frank had had in store for me.

eHarmony-Frank-Discovery-Bay

Earlier, we’d ridden the Seattle “Ride the Ducks” Tour, shivering beneath a tiny blanket, while we ventured from land to sea and back to land. Frank had sung along to the corny soundtrack -especially when it was a country song- which did a much better job of warming me up. His voice was on key, deep and rumbling, making me giggle and blush.

eHarmony-Frank-duck-tour eHarmony-Frank-Duck-Tour-2

That morning, Frank made green smoothies at his house and brought one for me for breakfast. It was delicious.

The Auld Holland Inn complimentary breakfast leaves much to the imagination.

The Auld Holland Inn complimentary breakfast leaves much to the imagination.

We had time to kill before he had to report to base, so Frank drove us up to Deception Pass.

“Do you know why they call it that?” he asked.

I shook my head, still not comfortable enough to make my usual jokes.

“The original explorers had trouble finding their way around Whidbey Island and thought it was a peninsula. But we call it that because some pilots try to fly under the bridge, which looks deceptively easy.”

I shuddered at the thought of trying to fly a fighter jet under the tiny archway.

eHarmony-Frank-Deception-Pass

“I was hoping you’d get to see my last flight on the Prowler [before we officially retire it],” Frank apologized. “But now it’s not scheduled until Thursday.”

“That’s okay,” I replied immediately.

“You’ll still get to see me fly today, though,” he added, while I wondered what the heck a Jersey girl with almost zero understanding of the military wore on base. My running outfit? Sneakers? I had only packed one small suitcase.

I tried not to ask too many questions as Frank explained that I needed to keep his I.D. on me in order to get around base. He introduced me to everyone, and some of his squadron shot him a knowing glance when they thought I wasn’t looking. The base reminded me a little bit of a college campus, a self-contained community with its own hotel, McDonald’s and gym. In my bright red raincoat and running shoes, I was sure I’d get thrown out any minute.

I camped out in a large room with movie theater-style seats and a projector screen, trying to look busy with my phone, while everyone else went behind closed doors to discuss top level security clearance-y type things. I glanced around surreptitiously; the back wall held the coffee mugs, each emblazoned with a flight name (think “Maverick” and “Goose”).

“When do I get a flight name?” I asked Frank later.

“You have to earn it,” he replied with mock solemnity. “Want to see us get suited up?”

I’d never been a sucker for a man in uniform, but snapped about a hundred pictures as Frank pulled on one thing after another from his locker.

eHarmony-Frank-flight-suit

I am no longer immune.

After missing both his ascent and descent (thanks to my sheer blonditude), Frank led me over to the tarmac to snap this photo:

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I was THISCLOSE to getting my picture inside.

That night we shared another romantic dinner and tried not to think about the inevitable.

Our goodbye the next morning was bittersweet, standing in front of my red rental minivan, my age-old insecurities threatening to spill over: How does he feel? Did he have a good time? Does he really want to be with me? As he walked away and put on the final piece of his flight suit, his cap, I thought,

“Nothing will ever be the same.”

I was right.

eHarmony-Frank-I-love-you

Stay tuned later this week for the final edition: Part 4: Crash Landing!

~*~*~*~*~*

eHopeful Part 2: We Have Lift-off

Less than two months after I started corresponding with Frank, the Navy pilot I met through eHarmony, I volunteered to fly 3,000 miles, from New Jersey to Washington, so we could meet face-to-face. (You can read more in Part 1!)

Frank

The profile pic that launched a thousand ships (or, you know, one airplane).

“I should have been the one to invite you!” he moaned, which proved how little he knew me. He was the first person I met on eHarmony, and I had been the one to reach out. My middle name might as well be Sadie Hawkins.

