Ghettofabulous Good Times

My in-laws were just in town for two glorious weeks. During their visit Hubs and I got not one, not two, but THREE date nights! Have I mentioned how much I love my in-laws? Yes? Okay then.

As Hubs and I usually space our date nights to once every Pope, I valued every single minute of bonus alone time I got with him, but one date was extra special. Hubs took me on an insider tour of his old patrol division in South Central. (We’re not supposed to call it South Central anymore because apparently the name has a negative connotation and by changing the name we have magically made all of its problems go away, but I’m a rebel).

Yep, changing the name makes it all better.

Right now I bet you’re thinking, “those two love birds sure know how to carve out moments of romance.” And you’d be right. We surely do.

I’ve been bugging Hubs to take me to that particular division for a while so that I could accurately describe it in my unpublished work of burgeoning genius, but every time I suggested it Hubs would get a look on his face as if he’d suddenly developed hemorrhoids and one of them had exploded. Apparently, according to crime stats, his own personal experience and the movie End of Watch, that area is dangerous and he loves me. Also he doesn’t know where all of our important paperwork is or how much Tylenol the kids get. But due to the UWBG (unpublished work of burgeoning genius) I would not let it rest.

So when he turned to me and actually suggested it on his own without any coercion or overt emotional blackmail I jumped up and down and ran to pick out my best South Central touring outfit before he changed his mind.

It's Christmas for unpublished authors in the ghetto.

It’s Christmas for unpublished authors in the ghetto.

Then I ran back out:

Me: If someone starts shooting at us, is it better for me to recline in my seat or lean forward?
Hubs: I’d recommend getting down on the floor so you have the protection of the–
Me: Engine block! Right!

(Yes this was our actual conversation and no, it isn’t unusual for us to discuss things like this.)

At that point I may or may not have wet my pants a little in excitement and had an elaborate fantasy wherein Hubs and I were in a gun fight and I took a bullet in the shoulder and had to dive over the hood of my car to take cover behind said engine block. Then as I was losing consciousness, cradled in Hubs’s arms I said, “promise me that your next wife will be ugly and good with the children,” and Hubs laughed through his tears, realizing that I was the most bad@ss wife in the entire world.

I love that fantasy.

Then Hubs generously armed himself, I packed tasty South Central touring snacks and we departed in a ball of excitement (admittedly all mine). I was so filled with joy and gratitude that I actually let Hubs drive my new leased pride and joy and only commented on his Captain Agro driving style once on the freeway. Once we got into the neighborhood I forgot to care about the welfare of my car because it was SO EXTREMELY AWESOME!

This church is on Trinity street and the Holy Spirit burned its roof right off.

It was even better than my Ride Along in Rampart Division, when I got to see a felony arrest, a perimeter and ride Code 3 (lights and sirens) to a call, and it’s hard to beat that. Hubs is the best South Central tour guide and heavily armed husband EVER!

Seriously, he’s the Starsky to my Hutch, the Crockett to my Tubbs, the Gyllenhaal to my Peña…huh, it looks like I took you on an unintentional homoerotic tour of famous cop shows. Alrighty then.

"Riley gets 7.5 ml of Tylenol for a fever."

“This was the best date night ever.”

Hubs expertly navigated the ‘hood, showing me the locations I’d used in my UWBG and some that applied to the work stories he’s shared, like “this is where I was chasing that gangster and we got hit by the Volvo” and “this is where I was wrestling with that guy on PCP and my partner stood back and watched.” He pointed out houses of “frequent fliers,” kept me informed of which gang’s territory we were in, answered all of my questions and pointed out some interesting characters and idiosyncrasies of the neighborhood while people stared at us as if they’d never seen a giddy, suburban soccer mom touring their neighborhood before.

Then Hubs took me to a really cute little Mexican place for lunch where I bought some souvenirs.

What? You thought I'd bring home a bag of crack and an undocumented worker? That's so racist.

What? You thought I brought home a bag of crack and an undocumented worker? You need to look at your code of ethics, my friend. And anyway, you can totally buy those on the internet.

