My Friend Turco is Looking for Groupies to Have Sex with His Band

Remember my friend Turco? The one who doesn’t have herpes? Well, apparently, the post I wrote to get him laid was so successful that I am now being bribed to pimp his band.

And when I say successful, I mean that a handful of teenyboppers replied to it on Facebook with gems like, “Wait, did you really crash your bike?”

I was certain the dead fish and pink deer would tip people off that I cannot be taken seriously.

Which is why I was confused when I got a Facebook message from Christoff – self-appointed manager of the band Tangent – with the subject line that read: “Blog Skillz?”. The message asked me to pimp the band in exchange for mind-altering substances and a subsidized cover charge.

Well, here I am again, throwing my integrity out the window, because what Christoff lacks in managerial skillz, he make up for in rad faux-velvet rock star wear. And bribery.

[If you are looking for yuppie pirates, fake basketball players, and preteens, then Tangent is the band for you!]

Chrisoff has offered me (and my nonexistent friends) free admission to Electric Haze: DJ & Rock Band Event at The Waterfront Concert Theatre in Marina del Rey. He has done this so I will take photos of Tangent free of charge. To sweeten the deal (and get shittier photographs?) he has offered me “a few drinks”. A.k.a one drink. If he’s not too busy dedicating songs to his girlfriend.

These bribes, as it turns out, are much more tangible than the pizza and $30 check that I was promised by Turco if I got him laid.

So cheers to Christoff’s terrible business decisions. (Which include, but are not limited to, asking me to write this blog post in hopes it will attract attendees; changing his name to Christoff to “increase business” which apparently it did – according to Christoff. Since, you know, he’s an economist. Apparently we live in an age where you can be an economist without an Econ degree. By the way, I’m a neurosurgeon.)

But if you’re someone who can tolerate trance music and dudes that spell the name Christoph/Christof/Kristoff wrong, this might be the show for you!

If you’re still not sure, let me give you a few reasons to attend even though you will not be receiving free alcohol and admission like myself:

1. Turco’s orgasm face. If you were at all tempted to sleep with Turco after that other post, this is definitely the show for you! Turco plays the drums like he’s having sex with them. His face is contorted by spasms of pleasure at being able to beat his drums like he beats other things. After watching several Tangent shows, I have become convinced that this is what Turco looks like in bed:

However, you are going to have to verify that for me.

2. T-shirts. Tangent sells shirts at their shows, and I know you’ve always wanted a shirt that will make people ask you if you’re really into geometry.

[Neither of these groupies managed to properly display their band shirts. FAIL.]

3. Drug taking opportunities. The show has two stages, which means that one is purely manned by DJs. The DJs at this show are named DJ Tyler Larkin and DJ INF3CTION, and they will probably be spinning some serious trance music. This can be effectively coupled with ecstasy, so I hear. I don’t know who these DJs are. The first one obviously forgot that DJs can pick cool names. And the second one wanted people to associated him with preteen text messaging and/or terrible graphic designers.

4. Fartbarf. THERE IS A BAND NAMED FARTBARF. Need I say more?

5. Me. If you’re a fan of this blog, I will totally autograph a body part of your choosing. Also, if you promise to buy me booze, I will claim that you are one of my close personal acquaintances and I will demand that Christoff let you in for free.

6. Vice Versa. The Boyfriend is the lead singer of Vice Versa, and he sometimes performs in his socks. This can be amusing. Blake also plays in this band, and he makes cheesy grits, which taste delicious. Also, he is recently single, and will probably go on a date with you despite your halitosis and obvious drug problem. Turco plays drums for Vice Versa as well as Tangent, which means reason number one (orgasm face) also applies. Matt, the bass player, wears a woman’s jacket with fuzzy cheetah print sleeves to every show – mention to him that you know this, and I will buy you a soda.

Now that you've been totally convinced of this show's worth, you can click here for details.

P.S. In all likelihood, Christoff will immediately realize that asking me to promote this event was a catastrophic idea.

In that case, you will probably not get not get free admission in exchange for booze, my autograph, or a soda in exchange for mentioning the cheetah coat because I will be banned from the facility. If I am correct, that means half of the awesome reasons to attend are now void, and you should immediately commence a boycott.

UPDATE: The Boyfriend has informed me that Matt wears a cow print jacket, not a cheetah print jacket. I tried to argue, but apparently The Boyfriend gave the jacket to Matt and should know. In hindsight, I should have realized that this jacket was The Boyfriend's, since A) it is a piece of women's clothing, and B) it is horrifying, and C) he was quite upset that I didn't get the animal right. My apologies.

Apologies to the Person Who’s House We Illegally Dumped My Grandparents’ Remains Behind Yesterday

Several years ago, I was traumatized to discover that my grandmother was keeping her late husband’s remains in the closet next to her handbags. My much younger self had been under the impression that my grandpa’s ashes had been thrown into the ocean like most people; instead, he was gathering extra dust, waiting for the day my grandmother passed on so the two of them could have their ashes mingled together.

Well, he waited a very long time, because my grandmother passed away only just this year, several months shy of her 100th birthday. Oh, and how poetic it would be – I mistakenly thought – when we finally took grandpa out of the closet and laid them both to rest.

Unfortunately, my grandfather’s wishes were that he and my grandmother should be spread over the horse corral where he once kept his horses. This seemed like a nice idea until yesterday, when my family actually met up to do the deed.

You guys, now I know, there is a reason why people choose to throw ashes into the ocean.

Also, I can now add “illegal dumping of human remains” to the list of things I’ve accomplished in 2010. That wasn’t even on my To Do List to begin with!

You see, you can’t exactly just go throw your family members’ burned bodies all over public property. But my family has very little regard for the law, and we showed up after hours at the local horse corral like a bunch of bandits armed with urns.

When we had all gathered – Cancer Dad, Wife Number Four (or Five), my uncle, aunt, brother, two cousins, and a random girlfriend of a cousin – I asked loudly with my typical lack of tack, “So, what’s the plan? Are we dumping the ash and running for it?”

Cancer Dad gave me a quizzical look, to which I replied, “Um, Dad, you know this is illegal, right?”

You’d think after 66 years or so of life, Cancer Dad would have this kind of basic knowledge. However, he looks at me and says, rather condescendingly I might add, “No it’s not!” At which point Wife Number Four (or Five), in a rare moment of clarity, yells, “Of course it’s illegal! Why do you think we’re all here after hours WHEN NO ONE ELSE IS AROUND?!”

Now that it has been firmly established that we are all possibly going to be thrown in jail for unlawful disposal of not one, but two dead bodies, we begin the rather difficult task of finding an appropriate place in which to empty out the urns.