Frank and I were communicating endlessly by that point, and I couldn’t bear the suspense any longer. We made plans to meet in Seattle, where we’d spend a night (“IN SEPARATE ROOMS,” I clarified repeatedly) and do some sightseeing, before heading north, closer to base, where I’d spend another two nights, he at home, me in a hotel. He hinted at a few surprises while I shopped for clothes and got my hair cut, both of us more excited as each day passed.

The weirdest part about the whole thing was that no one told me not to go. Not my parents, my siblings or my closest friends. Was I that stubborn? That in need of adventure? It was as if I’d been single for years instead of months; the ink was still wet on my divorce paperwork and I hadn’t been on the market in over ten years, yet I felt ready.

The flight to Seattle went smoothly, unlike picking up my rental car. I was delayed two hours, and wound up with the only thing they had left: A giant red minivan.

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“I got this,” I told myself as I drove into a city I’d visited only once before.  “No big deal. Just driving a MINIVAN into downtown Seattle by myself, about to meet my soul mate.”

“Is there any chance I can check in early?” I asked the front desk once I arrived at my hotel. My Pre-Soul Mate Meeting Plan definitely included a shower and change of clothes.

“No, I’m sorry,” the receptionist replied.

I went outside, suddenly feeling panicky, and texted my best friend.

“YOU GO IN THERE AND TELL THEM YOUR SITUATION,” she fired back. I obeyed, stomach in knots.

“I’m sorry,” the receptionist said, unmoved by my romantic tale. “There’s nothing I can do. But I can give you a free parking pass.”

I wound up changing in the main bathroom, right before Frank arrived, two hours early. It looked like I’d be making my grand entrance in the lobby, a la Kate Winslet on the stairs of the Titanic.

eHarmony-Frank-Titanic-stairs

Make it count, Frank.

But somehow he had been able to check in (must’ve been the Southern charm of a native Tennessean).

“I can come down or you could meet me up here,” he said, from the shroud of his room.

“I’ll come to you,” I replied, taking a deep breath and heading to the third floor, eager to avoid an audience.

Moments later, I knocked on his door and he swung it open, looking as nervous as I felt. I had worn my black wedge heels, striped cotton dress and yellow cardigan from Old Navy because I knew he liked them, but now was cursing my decision. I felt huge, standing nearly six feet tall, and probably not much lighter than him, though I’d finally hit my goal weight that month. In heels, we were almost the same height, blue eyes anxiously meeting blue eyes.

We awkwardly embraced. Oh no. Oh no. This isn’t how I expected this to go. Will we really click? Was this a mistake? Does he really like me? Does he still think I’m pretty?

We walked the short distance to the Space Needle, struggling for conversation. The March weather was mild compared to temperatures back home, but I shivered anyway. I relied on the people skills I’d honed through my work as a project manager, trying to keep uncomfortable silences at bay. Once atop the Needle, Frank pointed out various landmarks, his command of the territory impressive. He must be used to seeing it from up here, I thought.

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I listened to the slow, calm way he spoke, as if this kind of conversation could go on for hours with nothing more pressing to get in the way. A vast contrast to the animated, hyper speed I was used to, having grown up a breath away from New York City. I nodded and pretended to listen, while my head and heart and breath continued their intrinsic rhythm: Go-go-go.

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Eventually, as we toured Pike Place Market, accepting the samples of exotic fruits and vegetables offered to us, he took my hand.

Oh thank god. Relief flooded my body. He likes me! 

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Our first photo together. Beautiful, no?

eHarmony-Frank-Pike-Place-Market eHarmony-Frank-Pike-Place-monkfish

We shared a candlelit dinner followed by drinks at one of a million hipster bars in the city, where we both finally started to relax. We sat knee to knee in a cozy red booth, staring into each other’s eyes while he occasionally murmured compliments in my ear. I flushed from head to toe. My experience with romance up until then had been young and sweet and tongue in cheek, then familiar, comfortable and tongue in cheek.

I had never been so earnestly wooed.

It was working.

eHarmony-Frank-candlelit-dinner

Next up: eHopeful Part 3: High Altitude! (Don’t worry. I’ll wrap this shiz up in Part 4.)