As it turns out I’ve actually been in that division a few times on my own, which I thought was very cool. It reminded me of my pre-Hubs days when I regularly wandered neighborhoods in which I could get mugged or at least need a tetanus shot. Hubs was not as excited about that realization as I was.

I understand his concern. He just doesn’t realize the extent of my bad@ssery. But one day when we’re in that gun fight…

Crime just got its eviction notice.

Crime just got its eviction notice.

**********

Photo Credits:

Fanpop

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Cheesecake Off Of Taylor Lautner’s Abs

True Confession:

I made a $12.50 contribution to the Twilight empire. I saw Breaking Dawn. In the theater. And now I’m outing myself.

Behold the shame

Behold: shame and an approaching weather system.

You might roll your eyes but sometimes a girl just wants to watch a Matrix-style fight scene with pretty people in paper snow, surrounded by CG werewolves. Much like a key lime cheesecake, it has no nutritional value, but is still delicious. Like Taylor Lautner’s abs. Or a key lime cheesecake eaten off Taylor Lautner’s abs.

Caution: those abs are wet. You will end up with soggy cheesecake.

Let’s not judge.

Frankly I found this movie thought-provoking. For instance, did you know that ancient vampires all learn perfect English? (Well you would if you’d stop wasting your time watching Oscar contenders.) Even the vampires deep in the Brazilian rain forest who still wear loin cloths take the time to enroll in their local ESL class, which is helpful when you have a giant vampire war. Let’s face it, delicate battle strategies can get lost in language barriers.

Imagine that you are lined up for battle with a bunch of other amber-eyed immortal hotties. Tension is mounting because a whole bunch of Italians are carrying a can of Sterno with your name on it. Italian vampires might behave like autistic drag queens but they’re vicious and connected.

Sheldon meets Liberace meets Vito Corleone.

You turn to the jungle vampire next to you and helpfully suggest, “Hey, fly through the air and rip the head off of that guy over there.”

Miss loin cloth, pointing in the opposite direction, says something ancient and rainforesty that you don’t understand because tribal-speak wasn’t even offered in your high school.

You roll your eyes. Where did they get this girl? Is she some sort of undocumented vampire who Matrix-jumped over the border? So you say (loudly and with extra enunciation),  “No. The. Guy. Over. There.”

Then she shakes her Amazonian flat-ironed hair with attitude and babbles something unintelligible with emphasis like she just insulted your mother, which is totally disrespectful because your mother died 200 years ago.

Meanwhile, the guy you were trying to get Miss Loin Cloth to kill flies through the air and rips your head off and now where are you? Stuck in eternal damnation, that’s where. And all because Miss Loin Cloth couldn’t even invest in a phrase book. I mean, do you have to do all of the work? You’ve been busy looking impossibly beautiful and drinking the blood of woodland animals with your equally beautiful immortal soul mate.

This Amazonian vampire is fresh from a stint on America’s Next Top Model and a Michael Jackson video.

Speaking of soul mates. I was watching the scene where KStew and RPat were lying in a field of flowers and KStew lifted the CG gauze that made up her mind shield so that RPat could watch a video montage of painful acting moments from the three previous Twilight films, which apparently demonstrated how KStew had loved RPat more than anyone had ever loved anyone else in the history of the world. RPat was enthralled and asked for another peak at her glorious awkwardness but KStew declined, saying, “We’ve got a really long time,” to which RPat replied, “Forever”  or “Eternity,” I forget which exactly because I was having not one but two epiphanies at the time and epiphanies screw with my short-term memory.

First of all, KStew’s video montage suggests that all of the painful acting moments in my past were actually signs of deep abiding love.  Will someone please alert my acting teachers? This is extremely encouraging news.  I think perhaps deep abiding love has caused all of my crappy writing as well.

And second, eternity is a long G.D. time. Holy prenups, Batman. Even ten years is a really long time when you don’t even take a nap to break up the monotony, but forever? Centuries of your soul mate not wiping the deer blood off of their expensive shoes before they track it through your magically clean, tastefully decorated home might have you eying your own can of Sterno. I think I’d have to have some sort of vampire open marriage because that’s just mind numbing craziness, but maybe matrimony is different when you sparkle. I wouldn’t know.