In hindsight, what we really should have done was tied the bags of ash to some horses, poked holes in said bags, and let the horses run for it. Because what really happened is not in the least bit poetic.

First of all, do you know how much ash one human body can produce when you burn it?

LIKE, A SANDBAG FULL.

WE HAD TWO SANDBAGS FULL OF CREMATED PEOPLE.

And while ash is soluble in, say, ocean water, IT IS NOT SOLUBLE IN DIRT.

This is more basic stuff my family should know, really.

Anyway, we all start marching towards the horse corrals, hoping that someone – anyone, really – will find a decent spot in which to perform our little ceremony before we run out of space.

Cancer Dad decides the best course of action is to dump his parents behind their old house, which backs up to the horse corral.

Okay, seriously, with all the picturesque cliffs, vast beaches, beautiful hills, and open land in my hometown, someone please explain to me why we are dumping my grandparents’ remains BEHIND SOME POOR UNSUSPECTING PERSON’S HOUSE?!

OH DEAR GOD PLEASE LET THEM NOT BE HOME.

Cancer Dad picks a sad looking tree and then we all look at each other expectantly.

There is no way in hell I am doing this. Right now, it is still possible for me to run in the opposite direction if the police show up. If I pick up an urn, I’m totally going to jail.

Finally, my aunt settles it. She instructs Cancer Dad to pick up one urn, and my uncle to pick up the other.

I smile as the universe proves, once again, that some things transcend life and death – Cancer Dad, with all his crippling mommy issues, picks up his father’s urn. His brother – the one with daddy issues – picks up his mother’s urn. My brother, Topher, turns to me and snickers, “I didn’t see that one coming!”

And this is where it gets funny.

No really.

I am expecting a cinematic experience here, people. The sun is supposed to start setting. The sad music should swell; our eyes should be filling with tears. The wind should carry the tiny particles of ash away, and my grandparents should disappear into nothingness.

This is clearly not what occurs.

No – when you dump a sandbag-sized container of ash onto the ground, it stays there.

Like, really, really stays there.

My grandmother’s remains hit the ground first, as they are much fresher. Sadly, my poor grandfather has spent over a decade in a damp closet, and he’s a little – errr – chunkier?

Cancer Dad shakes the urn in frustration.

“Hit the urn! Hit the urn!” cheers my aunt.

I have now basically doubled over and am frantically trying to smother my laughter with my hand. Topher shoots me a death glare.

My aunt continues cheering my father on.

Someone suggests that we remove the bag of ash from the urn to speed up the process. My cousin says he believes the bag is stuck in the urn. Cancer Dad whacks the urn harder.

Finally, grandpa is on the ground too. Ash is slowly billowing upwards and coating Cancer Dad’s and my uncle's jeans. My aunt instructs my uncle to stamp his feet to get rid of some of the ash. Great, my family is covered in, well, my other – dead – family.

We are now standing around what is most definitely, without a doubt, a massive sand dune of human remains.

Under a tree.

In the dirt.

Behind some poor person’s house.

“Umm, Amen?” says someone.

“Amen!”

I can’t say it. I’m laughing too hard because we’ve TOTALLY JUST DESECRATED MY GRANDPARENTS IN THE LAMEST AND MOST ILLEGAL ASH SPREADING CEREMONY THAT HAS EVER BEEN CONDUCTED.

And then we all stand there.

I know I’ve got to say what everyone is thinking.

“We can’t just leave it like that!”

I’m starting to fear that Cancer Dad’s space plague cancer has killed off some of his common sense or something, because he promptly states, “Yes we can.”

I turn to Topher. “But what if a child falls in it?! Or a puppy?!”

Everyone murmurs, and then comes to the conclusion that no, we can’t just leave a giant pile of dead people behind a house and somewhat on a horse trail. It would be wrong.

So, my uncle goes to get the rake he uses to clean up his horse stable.

WE ARE ABOUT TO FUCKING ZEN GARDEN MY GRANDPARENTS WITH A HORSE RAKE. OH. MY. GOD.

Luckily, my brother and cousin get to it first – they both grab branches of the sickly-looking tree we’ve just deposed of my grandparents under, and begin spreading the ash around on the ground.

And then they try covering it with dirt and leaves.

By the time they’re done, they’ve basically stirred my grandparents into a soup of dead foliage, horse poop, and other organic matter.

Great. My grandparents are fertilizer.

My cousin – who, oddly enough, had his first wedding – which was pimp and ho themed, mind you - in this very horse corral, turns to his girlfriend (who, for some reason, decided to attend this catastrophe) and says, “Hey! We can get married while we’re at it!”

Cancer Dad chimes in, “Yeah! You can stand on top of your dead grandparents and say your vows!”

So now, a brief letter, from me to my dead and decimated grandfather.

That One Time I Was Scarier Than North Korea Because The Boyfriend Wanted a Pair of Shoes

[Here I am at the DMZ on the clearest day in Korea in 13 years, during the worst relations between the two nations in 20 years. I am standing within sniper range. You think this is dangerous? Don't worry - you're about to find out that I am much more dangerous than any North Korean sniper. Guaranteed.]

The is the epic tale of how The Boyfriend and I managed to get back to the United States despite his best efforts to miss our plane over a pair of shoes. Upon hearing this story earlier today, one of my coworkers asked in confusion, “Wait, who is this about again?!” “My boyfriend,” I replied. “Are you quite certain he isn’t gay?” my concerned coworker prodded.

Well, yes, I am very, very certain The Boyfriend isn’t gay. However, he is very, very odd.

So now begins our story.

Once upon a week or so ago, The Boyfriend and I were happily vacationing in South Korea – much to my surprise, since The Boyfriend never wants to go anywhere. We had ventured to a popular outdoor market in Seoul called Namdaemun, and were happily admiring booths of live octopus, decorative socks, and faux Louis Vuitton paraphernalia with my good friend Kirin. All was pleasant until The Boyfriend happened upon a stall filled with shoes.

[Why buy shoes when you can buy fun things like $900 bottles of ginseng, live octopi, or gutted fish?!]

The Boyfriend is very peculiar when it comes to wardrobe. He wants what he wants, but he always asks my opinion a thousand times – or at least until my opinion becomes what he wants it to be. This happens often because there are only so many times I can hear “Are you suuuure?” before I give up and yell, “Nevermind, that’s totally fabulous! I agree! You should buy it!” (In fact, I have decided to give up entirely, because on the day I insulted his outfit – he was wearing plaid shorts, knee-high socks, an orange dress tie, a burgundy short sleeve dress shirt, and loafers – he was spotted by some Korean fashion bloggers and photographed for a post. So I give up. I obviously don’t understand fashion.)