~*~*~*~*~*~

eHopeful Part 1: The Ascent

Meet Jim Bob Frank. Let’s call him Frank. Because frankly my dear, I don’t give a damn.

Okay, yes I do. I soooo do.

Wait, yes I do. I soooo do.

When I joined eHarmony last year -because it seemed the most upstanding of the popular online dating sites- Frank popped up as a match almost right away. For those of you unfamiliar with eHarmony: a) Lucky! and b) They don’t trust you to wade through the man pool on your own. You take what they send you, and what they send you is based on their road-tested algorithm.

Sometimes they even have faces!

Sometimes they even have faces!

It was slim pickings out there, I could already tell, so the fact that Frank lived 3,000 miles away was of little concern. He was my age! And flossed!

I chose the least pushy of my options and sent Frank a smile, then waited with bated breath. By the next morning, we were corresponding through the protective nest of eHarmony’s guided email program.

THIS IS THE GREATEST DAY OF MY LIFE.

THIS IS THE GREATEST DAY OF MY LIFE.

I soon learned Frank was a conservative Navy pilot from Tennessee (stationed in the Pacific Northwest). I was a liberal project manager from New Jersey (stationed in suburban New Jersey).

Frank grew up with debutante balls and sweet tea, dogs roaming the family farm (and constantly getting hit when they wandered too close to the highway…seriously, how many times did this have to happen before you did something about it, Frank?! Don’t they make leashes in Tennessee?!). I grew up with Green Day and Trader Joe’s, roaming any one of the six mega malls near my house.

But if eHarmony said we were a perfect match, who was I to argue?

eHarmony-Frank-starfish

Did I mention he was an excellent speller?

We’d both recently endured traumatic divorces, but felt ready and excited for a new relationship. It took three weeks of novel-length letters before we exchanged actual email addresses, and another two weeks before we chatted in real time.

The first phone call was abysmal.

Our emails had been full of clever subject lines and sweeping romantic gestures. Our first phone chat? Stuttering and sweaty palms. The conversation felt forced, dry and unsatisfying. (Er, that’s what she said.) This is never gonna work, I thought.

After we hung up, two and a half brutal hours later, his nervous laugh echoed in my ears. My stomach flip-flopped. There was just something about it. Deep, sincere and rumbling. It reminded me of an old friend.

I couldn’t imagine not hearing that laugh again, and two weeks later, found myself saying, “Why don’t I fly out to Seattle so we can meet?”

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Okay so maybe patience isn’t my strong suit.

 Stay tuned for eHopeful Part 2: We Have Lift-off!

How long would you correspond with someone before forcing the issue volunteering to fly 3,000 miles to meet?

~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Birthday Bacon Bash Giveaway!

Today I’m celebrating the fact that, despite all signs pointing to an early Death by Pork, I’ve officially lived to see 32 29.

Not for lack of trying, mind you.

Not for lack of trying, mind you.

I just returned to New Jersey after attending the most beautiful ceremony I’ve ever witnessed:

Baconfest-bag

That’s right. Baconfest Chicago 2014. On April 26, hundreds of like-minded souls gathered to pay tribute to the almighty bacon gods.

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The Midwest air outside was as crisp as the bacon that awaited us. You could smell it from blocks away. Everyone was in high spirits as they entered the UIC Forum. Speaking of spirits – your admission included 7 drink tickets! Seven! Yes. I truly was among my people.

My BaconFest partner-in-binge-eating prefers to remain anonymous. I think you can see why.

My BaconFest partner-in-binge-eating prefers to remain anonymous. I think you can see why.

Once inside, I had no idea where to start, so I got in line at the first station and just worked my way around. (In case you’re wondering, yes, my jeans and I did eventually regret this plan.)

