This weekend was a blastity blast, as my friend Sara would say (I'm giving her a shout out, despite the fact that she continues to avoid reading my blog. How dare you, sir. I mean, Sar. I mean...)
Anyway, this weekend my seesters, Lo and Amy, came to visit me. They arrived on Friday night, late, and we went to the loudest restaurant in Atlanta and had a miserable time, thus cementing the fact that I have transformed into an old, blue-haired biddy. Awesome.
Philip and Amy caught in one of the many awkward pauses during their date @ Two Urban Licks
On Saturday we woke up and headed to brunch at Ria's where we ate our weight in chocolate chip pancakes and bacon. Mmm. Bacon.
Lo, super-pumped about the chocolate chip pancakes in her immediate future.
Then, my Moms and Aunt Barbara met us at the mall, where we all piled into the dressing room at J. Crew for an impromptu photo shoot. Que bueno!
I cropped this photo big time. You're welcome.
At the mall, we saw a gal walking around in 5" stilettos with a too-small flouncy skirt on. Now, I realize that I am known throughout the land for my mastery of hyperbole, but believe me when I say that more than half of this woman's bare backside was peeking out from underneath that skirt. No exaggeration. I should have sued her for the retinal damage that her jiggling cheeks inflicted upon us. You cannot un-see something like that, people. Gross.
After spraying down our eyeballs with Lysol, we jumped in the car and drove up to Rome, GA, where we ran into these two troublemakers:
Janu and me...twinsies!
DP. Original gangster.
It was a day full of facial expressions. Let's see, there was laughter...surprise...nausea. All within the span of a few hours. We have such range.
Can you believe these three came out of the same person? I'm gonna need to see some birth certificates.
It was a totes fun weekend all around. Even though this guy kept trying to ruin everything:
Don't be fooled by the cute face. This guy is a total bastard.
Sunday, I made more trips to the airport than I care to mention and finally crashed at home where I promptly fell asleep on the couch until ol' Jame-o moseyed on home and put me to bed.
I wish my family lived closer so every weekend could be like this.
Plus, if they lived here, I wouldn't have to go to the airport 8 times in one day. Geez.
Staring in disbelief: Clapping politely: Losing our minds when America showed them British chippies who's gonna win WWIII: Dressing up like a french hipster (a fripster, if you will): Attempting to stave off 100+ degree temps with radioactive melons:
And being unable to think of anything clever to write as captions for these pictures. Oh well. I can't win 'em all.
How old am I? Do you have any idea? Because I thought I was in my late twenties but, after watching the MTV Movie Awards yesterday night, I think I may be a forty five year old mormon mother of four. All that swearing! And the nudity! It had my petticoats all in a bunch.
Here are my issues with this year's MTV Movie Awards:
Were any of the movies nominated last night released within the past 2 years? Didn't Jennifer's Body come out in the summer of 1997 or something?
Ugh. Kristin Stewart. Fall off the grid already.
What has The Rock done to his face?! His beautiful, beautiful face?!?! No me gusta.
Ooh, look at us, we're on MTV and we drop an f-bomb every other word because we are cool teenagers...even though the person swearing the most during our show is Peter Facinelli who, let's be honest, is as middle aged as they come. Seriously, he plays R-Patz' dad.
Okay, Katy Perry: you've got nice boobs. You can put them away now. PS - is every one of her songs contractually obligated to include at least one penis pun?
Didn't Paris Hilton die of VD like 3 years ago? When she showed up on screen I thought I had inadvertently flipped to a zombie movie.
I think Lindsay Lohan and I might actually be the same age. If it turns out I am in fact forty five, that is. Shorty's lookin' rough.
Who the hell is tweeting about the MTV movie awards? It made me sad. Although, I guess I'm blogging about them. That makes me sadder.
I'm afraid that I only like Shaun White when he's in a snowboarding outfit. When left to his own devices, he shows up looking like the love child of Carrot Top and Jim Morrison.
What is a Justin Bieber?
So thanks, MTV, for making me realize that I really am too old for this shit. And for making it evident I'm not missing out on much.
In other news: Jame-o and I bought a camera this weekend. It's totes nice. We plan on using it to take pictures of the kids on their way to church and maybe photograph our Phil Collins record collection. Swingin' hip good times!
Leapin' leotards, Batman! How much is "So You Think You Can Dance" rocking my ass off?
I love it. I looooooooove it.
Seriously, I can't even tell you how hard I cry EVERY TIME they show someone in spandex shorts doing a standing side split soubresaut plie. My heart pas de bourree's into an arabesque and then collapses onto itself in a little puddle of ecstasy. Which is so weird because, you guys, I don't even know how to dance unless there have been several glasses of wine preceding my attempt. Whatever. I'm in love with this show.
Think I'm talkin' all cray-cray? Let this marinate in your brain space for a minute:
I am bawling over here. Gawd. And I've seen that video about 300 times. Hark! Behold the power of dance!
The funniest part of my fascination with this show is that I never experienced the passion that these dancers all talk about in their interviews (ex: "my parents had to sell my little brother so that I could keep taking tap lessons" or "after my stepsister's murder, I knew all I could do to keep her memory alive was crumping"). Nope. Not so much over here. For me, dancing was always a sad reminder of just how freakishly tall I was for my age and how disproportionate my head was (still is, really) to the rest of my body. Nothing boosts a 5'10'' eleven year old's confidence quite like being forced to watch her pale limbs parade around awkwardly in a bright blue unitard before the mirrored wall of the dance studio. Ugh.
I guess what I love most about SYTYCD (could the abbreviation of this show be any longer?) is that it makes me yearn for something I never even came close to having. The gawky adolescent girl inside me is cheering them all on; jumping up and down excitedly, her elbows flailing out at odd angles because she has an ape index twice that of other girls her age. It stirs my soul. Except for when they do modern jazz. Yawn.
I leave you with an example of me living my dream. Raise the roof.
Please note the glass of wine, aka. the reason for my sweet moves.