The Boyfriend fell in love with a pair of ridiculous faux Gucci loafers. And, as fate would have it, these loafers belonged to the only Korean salesman in the whole market who would not negotiate price; even better, his prices were double everyone else’s.

Both Kirin and I protested, because this was obviously highway robbery. With so many shoes to choose from, why pay double for this pair? I reasoned. The Boyfriend sighed in defeat. He knew our logic was infallible. He left the shoes on the shelf.

As it turned out, my obsession with logic would prove to be my downfall. I should know by now that the only way to be happy with The Boyfriend is to let him do whatever he pleases and feign tremendous excitement over him doing it.

The day before we had to leave, The Boyfriend starts muttering about the shoes he failed to acquire.

For our last full day in Korea, we have purchased tickets to the show Nanta – an extremely popular stage comedy that fuses cooking and traditional Korean drumming. I am excited to go – but I agree that we can venture to Sinchon in the hours before the performance. The Boyfriend discovers another outdoor market in the side streets of Sinchon, and frantically shops for shoes.

I glance at the time.

I tell him we have 20 minutes.

And then 15.

And 10.

He argues with my timetable, while sprinting from stall to stall, trying on everything he can find.

We are in negative time now. I’m becoming more and more aggravated. It is all I can do not to grab him by the ear and drag him to a taxicab. I begin seething. He finally gives in and helps me hail a cab. By this time, the traffic in Seoul is at a standstill and I note with a sinking feeling that we are definitely going to be late.

FuckityfuckfuckFUCK.

Now, The Boyfriend may lack time management skills, but he still doesn’t like to see me upset. He makes pathetic noises from the back seat of the cab and attempts to give me a back-rub. I threaten him with violence, as is my way. He whines some more. I’ve almost forgiven him when he decides that the REAL reason we’re going to be late isn’t his obsessive shopping, but my inability to direct our non-English speaking cab driver directly to the theater. He whips out a map of the Myeong-dong shopping area and begins wildly stabbing at the theater (which is on a walking street, inaccessible to motor vehicles). Our driver looks confused and starts babbling in Korean and pointing in the direction of our original drop off location. I panic. I tell him to stop it. I let the cab driver drop us off at the subway station walking distance from the theater, and we sprint all the way there.

We don’t make it, as predicted. The Boyfriend starts bemoaning my lack of skills in directing our driver again, and I lose it.

BOY, I wail, I DON’T SPEAK KOREAN, GODFUCKINGDAMMIT! ALL I CAN SAY IS HELLO, THANK YOU, BEER, AND FUCK. NONE OF THOSE ARE HELPFUL IN THIS SITUATION!

We are finally admitted to the theater by the usher at a convenient point in the show.

I try to remain infuriated, but really, we’ve only missed the first seven minutes and Nanta is so hilarious I can’t be angry. Especially when I get dragged up on stage to pull a trash can off an actor’s ass.

[Koreans really, really like to pull foreigners up on stage during live comedy shows. And believe me, there is nothing quite like being laughed at by hundreds of Koreans in an auditorium and knowing it's partially because you are trying to pull a trash can off some guy's butt and failing, and partially because you are an American trying to pull a trash can off some guy's butt and failing.]

I mean, really, how can you be mad after that?!

We meet up with The Korean Boyfriend and Kirin afterwards for dinner. The Boyfriend suggests we follow up dinner with a trip to Namdaemun so he can buy the now infamous loafers.

We are all quick to point out that it is now the middle of the night and there is no possible way the outdoor market is still open. But we can check! exclaims The Boyfriend. But it’s shut down for the night! I argue. But The Boyfriend wins, because he declares that he will just go tomorrow (yes, the day we are supposed to leave) if we do not go now.

My dear friends, it is my last night in Korea and I am spending it in a pitch dark, abandoned market.

I kid you not.

The Korean Boyfriend, Kirin, and I break down into some kind of group hysteria as we watch The Boyfriend literally sprint around the abandoned marketplace as if he can start spinning the globe in the opposite direction by running fast enough, thereby turning back time and opening the market back up for business.

A delirious photo shoot ensues.

[The Korean Boyfriend saves Kirin from a runaway mini van. Kirin is overtaken by emotion in response to his heroic deeds.]

[This market is obviously claiming to be multicultural.]

The Boyfriend returns, defeated – something which we could have already alerted him to, as we have been standing in front of the very stall his shoes are at, and it is clearly locked up for the night.

[Alas, The Boyfriend cannot turn back time. The market remains closed.]

He mutters under his breath about coming back in the morning. I shoot him a warning glance, and then we drag him to a bar where I thoroughly humiliate him by winning a drinking game and forcing him to make out with a poster in the middle of the bar.

Believe me when I say I do these things out of love.

Kissing The Soju Girl Poster from Brittany Swanson on Vimeo.

I mistakenly believe I have taken the ultimate revenge. I have no idea what awaits me in the morning.

I am awakened by the dull thumping of The Boyfriend walking around Kirin’s apartment. I groan, turn over, and mutter, “What time is it?”
“Errr, six in the morning,” he says.

“WHAT?! WHY?” I nearly sob from beneath the covers.

His next statement makes my blood run cold. “I’m going to get my shoes,” he says.

For the first few seconds, I am in shock. I think that he must be joking. Our plane back to the United States leaves today; we need to be on a bus by 1 PM. We have yet to begin packing. The market is an hour and a half subway ride, and he has not taken the subway by himself nor paid the slightest bit of attention to the stations when we have taken it together. He is notoriously late to everything. He thinks the best way to communicate with people who only speak Korean is to yell very loudly in English.

Oh my god, he is going to get lost in Seoul and never return. I will have to explain to his father that I lost him in a foreign country; that I have no hope of finding him again because he doesn’t have a Korean cell phone.

It becomes my life mission to prevent this travesty.

I am simultaneously furious and terrified. I transform into a raging gargoyle.

The Boyfriend is clearly shocked when I launch out of bed and begin beating him senseless with a pillow. I yell incoherent woman phrases like, “WHY WOULD YOU DO THIS TO ME?!” and “WHAT IS THE MATTER WITH YOU?!” and not so woman-like phrases such as, “THEY ARE JUST FUCKING SHOES, YOU FUCKER!” I am totally more threatening to the safety of South Korea than North Korea is at this point.

But it obvious that my antics are just making him more determined.

There is only one thing to do; I must go with him.

He resists at first, because without a doubt I have morphed into a homicidal banshee who will probably stab him before he gets to the subway. But he waits while I wash my face and throw on acceptable outdoor-wear.