Bacon wonderland

Bacon wonderland

Halfway through my trek, I saw Carriage House was serving Bacon Crispie Treats: Fried pork rinds (yeah, you heard me) in place of rice crispies, bacon marshmallow, and bourbon bacon caramel glaze, served with a side of bacon chocolate milk for dipping.

They looked a lot like this (okay, you seriously expected me to stop eating long enough to take my own pictures?). Photo credit: http://nutmegnotebook.com/

They looked a lot like this (okay, you seriously expected me to stop eating long enough to take my own pictures?). Photo credit: http://nutmegnotebook.com/

When I went to pick up a little square treat from the oh-so-tempting tray, 5 came along with it. I glanced up sheepishly, and the guy manning the table said,

“Take them all! There are no rules at BaconFest!”

And he was right. It was succulent lawlessness at every turn, dozens of people elbowing their way towards things like this:

BaconFest-bloody-mary

Holy mother of bloody bacon Marys.

Another highlight was Pigs in Mud from Farmhouse: A cup of rich, chocolate bacon custard, crispy bacon soil, topped with a sugar-coated gummy pig. This adorable concoction even earned them the “Most Creative Use of Bacon” prize.

The top 2 winners in my book?

1) Bacon balls courtesy of Mark Hemmer from Bridge House Tavern: A rich yet delicate blend of Nueske’s bacon, veal and foie gras with a Luxardo cherry in the middle, served with a cherry maple glaze over apple-jicama slaw.

(I scarfed this too quickly to get a picture.)

2) The BSLT courtesy of chef Andre Christopher from Bistro Dre: Bacon crusted salmon sashimi with bacon tempura crunch, bacon mayo, bacon ponzu, micro lettuce, baby tomatoes and caramelized bacon red onions.

The line in front of the Bistro Dre stand proved I wasn’t the only one loving this creation.

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The delicate raw salmon and greens snuck into BaconFest thanks to the tempura flakes and bacon mayo.

The tender raw salmon and light greens snuck into BaconFest thanks to tempura flakes and bacon mayo.

I’d suffer bacon-less nightmares if I didn’t include a couple of honorary mentions:

1) Bacon Infused Scotch Egg from The Gage – bacon yolk, bacon bread crumbs, with smoked pork belly, petite greens with bacon vinaigrette, smoky-bacony kimchi broth:

2) Bacon Wrapped Dates from the Municipal Bar & Dining Co – jumbo date stuffed with brie cheese wrapped in applewood smoked bacon:

My only regret? I somehow managed to wind up with a leftover drink ticket.

I've never been more ashamed.

I’ve never been more ashamed.

What other food would you like to see celebrated, festival-style? Leave a comment by 12pm midnight EST on Sunday, May 4, 2014, and I’ll randomly pick a winner to receive a Vosges Mo’s milk chocolate bacon bar!

Tasting is believing.

Tasting is believing.

~*~*~*~*~*~

I Did It.

I hit my goal weight!

I FOUND THE WORLD’S BEST BACON.

This isn't it.

This isn’t it.

During recent travels, I stumbled across a fun little bar and restaurant in Seattle called The 5 Point Café. (No, they’re not paying me to mention this. Though if they were, I’d ask for compensation exclusively in pig.) They opened in 1929 and own the bragging rights of “the longest run family eatery in Seattle and oldest bar still in existence in Belltown.”

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I did not know this when I entered.

All I went equipped with was the recommendation of my hotel concierge:

ME: Any good spots nearby for breakfast?

CONCIERGE: Well 5 Point has sort of your typical diner breakfast, and they’re just up the block. Everyone has tattoos.

ME (to self): Gee, I’m sure you mentioned that last bit knowing I’ll fit right in.

Why didn’t anyone warn me they don’t wear colors in the Pacific Northwest?

Seriously. Why didn’t anyone warn me they don’t wear colors in the Pacific Northwest? (Photo taken in front of de wonderbaar Auld Holland Inn in Oak Harbor, WA.)