Alas, since this was the final installment of the Twilight extravaganza, I’m done with guilty pleasures for a while. Unless the latest James Bond film is still in theaters, because you know I love car chases and cool gadgets…and key lime cheesecake tastes just as delicious when eaten off of Daniel Craig’s abs.

Mmm, cheesecake.

Delicious. And this cheesecake is appropriately aged.

***

Photo Credits

movies.about.com

Criterion.com

Wikia.com

HighlightHollywood.com

Bozo Motley

I’m vain. I’ll admit it. Sure, I might wander around in unattractive workout clothes without makeup for most of the day. Or week. And I’m more than willing to humiliate myself in any number of ways in the name of comedy. But despite my goofiness and sometimes slovenly exterior I still like to look presentable when the time calls. And the time is about to call.

I’m going to be on stage for the first time since Jesus had acne and to commemorate that fact I decided to get my hair freshly done. My hair didn’t really need to be done. It looked fine. But I was shooting for fabulous. I wanted to feel special.

“Do not blaspheme, my child. I had a couple of pimples at best, but a little Proactiv cleared it right up.” (image via dreamstime)

I made an appointment with my hairdresser, the one in Hollywood who has guns tattooed on her hips and is so cool that she really shouldn’t even be cutting the hair of a housewife from the Valley, except that she’s too cool to even care. She is so cool that the space shuttle flew by three times just trying to get an appointment. She is so cool that I always walk out of the salon ten shades cooler than when I walked in just because she talked to me. Yeah, that cool.

And I did what you never do right before a big occasion. I asked for a change. I asked for more red in my hair. Because I wanted to make an impression.

Well she gave me what I asked for. She most certainly did. Lots of red. In my hair. Enough red to really make an impression. And also burn some retinas. I didn’t notice how bright it was in the salon, because I was intoxicated by the coolness, but I think I caused some accidents on the way home.

“Oops, my bad.”

When the shelf life of my cool status had expired and I looked in my own mirror, I thought, Whoa! followed by, Oh sh!t, WTF, sweet baby Jesus, am I supposed to do with this?

A friend of mine tried to assure me that my hair would look great on stage. I appreciated her effort considering that she had to squint through the glare to talk to me. And I think she was probably right. My hair would look good on stage. At the circus.

Am I the only one who thinks this clown looks drunk and terrified? (image via dreamstime)

After putting on two pairs of sunglasses, my friend also mentioned that I could tint my hair with coffee. This sounded like a brilliant idea. I wouldn’t have to spend another day traipsing through Hollywood to correct my hair, layer my head with more chemicals or (ahem) admit to my hairdresser that I wasn’t cool enough to carry off my edgy new hair color. And Hubs always leaves at least a cup’s worth in the pot.

I took the coffee left in the pot (which judging by the smell had been made in the 1990s) mixed it with some conditioner, slathered it on my hair, wrapped it in a towel and let it sit for an hour before shampooing.

“Your head smells like the good old days when we mixed coffee with dirt and drank it in a bunker.” (image via dreamstime)

Let me tell you what stale coffee can do for your hair. Not much in the color department. Evidently coffee cannot magically take the clown out of your hair. It can however, make your hair reek like a burnt cup a joe in a roadside diner. And who doesn’t love bad road coffee? I’ve donated several layers of stomach lining to the stuff myself. When the process was complete, my head smelled like it had been sitting in the cup of a fat, unwashed truck driver with a giant belt buckle and sallow skin.

(I don’t know why I’m so down on truck drivers. I’m sure many of them are lithe and rosy and smell like honeysuckle.)

Even after washing and conditioning, my hair smelled like a 1970s teachers’ lounge. If Bozo the Clown taught high school algebra, he would smell like me. He would also make me wet my pants. Because he’s evil.

Anyway, I’m excited to take my new train wreck coiffure on stage. I think it’s going to add an edge to my performance. I mean there will be lots of normal looking women on stage but only one with stinky clown hair. And when you think about it, that’s pretty special. Right?

Conor painted a picture of me. I think he really captured the intensity of my new hair.