He tries to win me over with his super cuteness, but I am not so easily persuaded this time. He has stolen not only my sanity, but also my sleep – the latter being much more important.

I basically growl at him for both the bus and subway rides, despite his ridiculous semi-marriage proposal/hint which went something like, “Babe, I’m not going to marry you if you make scary faces like you did this morning!” To which I replied in some horribly unromantic fashion, like, “YOU AREN’T GOING TO MARRY ME ANYWAY. BESIDES, I CAN’T MARRY YOU, YOU ARE FUCKING CRAZY!”

[Obviously sane, right?]

We reach Namdaemun, and I am forced to laugh. It is so early, the shops have not yet opened. The Boyfriend has failed yet again.

He drags me to a Dunkin’ Donuts (inexplicably popular in South Korea) to shut me up with food, and we discover that it is so fucking early that they haven’t even begun to make bagels yet.

I start to cheer up, because his obvious lack of success is making me feel much better.

We sit in the Dunkin’ Donuts until they make the bagels; I order a cheese bagel (which I have to wait longer for) and he orders a raisin bagel because he can get it sooner. It becomes obvious that I have the vastly superior bagel, and I get great pleasure out of denying him bites of it while he whines like a puppy dog. My mood improves so much, I write him this lovely letter to forgive him for his shoe-buying antics and present it to him while I chew the remainder of my delicious bagel:

[This note fell out of my bag when I got home, prompting my mother to ask, "Umm, so, did everything go okay?"]

We return to the market, and I expect him to go directly to the stall and purchase the almighty pair of loafers.

He goes there, but does not purchase them.

I am baffled.

Instead, he takes approximately 30 laps around the market and tries on every pair of shoes in sight. The time is rapidly wasting away; I start getting concerned. I ask if he intends to get his shoes. He says he is still looking.

I’m starting to get peeved again. We came all the way back here to buy THE shoes, not ANY shoes. Why is he doing this?!!

We have 15 minutes before my ultimate deadline. I point this out. He goes back to the stall containing THE shoes and tries them on again. And again he tries to negotiate with the stubborn Korean salesman. The man refuses. Literally, Korean men are walking out of the stall and shaking their heads at me to indicate the outrageousness of this man’s prices. I turn to the boyfriend and state the obvious. He will either have to pay full price, or give up on these shoes.

Instead, The Boyfriend selects TWO pairs of outrageously priced shoes and tries to work a deal with the salesman again. The salesman refuses, and demands 130,000 won. The Boyfriend opens his wallet, counts his cash, and confesses to the man that he only has 111,000 won.

The most ridiculous event ensues. This terribly greedy bastard literally goes through The Boyfriend’s wallet to verify that he has no more cash. Then he turns to me and points.

OH NO YOU DIDN’T, FUCKER.

LET ME TELL YOU HOW WILLING I AM TO PAY FOR THE SHOES THAT HAVE COST ME MY SANITY, SLEEP, AND POSSIBLY MY PLANE FLIGHT BACK TO THE USA.

I’M. NOT. FUCKING. WILLING. AT. ALL.

[This dude probably tries to sell dead goldfish to tourists as a delicacy. I'm serious.]

We are victorious; the bastard accepts the 111,000 won for the shoes. And we are only 30 minutes behind schedule! YAY!

I practically drag The Boyfriend to the subway. Then we run to the bus stop. Then we run back to Kirin’s apartment. I tell The Boyfriend to hop in the shower while I pack; then we reverse and I get in the shower.

But, while I’m shampooing, I hear something. Something that sounds nothing like packing.

I yell out, “What are you doing?”

He yells back, “I’m packing!”

I finish my shower, throw on a towel, and walk in on him skyping Turco, no suitcase in sight.

ARRRRRRRRRRRRGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGG!

We are definitely supposed to be on a bus at this point.

I’m completely convinced that we are staying in Korea forever now, which I wouldn’t particularly mind, but lord knows he would mind in a few days. And then he would want to buy another airline ticket. And that would be expensive.

I start aggressively imploring him to pack.

Kirin stops by to wish us farewell; it has become obvious that we will not be ready in time for her to walk us to the bus stop, which is like, three fucking miles away.

We finally pack.

And jesus, we have way more shit than I thought.

Carrying all our luggage to the far away bus stop in time seems impossible. We decide to take a cab, which we can catch outside the apartment.

One problem.

The Boyfriend has spent ALL his Korean cash on those damn shoes.

And I don’t have enough to get us to the airport, which is an hour away.

I leave him with the luggage and sprint five blocks to the nearest ATM, which, as it turns out, DOESN’T WORK.

I am dying inside.

I come back to find that The Boyfriend has already put all our belongings in the trunk of a cab, and the driver speaks zero English. I try to indicate to him that I want to use a credit card. He starts chattering incomprehensibly and yelling about the “dole” which I absolutely do not understand.

Twenty minutes later, at which point I am on the verge of screaming because we are obviously never going to home due to The Boyfriend’s fucking shoes, the cabbie calls an interpreter.

The interpreter tells us we can pay with a card.

Umm, what?

Apparently the cabbie was trying to tell us there was a “toll” – but really, that doesn’t matter at all, because he just adds that to our fare which we can PAY WITH A CARD.

OH MY GOD, WHAT THE FUCK KOREAN CAB DRIVER. YOU JUST HAD TO NOD YOUR STUPID FAT HEAD AND ALL OF THIS WOULD HAVE WORKED OUT.

So, yes, that’s right dear readers; we got to the airport.

And that concludes the story of how I almost didn’t get back to the United States because of a pair of shoes.

Dear God, If You Get The Boyfriend On The Plane Tomorrow, I Will Stop Telling People You Don’t Exist

[My first trip to Korea in July of 2007. No, I don't know why I choose to share photos of creepy seafood and a shot of me riding a huge leather lion. It seemed like a good idea at the time. And now that it is uploaded, there is no going back.]

I know, I know, asking God to prove His existence to me so that I will believe in Him flies in the face of faith as we know it, but you guys, I’m getting a little desperate here.

I adore The Boyfriend, but he’s sort of like a space alien – basic historical knowledge, current pop culture references, and the concept of time all seem to elude him. Usually I think his oddities are kind of cute. But when we are suppose to be on a plane headed towards South Korea in less than 24 hours, I think it’s kind of COMPLETELY TERRIFYING. At this point, all our mutual friends have laughed at me and then wished me good luck because I’ll “need it.”