The idea of an omelet and mimosa was too much temptation to resist for this Jersey native, so I zipped up my bright red raincoat and trekked around the corner to find an unassuming café with a large U-shaped bar and seating on either side.

5-pt-cafe-interior

I was told I could sit anywhere, and because it was a quiet Wednesday morning, decided to hog (pun SO intended) a booth. When the coffee came, I closed my eyes and smiled. Ah, Seattle. Thank you. Thank you for getting it. I may wear neon, but I like my coffee black, and jet fuel strong.

I took an uncharacteristically long time to order, because everything on the menu sounded so good. I was craving avocado, so finally went with the California eggs benedict. At the last minute, I said, “Can I get a side of bacon, too, please?” It was $4 for 4 strips. I couldn’t decide if this was a bargain or a rip-off, so reserved judgment.

When my plate came, I was overwhelmed. In the best way. There were two poached eggs atop tomatoes and avocado, resting on dense english muffins. All of this was smothered in hollandaise sauce, alongside PERFECT hash browns: shredded, with a completely crunchy, crispy top. 

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Good morning to ME.

But then.

Oh.

And then.

The afterthought side dish:

5-Pt-bacon-heaven

“Our famous bacon,” the waiter said, as he rested the magical plate to my left. Four strips of the thickest bacon I’d ever seen sat before me. Still, I was skeptical.  Was it too thick? Would it still be crispy?

I took a bite and… cue Meg Ryan-When-Harry-Met-Sally moment. It melted in my mouth. I took another bite. My life was forever changed. It was tender and fluffy, yet fatty and crispy. I saw the face of Leonardo DiCaprio wrapped in the voice of Justin Timberlake ensconced in the body of Channing Tatum.

Their website makes it sound like they might marinate it. Maybe it was deep fried. I don’t know. I don’t care. I don’t even know what I did on the rest of that trip. All I know is I’m going back.

For bacon.

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What’s the most decadent thing you’ve ever eaten?

P.S. – I’m actually headed to BaconFest 2014 in Chicago next month and will let you know if I find anything that can top this. Anyone else going?!

~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Set Your DVRs. TONIGHT.

Oh. Oh-hoh-oh-oh-oh.

CHIPMUNKS.

Sometimes, friends send you things on Facebook that they think SCREAMS you, and you think, “Meh. Okay.” Or “Yeah, that’s cute.”

But sometimes, friends send you things on Facebook that change your life.

For the better.

On Wednesday, I received the following Facebook intel from both my BFF, Jenn, and my blog bud, freshveggies/gingerleaphotography:

Jesse-and-the-Rippers

YES. YOU READ THAT CORRECTLY.

Jesse and the Rippers are performing on Late Night with Jimmy Fallon. tonighT. (click for more info.)

Jesse and the Rippers!

As in, Uncle Jesse from Full House!

That'd be me.

That’d be me.

My beloved dog’s name sake!

This is…

…this is…

A decision I did NOT take lightly.

A decision I did NOT take lightly.

No. There are no words.

What…what are you waiting for? Go set your DVR! (I say “set your DVR” because I assume that, like me, you a) go to bed at 8:30pm, and b) with great pain, deleted a high-def version of Sharknad0, and now have room on your DVR.)

You’re welcome.

What TV characters from your youth would you poop a brick to see brought back to life on a late night talk show?

P.S. – If you need a distraction from counting the seconds ’til this airs, why not travel back in time and watch my AMAZING Uncle Jesse (man) / Uncle Jesse (dog) tribute video?

~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Meet My Third Husband!

BMan-Gravatar-stacheWhile I hadn’t given it much thought until last week, it seems obvious now: If you fine Chipmunks got to pick between Adam Levine and your beloved blog hero, The Byronic Man, obviously The B Man would win [the title of Third Husband]. By a landslide.

In a way, it makes perfect sense.