I knew when The Boyfriend randomly decided he wanted to venture across the world with me that I was in for it. Our only other trip together was a road trip to Northern California, and when I showed up at his house to pick him up and hit the road, he confessed to me that he had no clean clothes. Because it was already close to nightfall, I threw him, and his dirty laundry, into the car and took off anyway. This time, it’s not that easy.

The Boyfriend’s time management philosophy involves constantly omitting important information and promising to get things done by a certain deadline, and then not even blinking as said deadline whooshes past.

Usually, I shrug these antics off. But yesterday I almost lost it completely. I call this incident The Air Mattress Debacle.

Our story begins several weeks ago when I realized the both of us could not fit on Kirin’s couch in her apartment in Seoul. This seemed to be a solvable problem – The Boyfriend’s father owns an air mattress. I asked again and again if The Boyfriend could look at the air mattress and figure out if it would fulfill our needs.

As was expected, this was continually forgotten.

On multiple occasions, I inquired about our air mattress status. “Well,” said The Boyfriend, “My dad says it’s big.”

You guys, I don’t know what that means. You take the air out of the mattress, fold it up, and then how big could it really be? If it fits into the overhead compartment on a plane, I really don’t care. Yet, every time I asked The Boyfriend if he had looked at the mattress, he told me he had not, but that his dad said it was big.

On Sunday night at 10 PM I finally dragged The Boyfriend to his dad’s house for the sole purpose of looking at the mattress.

All the way out to the shed, his dad keeps saying, “It’s a big mattress!” And this point, I am picturing an epic monster mattress. Possible one that can be used as a boat to sail to Korea.

Well, he pulls it out, and I find myself face to face with a perfectly normal sized air mattress that is folded up into a manageable square. I start looking it over. One thing is wrong. THERE IS NO PUMP.

Me: “Do you have the pump?”

The Boyfriend’s Dad: “Nope.”

The Boyfriend: “You need a pump? We can’t just blow it up?”

I stare at my musically gifted boyfriend and his (true story) rocket scientist father. What. The. Hell. I don’t understand. Wait. Wouldn’t the fact that this air mattress is lacking a pump be something THAT YOU SHOULD TELL SOMEONE WHO WANTED TO BORROW IT? INSTEAD OF REPEATING “IT’S BIG” OVER AND OVER?

[This is the point where my mother interrupts my story and says, “You know Brittany, your great grandfather was a very famous and brilliant economist. But he couldn't even tell you the price of toothpaste!” Touché, mother.]

I sigh, turn to The Boyfriend, and ask if he can run to the Big 5 ten minutes from his house the next day and pick up an air mattress with a pump. He says yes.

Fast forward to 1 PM the next day.

Me: “Have you picked up the air mattress?”

The Boyfriend: “No. I don’t have time.”

Me: “What? But you said you could!”

The Boyfriend: “I’ve got stuff to do.”

I hang up the phone and call Big 5 to verify their hours and prices. I call The Boyfriend back.

Me: “The Big 5 is open until 9 PM.”

The Boyfriend: “Oh, okay, I can make it before then.”

Me: “Are you sure? I mean, really sure? Because if you can’t, I’d rather know now!”

The Boyfriend: “Oh yeah, I can make it there before 9.”

Around 8 PM, I call The Boyfriend again to check our air mattress status.

Me: “Did you get the air mattress?”

The Boyfriend: “No, I can’t today, I’m busy. I will get it tomorrow.”

Me: “There is still an hour before it closes!”

The Boyfriend: “The neighbor is over, he needs me to take some pictures of him for something….”

WHATTHEHELLYOUPSYCHOWHACKJOB!

I’m dying inside at this point. I’m a rational, collected human being who always nods my head and lets things go, but this time my brain is about to explode.

Over an air mattress.

But it’s really not about the air mattress. It’s about the fact that “tomorrow” is the day before we have to leave. And I don’t trust his abilities to even be packed by the time the plane takes off, so putting important things off for even one more day is setting off warning bells in my head. Abort! Abort!

I say fine. I hang up the phone.

Psycho ninja axe murderer Brittany suddenly takes over. The girl that hides in the shadows of my normally calm exterior and plots homicide while I pretend to like people.

I am not even joking. I mean, what other logical explanation exists for me texting to him: “You’re in trouble. And I think I might have to kill you.”? THAT IS THE EXACT TEXT MESSAGE.

And he’s all like, Whaaaa? Brittany doesn’t say things like that!

And then we get to the part where he goes all crazy and confesses to being absolutely terrified of going on this trip, plus in constant fear that all the plants are going to die and that his business is going to spontaneously explode because he is out of the country for 15 days.

Oh boy, was this a bad idea. I never should have let The Boyfriend try to leave his natural habitat. It’s just not right.

I take over the air mattress purchasing duties, even though I work full time in an office that I am not supposed to leave between the hours of 8:30 AM and 5:30 PM – and he continues with his list of mysterious last minute tasks which he has all day to accomplish since he owns his own business and works from home.

Well, I thought everything was solved. Until today, when I told him I would come over tonight, help him pack, and then we would spend the night at my mom’s condo and leave for the airport in the morning.

WHOOPS. APPARENTLY THIS PLAN IS ALSO UNACCEPTABLE.

Homeboy needs to take his Corvette to the shop the morning we are supposed to be leaving to have it color sanded. Ummm, WHAAAAAAAAAT??!

And he’s planning to pack at 5 AM, because, dammit, his mysterious list of things he has to do – which he still hasn’t fully disclosed to me – will not be done until the wee hours of the morning.

I don’t know you guys. I don’t see this ending well.

Hence, if The Boyfriend gets to the plane tomorrow, I’m going to attribute it to a miracle of God.

And, I will immediately start filming with my HD camera, because by the end of this trip I will have made a mini documentary entitled, “The Boyfriend Versus Korea: A Tale of Cultural Misadventures and Really Huge Cell Phone Bills”. Coming soon to a video website near you.

P.S. I still adore The Boyfriend. Take this as a loving portrayal of my slightly deranged significant other. No really.

P.S.S. I'm actually in a good mood. I just got a call from the agency I interviewed at last week - the executive director wants me to come back and do a second interview with her! That's a good sign, right?

It’s Like, I Was Practically Notorious B.I.G.’s Best Friend

[I promise you, by the end of this post, the title and this picture will totally make sense. Original photo (before I bastardized it) can be found here.]

Oh, Mother’s Day – every year, it gives my mom an excuse to scream “STOP IT! IT’S MOTHER’S DAY!” at me for acting in exactly the way I always do. Which is understandable, considering my mother is a very upstanding member of society who never speaks ill of people and always looks put together, and I’m a sloppy hot mess who can’t stop insulting random people on the street.

It’s terrible, really. I feel bad for her. All she wanted was a blonde, smiley, social butterfly of a daughter, and what she got was evil demon spawn. My inability to take anything seriously makes her want to pull her hair out. I laugh about how the elevator almost killed me, she screams at me because my aunt’s boyfriend back in the 80s got his head smashed by an elevator and he became a vegetable. And it was even worse because he was a successful doctor! How could I even joke about that?!

Then I joke that we should throw open our car doors and clothesline the cyclists. And she screams at me because an acquaintance in college got killed when someone opened their car door in front of his motorcycle.

I really can’t win with her.

But never once have I doubted our relation. This is because my mom’s parents are EVEN WORSE THAN ME.

My grandparents are like my second set of parents.

My grandmother, by all outward appearances, is sweet and loving. She takes her mentally challenged neighbor to the grocery store every week. She gets up at five in the morning and walks the dogs of her ill friends. She grew up in Paraguay the daughter of a missionary, and later taught English as a second language to underprivileged kids.

But if my grandmother walks up to you on the street to tell you how beautiful your baby is, do not mistake her intentions – you’ve just been Evil G’mad!

The second you turn the corner, a smile on your face – remnants of the pleasure you got from hearing from a complete stranger that your child is gorgeous – my grandma has turned to me and said, WHAT AN UGLY BABY!

Seriously. Every time.

It’s like my grandmother gets some kind of thrill out of purposely going up to parents of unfortunate-looking infants and lying to their faces. It’s awesome. And it makes me feel better about my insatiable need to call everyone I see fat and ugly.

Oh top of this, my grandfather is a Class A psycho. We tend to picture 80-year-old dudes as sweet, innocent old men. In the case of my grandpa, this is not even remotely true. Gramps is a bonafide Dirty Old Man – a recovered alcoholic, former undercover narcotics officer, truck driver, and musical prodigy who was expelled from college for selling term papers to his fellow students and charging by the grade. Now in his eighties, my grandpa likes to tell stories about that one time he flipped his car six times and hit a tree but walked away without a scratch because he was drunk, and that other time when he and his brother were in elementary school and decided to steal their dad’s gun to hold up an ice cream parlor.

[A few months back, my grandfather was in the hospital. I asked him if he needed anything. This was his actual response. Like I said, I knew I got that "not being able to take anything seriously" gene from somewhere!]

It is important to note that my grandfather is from an extremely wealthy and powerful family. The wacky ones always are.

Anyway, no one gets my mom’s blood boiling like her dad, even on Mother’s Day. We were driving out to have lunch with my brother near his college, because my grandfather had been yowling about never getting to drive on the freeway anymore. Halfway there, the real fun begins.

Mom: I would not go to Mexico right now, it’s so dangerous because of the drug cartels!

Grandpa: We just need to legalize dope.

Mom: IT’S NOT JUST DOPE! They are bringing meth over the border!

Grandpa: Meth is good for you.

Mom: HOW DO YOU FIGURE THAT, DAD?!

Grandpa: It makes fat people skinny. [At this point, I am snickering uncontrollably, because I know this isn’t going to end well]

Mom: AND THEN IT MAKES THEIR TEETH FALL OUT! It’s highly addictive, Dad!

Grandpa: Is it as addictive AS SEX?!! [insert two straight minutes of my grandfather’s famous evil chuckling]

My mother is now seething. And yelling at Gramps for being wildly inappropriate.

We arrive at the restaurant, which means things are about to get a lot worse. My grandfather is absolutely notorious for being a disruptive asshole at eateries.

We’re at the Olive Garden (because we’re damn classy like that), and the waitress approaches to ask if we would like to try some wine. My grandfather starts off with a bang:

Grandpa: DO YOU SELL IT BY THE GALLON?! [Remember, my grandfather is a recovered alcoholic who hasn’t taken a drink in 20 years.]

Waitress: Ummm….no? [Sometimes we get a waitress that can roll with the punches. Other times we get one that is absolutely terrified of my grandpa’s antics. This one was the latter. She was damn lucky he didn’t try to order opium – he does that quite frequently.]

My mother tries to avert disaster by asking my grandmother if she’d like some wine. My grandfather shrieks, “LIPS THAT HAVE TOUCHED WINE WILL NEVER TOUCH MINE!”

Sigh.

Later, when our food arrives, the waitress offers my mother some Parmesan cheese. My grandfather had gotten his plate before her, and he immediately becomes terrified that he will not be offered any cheese.

Grandpa: Hey, hey, am I getting cheese? I want cheese. Can you get me some cheese?! Hey, CHEESE. DO I GET CHEESE?!!

Waitress: Yes sir, I, hold on…I’m…

Poor girl can’t get a word in edgewise. At this point, we are all yelling, “GRANDPA! HOLD ON A SECOND! SHE WILL GIVE YOU SOME CHEESE!”

Grandpa: CHEESE! I WANT SOME CHEESE ON MY PASTA!

My mother – as always – tries to change the subject. And somehow, the first thing she thinks of is that the lawsuit against the LAPD filed by the family of Notorious B.I.G. was finally dismissed last month.

My grandmother smiles. She says, Oh yes, we were there - so much caution tape!

Wait, what? You were WHERE?

The museum! We didn’t know what the caution tape was for! continues my grandmother, as if this is the most normal conversation in the world.

YOU WERE WHERE, GRANDMA??!!

YES, THAT’S RIGHT, MY FREAKING GRANDPARENTS SHOWED UP TO THE PETERSON AUTOMOTIVE MUSEUM IN DOWNTOWN LOS ANGELES THE MORNING AFTER BIGGIE WAS MURDERED. Are. You. Fucking. Kidding. Me.

They had absolutely no idea what was going on, so they merrily skirted around the caution tape and had a fabulous day looking at classic cars.

Point One: I have the most badass grandparents on the planet. I mean, they’re evil, disruptive, AND THEY SHOW UP AT THE MURDER SCENE OF A FAMOUS RAPPER AND THEY DON’T EVEN BAT AN EYE.

Point Two: Screw this whole six degrees of separation crap. You guys, I AM SEPARATED FROM BIGGIE SMALLS BY ONLY ONE DEGREE. (And death, of course). ONE DEGREE!!! I practically knew him! THIS IS THE BEST NEWS I’VE HAD ALL YEAR!

[Sorry, my best friend Biggie. I can only look so gangsta.]

Best. Mother’s Day. EVER.

The Oracle at the San Pedro Courthouse Says I’m a Danger to Society

So yesterday, Cancer Dad calls me up (never a good sign) to tell me that my bail is set at $531 and my driver’s license is on hold and soon to be suspended.