The Byronic Man and I are so associated in the collective bloggy unconscious GotC-baconthat on numerous occasions, I’ve had people email me messages intended for The Byronic Man. People have left me comments on his blog.

To be fair, we started it, touting our likeness and joining forces on numerous bloggy collaborations. We even send joint greeting cards to bloggy friends, trade sheet-folding tips, correct each other’s typos… It’s a bloggy match made in heaven, with or without the votes to back it up.

So let’s do this.

Slide01 Slide02 Slide03 Slide04 Slide05 Slide06 Slide07

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Slide10 Slide11 Slide12 Slide13 Slide14 Slide15 Slide16 Slide17 Slide18 Slide19 Slide20 Slide21

Bloggers: Do you have a bloggy BFF / spouse? Or better yet, a bloggy crush (SPILL IT!)? Bloggers / All: What other adventures should Drunk Girl and Byronic Man embark on?

P.S. – Don’t worry. Starting next week, I plan to blog about something other than polyandry!

My Bed is Getting Cold

As many of you Chipmunks know, I have a long-standing polyandrous situation in my house. Sure, First Husband, Peppermeister, is great, but…Scrabble…is more fun with extra players. Cue Second Husband, Darren Criss (of Glee fame).

Things have been grand over the past year, but our bed is really, really big. So.

Enough chatter. I’m cold.

GoJulesGo-Cold-Bed

Let’s review the candidates…

#1 – My BFF, Jenn

My dearest wife Jules,

Jenn-bday-WickedAfter all these years, I know it’s obvious to you I was born to be your third and only (hmmm, we’ll have to work on that – we have time).  But perhaps your readers, like the majority of state legislatures in our fair nation, need a pinch of persuasion.  After all, they haven’t:

  •  worked retail with me
  • fallen in/out of love with my brother
  • fled to the arms of another man from dated YOUR brother
  • taken a kick ass road trip with me
  • nearly died with me

Okay, those last two are really the same thing, but I’ll make it count for two.

Jules, I was born to be your Third Husband, because let’s face it.  I got this vow shizz locked up like a three-peat offender.  In good times and in bad?  How much better can it get than our impending wedding date in the banquet hall of a Greek restaurant in Texas that rents its second floor as apartments? (B-T-Dubs, my first guest post as Hub3 – just sayin’.)

JULES + JENN 4-EVER.

JULES + JENN 4-EVER.

And bad times?  Let’s be honest, we’ve already hit rock bottom together.  Amazingly, I’m not even talking about vodka here.  On our road trip [from New Jersey to Georgia in 2002], you lost your wallet, like, 27 minutes in.  We were checked into the Blue Ridge Motor Lodge (I could stop here) by a heavily bleeding sexagenarian who begged us to take a plunge in his toad-infested pool (he really did have a surprisingly strong grasp on metaphor). Then our friend couldn’t meet up with us in Atlanta as planned because he was… oh, that’s right… IN JAIL.  And to top it all off, we nearly died.  On a cliff.  We nearly went over a cliff together.  Can’t you just see the Thelma and Louise motif on our engraved invitations?

When we I backed up on the freshly wet gravel, smack into the electrified fence that was then the only thing between my back tires and the plummet, and the passenger door was pinned shut by the… voltage, didn’t I demand that you climb over me to safety?  Wriggle between my body and the steering wheel, out the driver’s door, before I even THOUGHT about escaping myself?

Jules and Jenn in Savannah, circa 2002. Five days from near death.

Jules and Jenn in Savannah, circa 2002. Five days from near death.

And when the farmer in denim overalls, sans shirt or underwear, came strolling out to look at my handiwork with his fence… and you asked him where exactly we were…. when he removed the hay from both his teeth to reply: “Girly, you’re in the middle of nowhere…”     Well, girly, he couldn’t have been more wrong.  We could never be lost as long as we’re together.

So, in conclusion:

I, BFF, take you, GJG, to be my unlawfully wedded wife, to have (mercy) and hold (your hair back), from this day forward. For better (see above) and worse (ditto), for richer (I’m not worried) and poorer (we got this), in sickness (check) and health (too late), until Blue Ridge Mountain death do us part.

Love,

Jenn

#2 – Adam Levine

Jules-Adam-Levine

No, I don’t, Adam. Show, I mean tell, me.

Hey Jules,

You know what they say about guys with tattoos…

xox,

Adam

P.S. – I do yoga.

#3 – Justin Timberlake

Jules,

You knew I'd come back for you, Jules.

You knew I’d come back for you, Jules.

I’ve wracked my brain abs for a way to properly thank you for convincing me to finally bring sexy back. Are you enjoying my new album, The 20/20 Experience, which dropped March 19th? Oh wait, this isn’t about me. It’s about you. And how I plan to repay you…

Hugs and Harmonies (and more?),

JT

#4 – Bacon

My Jules,Pi Day Pie Bacon-2

Duh.

-Bacon

#5 – ?

Third-Husband-Mystery-ManThat’s right, Chipmunks. Here’s your chance to nominate someone else, or throw your teeny, tiny, adorable hat in the ring. And take it from Jenn: I’m very open-minded…

Submit your 5th candidate ideas [in the comments section below] by NOON EST Wednesday, March 27th. Polls will open Thursday, March 28th at 6am EST!

Brrr.

Brrr.

What Do You Get For the Australian Labradoodle Who Has Everything?

Dear Uncle Jesse,

I’m not sure you’ll recognize that today is special, when we shower you with gourmet, organic treats, long walks and hour-long massages. Or when we coo over and over again, ‘He’s a good man. That’s a good man. Who’s the best man?’

ToastToTwitterers

Oh. Is this not an appropriate excuse to drink champagne?

But it’s true!

Today’s your 3rd birthday!

Birthday surprises from your BFF, Shunderson!

Birthday surprises from your BFF, Shunderson!

Already you’ve been with us for 2 years, 9 months and 28 days. Now’s not the time to talk of my guilt over your silver-spooned upbringing, but rather to praise your genetic superiority and extremely reputable entry into this world thanks to your mother’s tireless research and your father’s stubborn allergies.

We named you after John Stamos’ character on Full House because we knew you were destined to be the cool one. And have great hair.

Have mercy

Have mercy.

Here are just a few of the things we love about you, Uncle Jesse:

BlogHer12-hotpocket-UncleJYou fetch your Hot Pocket toy when we sing the jingle (“Ho-ot Pocket!”).

You dry your tongue on our pants after you take a drink.

You have access to your kibble all day, every day,UncleJesse_eatslyingdown2 and only eat it when we sit down to dinner; then you nosh lying down.

You help Dad tune the guitar when he gets to the 4th string, every time.

You learned how to do Full House-themed tricks at 9 1/2 weeks old.

 (If people don’t believe the last two, they should play thE video!)

Uncle-Jesse-Tucked-Paws

Please stop touching me.

If you disapprove of someone’s petting methods, you lick them aggressively to correct the faux paw pas. They mistake this for affection. I’m sorry we blew up your spot, but you do it to us, too, you ungrateful bastard well-bred specimen.

Hello, Ceiling Fan.

Hello, Ceiling Fan.

Your legs are super long and your paws are incredibly fancy, especially when you tuck them under, or cross them just so.

You’re convinced the bedroom ceiling fan is possessed and/or omnipotent. If it’s been too quiet for too long, or something is otherwise amiss, we catch you staring at it dubiously.

I hope you enjoy this birthday tribute video I made especially for you:

Love,

Your doting and equally adorable mother

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So what do you get for the Australian Labradoodle who has everything? Well, you can make like a Shel Silverstein tree, and give. Please join me in helping friend and fellow blogger, Valerie from Nikitaland:

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Note: The ad below the Pledge for Pets button is not part of this post.

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So I Work at a Strip Club Now

Yesterday was an interesting day at work.