That was even worse than I was expecting, quite frankly. Can’t he ever call me to tell me he loves me and wants to shower me with puppies and rainbows? Why does it have to be all, I have cancer! There’s a warrant out for your arrest because you missed jury duty! (Which I hadn’t – it was a mistake) You’re going to jail for not paying your traffic tickets!

But I digress.

Upon hearing this voicemail, my immediate reaction was something along the lines of What the fuck is he even talking about?!! at which point I suddenly remembered that fix-it ticket I got a few months back concerning my lack of front license plate. I’ve never forgotten to pay a ticket in my life, and suddenly I am completely terrified. Am I going to jail?! This isn’t even my fault! I think front license plates are a perfectly reasonable requirement!

No, really, it’s not my fault. Back in the day, circa 1992, my parents bought the car I now drive, and my father actually got down on his hands and knees and removed the front license plate and threw it in the trunk.

Why?

Well, according to my parents, front license plates are tacky.

So, as I’m hyperventilating about how my parents’ demented obsession with disobeying the law for the sake of style is going to get me raped by a four hundred pound lesbian in prison, I remember the kind words of the officer who gave me the ticket.

Don’t worry, he said. Just go show them the plate and everything will be fine. I wouldn’t even give you this dumb ticket if these other cops weren’t here.

Whew, okay, it’s not a big deal. Even the police think this law is stupid. I’m going to be fine.

I drive over to my dad’s house to pick up the letter just to verify that he isn’t trying to fuck with me or something. And, in the tragic tradition of being a young blonde female, I am told that I should really let my boyfriend put my front license plate on for me, as to avoid further infractions. I refrain from punching him in the face, as I am capable of using a screwdriver – the problem here is not that I can’t put on my front license plate, it’s that I haven’t. I mean, really Dad?

Anyway, the letter went a little something like this:

WHAT THE HELL. THIS SEEMS A LITTLE BIT EXTREME.

(Okay, it didn’t really say that. But it did imply that I would be charged $531 and/or be arrested if I didn’t address the situation within 10 days after April 30. Fan-fucking-tastic.)

Because I wanted very badly to avoid jail and/or huge fines, I used my lunch hour today to wander over to the courthouse to settle the manner (a.k.a, avoid prison) and found myself looking into the eyes of pure apathy – the eyes of a traffic violations department employee. She has eyes the color of Nutella mixed with broken dreams and sub par moral standards – I hand her my letter with some serious reservations.

She says, Five hundred and thirty one dollars, puleeeease.

Whoa, whoa, missy. It is May 6th. I do not owe you five hundred and thirty one dollars!

My cow-faced traffic violations friend looks me dead in the eye and chews her gum like cud. I put on my brightest, most innocent smile. She rolls her eyes, sighs, and says cryptically, Let me gooooo cheeeeeeeck.

So I’m pretty sure she had to go visit the Courthouse Oracle.

I say this because law does not govern the San Pedro Courthouse. The letter I have handed her clearly states that I owe $231 because I am paying within my ten-day grace period. But, apparently, that means nothing. She has to go make an animal sacrifice and get that shit verified.

I feel a tiny glitter of hope in my chest. Perhaps this is all a mistake. Perhaps I owe nothing. I mean, if they can’t trust the official letters they send out to people, then, well, everything must be up for negotiation, right?

Tragically, the Oracle was pissed off today. He probably found out one of his vestal virgins was really a hooker with herpes. Or maybe my traffic violations friend got lazy and sacrificed a dead skunk she found in the dumpster out back instead of a champion white stallion. Because what happened next was clearly not reasonable.

So, yah, starts my intelligent new buddy. This is a mistake...

OH THANK YOU JE….

You actually owe eight hundred and thirty one dollars, she says. With. Gusto. Oh, and this is a misdemeanor, not an infraction.

…SUS FUCKING SHIT.

My jaw dropped so hard, I’m pretty sure everyone in line heard it.

Wait. WAIT. I didn’t have a front license plate. I missed the date on the ticket by a few weeks. I DID NOT MURDER A CHILD AND TIE SAID CHILD’S DEAD BODY TO THE FRONT OF A HUMMER AND RIDE AROUND TOWN WHILE CHUGGING A BOTTLE OF JAGERMEISTER AND SINGING “MEMORIES” FROM CATS. Although I guess that would be a felony.

I just stare at her.

The only sounds that can be heard are my gasping breaths. And angels crying.

Nutella Eyes starts speaking again.

...buuuuuuut we’ll honor the letter. So I guess you owe $231.

I pay – because at this point, $231 sounds like a goddamn miracle – and leave.

As I am furiously telling this tragic tale of metaphorical rape and highway robbery to my mother, she interrupts and says, “Brittany, have [The Boyfriend] put your license plate on your car!”

Point One: You are supposed to be gasping and yelling about the villainy of the court system right now, not referring to whether or not I have a front license plate on my car. That is not the point anymore. THE POINT IS THIS GREVIOUS INJUSTICE TO MY PERSON.

Point Two: How is it that you think the very second I thought I was going to get molested in prison for not having a front license plate I did not go put on my front license plate? Woman, I immediately dropped to my knees on the oil-covered roadside and screwed that damn thing on then and there AND UNDID WHAT YOU AND DAD DID 18 YEARS AGO.

Obviously, I’ve really got to stop expecting my mom to respond to my craziness in a desired manner.

I mean, I was totally just kidding when I texted her today…

…and I’m pretty sure if God strikes people dead for that kind of stuff, I would have been hit by lightening a long time ago.

P.S. Seriously, I don’t think anyone should die from cancer for treating me like crap.

P.S.S It was a joke.

P.S.S. Really.

P.S.S.S. You don’t even deserve that if you tell me I look ugly and sickly and desperately in need of lipstick in front of a whole room of people (true story). I’m that forgiving.

Our Volunteer Buddy Isn’t an Axe Murderer, But She Does Slaughter Wild Pigs and Eat Them

[FrankenFish goes camping: A heart-warming tale of breakfast booze, zombie cows, and drunken axe murderers.]

When we last left off, I was about to travel into the wilderness with Culture, Blonde Beyonce, and an older woman we barely knew who could potentially want to chop our bodies into little pieces and bury them on a remote ranch north of Santa Barbara.

Well, that didn’t happen, even though all the conditions were just right for that sort of thing.

There were definitely a few moments when fireworks started going off in my skull, like, Warning, warning, you are about TO GET YOUR ASS MURDERED, but surprisingly, nothing ever came of it. And it wasn’t like we had any means of escape. Despite how great my amazingly well thought out plan about using my car as a sailboat was, that shit never would have worked.

See, this is what I thought our situation was:

But this is what it really was:

Before we left on this little adventure, our Volunteer Buddy was all like, Do you have a four-wheel drive car? and we were like, Ummm, no? She cackled and said, This should be interesting!

You guys, no lie, I am writing a fucking letter to the Mercedes-Benz Corporation expressing my everlasting gratitude and newfound brand loyalty that will last for the rest of my sad little life. MY CAR IS IMMORTAL. I have put it to the ultimate test, and it has survived. I should get paid for providing Mercedes with their next car commercial.

It is important to note that my Mercedes-Benz 190E Sport Line is 18 years old and has more than 200,000 miles on it. Yet, for some reason, it seemed like a really good idea to drive it up a mountain with NO ROADS. I have never screamed so loud while driving. I prayed for the duration of every fifty foot, forty-five degree angle dirt climb of that journey. And when I thought I had made it to the top, our Volunteer Buddy points at a terrifying grassy knoll that is basically vertical, and tells us to back up and take a good run at it.

Spoiler alert: We didn’t make it.

[It is necessary to watch this video with the sound on because the important part is listening to us scream - and hearing me say, "Guys, let's never show this video to my mother." This video is proof that you should always listen to your mother.]

When it became obvious that we would never make it up the hill, we were forced to abandon my loyal vehicle in the middle of a field and climb into the car of our potential murderer. As I waved goodbye to my only means of escape, I discovered that the “road” we would have driven down – had I made it over the grassy knoll – would have been impossible to navigate. I would have had to leave my car in the valley, never to be seen again!

Once we were a million miles away from cell phone service and society with a woman who had apparently adopted an injured wild pig, raised it, and then shot it in the head and eaten it (this is a true story, people), we pitched our tent. There seemed to be an awfully large amount of cow poop scattered around (in fact, as we discovered later, we pitched our tent right on top of a huge cow pie). This should have been a warning sign. Sadly, at the time, we were too busy suppressing our intuition to notice that huge amounts of cow shit usually signify a large amount of cows.

We left our sad little camp and took a hair-raising, four-wheel drive journey to the beach to explore and eventually cook dinner. However, a full on sandstorm was underway and everybody (even the ladybugs) were hiding.

[I swallowed about a pound of sand while this photo was being taken.]

[In a survival-of-the-fittest situation, the ladybug on the left will survive due to its amazing shelter-seeking abilities. The one on the right? Well, it's about to be killed by a wind storm. I think this post demonstrates that I am more like the bug that is going to die.]

Cooking dinner in those wind conditions was completely impossible – we realized very quickly that we would have to drive to a small town called Buellton a few miles up the road to eat.

The worse part was that we were all covered in sand and dressed like hobos when we walked into what appeared to be a cheesy steakhouse off the freeway. Sadly, The Hitching Post (yes, that is the name of the restaurant) was completely full of swanky rich bitches from Santa Barbara who were busy vacationing in their mansions on Hollister Ranch. Our Volunteer Buddy took one look and ordered herself two huge margaritas. It was suddenly as if Culture, Blonde Beyonce and I had acquired a crazy alcoholic aunt. The kind that harass all the waitresses and hit on all the cowboys. And order way more food than we could ever possibly eat.

A plate of mussels, a huge stuffed chile, soup, salad, a baked potato and a steak later, our Volunteer Buddy is drunk as hell and ready to go back to camp.

And because I’m the loser with all the large vehicle driving experience (I blame this on The Boyfriend and his sixteen-passenger van) I get behind the wheel of our Volunteer Buddy’s blue SUV and take off towards the pitch-black roads of the ranch.

At this juncture in the narrative we begin to realize we are in way over our heads.

After we get deep inside the ranch (after much panicked steering around sharp corners and cliff-edges) I turn over the car to our drunken Volunteer Buddy. Why? Well, I calculated our survival rate. And, after thinking about it, it was much more likely that we would survive the descent down the mountain into the valley if a drunken – yet experienced – driver was behind the wheel instead of me.

Bad plan.

Volunteer Buddy interpreted our screams as she swerved merrily around corners as an invitation to tell us stories about how the authorities were going to find the car empty at the bottom of a ravine with no trace of our bodies.

I couldn’t even make this shit up.

Blonde Beyonce grabbed my shoulder from the back seat in fear and whispered my name repeatedly in a panicked What-The-Fuck sort of tone. We were laughing hysterically - only Volunteer Buddy didn’t know it was because we were in a hysteria brought on by the absurd way in which our lives were destined to end.

We were basically shitting our pants when we reached the peak of the mountain. How would she kill us? Would we even make it down this valley without crashing? WAS THIS THE WORST JOINT DECISION WE HAD EVER MADE?!

The SUV lurched down the slopes of the valley as we yelled, and shrieked, and laughed. About halfway down, Volunteer Buddy changes subjects abruptly from death and murder to cows. She wonders aloud, What if the cows are in our camp?

OH MY HOLY SHIT STOP THE CAR WE ARE ABOUT TO BE MURDERED BY ZOMBIE COWS.

The headlights wash over at least a hundred cows only feet away from our car. They have completely obliterated our camp. Our tent is nowhere to be seen. The only thing visible on this completely ink-black night is a mass of swarming cattle, their eyes glowing evilly in the glare of our headlights.

We abandon the last remnants of our self-control.

The whole car explodes into sobbing, wet, blubbery laughter. Tears are running down my face and I can no longer breathe. This is it, I think, They will find my body two months from now, crushed instead the shell of a SUV trampled by cattle.

Our Volunteer Buddy takes in our reaction and smiles. She wails triumphantly, “You guys are THE BEST!”

She then proceeds to save our lives by driving into the massive herd of cattle with her car and frightening them away from our camp.

It’s like a war zone. Our tent is flattened, and the ground has become a minefield of cow pies.

We re-pitch our tent to the best of our abilities and crawl inside, still shocked and shaken by the night’s events. We pass out immediately, and I am plagued by nightmares of cows sticking their heads into our tent.

The sun rises, and we face the day knowing we are not going to be murdered.

We celebrate by busting open bottles of alcoholic cider at 10 AM and driving with gusto down the mountain, open containers in hand (yes, in my poor Mercedes). We visit the wind caves and the horses and cows (which are not nearly as scary in daylight) and frolic in the fields like jack rabbits on meth.

As for our Volunteer Buddy, well, the jury is still out on whether or not she is a serial killer...

...but if the fortune cookie I ate today has anything to say about it, our Volunteer Buddy is probably not a cold blooded murderer.

But fortune cookies aren't really the most reliable source of information. Hence, my next vehicle will be equipped with four-wheel drive.

You can never be too careful.