Let’s just say my job makes me die a little inside.

Which is not something I usually get to say. Trust me. I work as a project manager for a pharmaceutical company.

Still dying over here.

Monday traffic and meeting madness aside, things were looking pretty perky by 9am. Because by 9am, I was staring at someone’s boobs.

Let me back that thing up.

I was meeting a brand spanking (ahem) new colleague to explain how great the department was, what kinds of things she could work on, and the dress code what to expect in the coming months.

The woman was in her 30s, attractive and friendly. The conversation started in the usual way: “How long were you without power [because of Hurricane Sandy]?”

Suddenly, out of the corner of my eye, I saw something unusual. Something not quite right. No, no, it can’t be, I thought to myself. I let my eyes dart down.

Yup. Yup. Oh my god. Black. Lace. Push-up bra. Cleavage many would pay to see. I felt my ears turn as crimson as her blouse. Of all the buttons to pop when she sat down…

I’m sorry. This is the best I could do. This is a family blog.

I had known this woman for five minutes. How could I tell her we’d already taken things to the next level? But could I make it through the rest of the meeting without saying something, and then hope she’d use the restroom? No, that was just cruel.

“I’m sorry I’d want someone to say something if it was me,” I blurted in one breath, “I think one of your buttons came undone.”

“Oh no, it’s just this shirt,” she said, swinging the droopy silk collar that dangled over her va-va-voom.

I said nothing and waited for her to look down.

“Oh jeez,” she cringed once she realized what I talking about, and quickly fastened the rogue button. She thanked me for telling her and carried on with her earlier point.

Just like that. I had to give her credit. A little while later, she bid goodbye,

“I’m off to meet with [Mr. Big Boss] now.”

“Great – it was wonderful meeting you!” I replied smoothly, wondering how disappointed the Big Boss would have been if he’d known what he missed out on.

Later that morning, I had time to giggle reflect. I gasped, remembering: This wasn’t the first time I’d seen someone’s bra at work!

My very first year on the job, a middle-aged woman I’d only just met grabbed me and pulled me into the ladies room.

“I need help! My bra!” she whispered, eyes wild.

I watched, stunned, as she freed one arm from her forest green turtleneck. I tried to figure out what was going on. Everything seemed normal. Except for all the parts that were totally fudged up.

I soon realized what she needed me to do. I reached down her shirt, grazing her moist, freckled back, fished out the dangling shoulder strap and re-hooked it to the front of her bra.

I left the bathroom in a daze. Twitter didn’t exist yet, so I saved the story for my sister-in-law-slash-coworker, who still fondly recalls Bra Lady.

You probably think this is the end of it. Oh-ho no. Peppermeister (Husband #1) read this draft post and reminded me of the crème de la crème.

A couple years ago, a coworker in her mid-30s returned from vacation in the Bahamas, eager to show me pictures from her trip. Call me crazy, but I’ve always been fond of vacation photos. Anything to escape the drab, gray cubicle walls.

I walked over to her desk and she pulled out a manila envelope.

“I hired someone to take these pictures while we were there,” she said, shy yet excited. “He said I could be a model.”

Each 8 x 10 photo featured her bikini-clad bod on the beach.

“You look amazing!” I gushed, admiring her toned figure.

She looked up and down the hall and then whispered, “I have to be careful about some of these.”

She flipped to the next few photographs.

And there she was.

Topless.

It’s been two years, and I still don’t have the words.

Anyway. Today I’m bringing a wallet full of singles to work. Just in case.

Crap. Now I’ve gotta stop at the bank. This is New Jersey. I can’t even get gas.

Have you ever felt like a boob at work? Any good wardrobe malfunction stories?

***Hurricane Sandy Update: We finally got power back on Sunday night! My mood’s as boosted my coworkers’ chests! Thank you again for all of your well wishes! …Annnnd just kidding. Power went out again at 5am today (Tuesday).***