If my life were a movie, I’m not sure who would play me.

I’d like to think Emily Blunt or a young Elisabeth Shue.  Like, Adventures in Babysitting Elisabeth…or even Cocktail.  But with less backcombing and shoulder pad.

It’s so hard to pick.

With my luck, only Bai Ling and the girl from high School Musical who posted cell phone pictures of her vagina on the internet would show up to the casting call.

Andy is much easier, he’d would be played by Hugh Grant.

Not because I adore English accents, and the phrase spotted dick makes me giggle.

But, but because he’s charming and endearing and gets a bit bumbly and awkward when faced with confrontation.

It’s why when we fight, you only hear me yelling.

It’s why I’m the only one who sends food back at restaurants, or yells at people through my car window when they cut me off, or tells strangers when their pants are unzipped.

I’m that person.  He is not.

So last Friday, I stumbled out of a mid afternoon nap with a sudden craving for gummi bears, and as I stood in the sunroom, making stretchy noises and scratching my tummy (which is totally adorable by the way), I glanced out the window to find six very small children standing along the edge of my pond fishing.

And, it bugged me.  First, because I had no idea who they were, and second because, I don’t know, do I just look like the kind of responsible adult who is good at things like CPR or or rescuing drowning victims?

Because I’m not.  I slept through the last CPR class I took, and only passed because I showed so much enthusiasm during the practical portion of the test.  And really, it’s only because the plastic dummy you blew into looked like the cute brother from Hanson.

(Yeah.  It was that long ago.)

Also, I would eat a koala before I stepped foot in that damn pond.

So, I put my bra on to investigate.

I had yet to meet the neighbors at the other end of our property, maybe this was them?

I mean, I’ve seen their kids riding bikes around unattended in the road before, and I think I saw the dad in line at the ice cream truck earlier this summer, but I could definitely not pick him out of a line up.  But, really, who pays attention to anyone’s face at the icecream truck, what with being so busy bent over as the driver fishes every hard earned dollar from your ass to pay for the $9 Ninja Turtle Ice Cream bar?

Hi, my name is Brittany, do y’all live here?

No, we don’t live here, this isn’t our pond.

Right, I know, I mean, I live here, I meant, do you live here on this street?

No, we’re here because our friends are visiting their friends here. *points to my unaquainted neighbor’s house*

Ahh.

Bye.

And with that, they turned their backs to me and went back to fishing and whipping eachother with their poles.

Really?

What is with kids today.

I would never have had the balls to act like that at their age.

It’s different when you are 16 and sneaking into the pool of your old neighbor with your boyfriend and a six pack of Bud Ice, this was in the light of day, and these kids were young.  I would guess ranging from three to eight.

So I walked back to my house, all pissy and annoyed.

I’m pretty sure I complained about it all night, which Andy found to be a welcome vacation from my normal bitching about Pluto being a star or NBC for canceling Studio 60.

The next afternoon, I came home from running at the park (yes, I’m still doing that, and yeah, I’m equally surprised) to find a front yard full of parked cars, and even more kids spread across my pond and yard, fishing, throwing mud at each other, and other unsupervised shenanigans.

I could not believe it.

As I stood there, mouth agape, the boys’ friend from next door came over with the party invitation we had never received.

It was a Church gathering.  A celebration of Christ and fellowship.

Come mingle, eat, rejoice and bring your poles for fishing because OH HEY, there’s a pond stocked with bass and sunfish.

Which is weird.  Because, while I’ve never met these neighbors, I’m almost 80% sure they aren’t hiding a fish stock pond in their backyard.

So, I stood on my deck.  Using my mean face.  Glaring at these trespassers.

And none of them cared.

What do I do?

This is a huge, monumental liability.

If they want to let small children go unattended on their property or in the road, that is their issue, but I just can’t have this happening on my property.  I don’t let my own kids so much as breath near that pond without me being right next to them, I can’t be responsible for the children of twenty strangers who show up unannounced.

Do I walk over, bust in the giant tent of seated adults like a crazy person?

I don’t want to embarrass them.

I’ve been on the receiving end of smite before, and it’s, like….totally unpleasant, and usually involves lots of finger pointing, stone casting and damnation.

Andy said we should wait until the next day to say something.

But what if somebody drowns, Andy?

What if they injure themselves on our property?

Not to mention, they are obviously extremely rude and thoughtless and totally assy, and there ain’t nothing Christian about that.

But, I listened to him.

Partly because I don’t like when people pray for me (mom!), but also because we had a baseball game to get to and he promised me hotdogs and beer.

But the next morning, bright and early, I was on Andy to get over there.

I would have gone myself, but we both agreed it would be best if he went and did most the talking.

My reaction in these situations is such, that I am always about four seconds from hitting someone across the face with a chair and accusing them of raping the elderly.

So we go over, and the father is outside, and he is way huger than I remember him from the icecream truck, and he has a cast on his hand.

Probably from when he murdered the last non church goers who confronted him about manners and human decency.

So, here is a satellite picture from Heaven of our property, for, like, perspective.

So, we walk over, and  Andy was all, Hey erm, um, about yesterday, we are aware you sent out an invitation to your church to fish openly in our pond, and I am all OMG IT WAS THE RUDEST THING EVER WHO DOES THAT!? And Andy is like, yes, so the thing is, um, it’s just really, like, um, this huge, uh, liability issue, and I was like I WILL ATTACK YOU,  WHERE ARE THE CHAIRS? WHERE ARE THE MOTHER FUCKING CHAIRS!? And Andy is all, it was probably an oversight on your part, but we were never asked, and you know, it’s just not a good, um, situation, and then I was all JESUS DOESN’T LOVE OLD PEOPLE RAPERS, MISTER, NO HE DOES NOT, and Andy was all, one second.

And he pulls me aside all spazzy.

Yeah, what are you doing?

Oh my God, he looks totally scared, right?

Maybe you should walk back and I will finish things here.

Why, I’m in, like, a zone.

I don’t think it’s going the way you think it is in your head, you’re kinda freaking everybody out.

I thought we were really feeding off each other.  Like good cop, bad cop.

It’s coming off like good cop, mentally unstable, meth head cop.

You’re crazy, this is totally working.

Just go back to the house with the kids.

Ugh.

So, I turned around to walk back, but, to maintain my level of intimidation I was all, ok, I’m gonna go back to help the kids with their street fighting lesson and read all my books about guns and murdering things.

i watched from the window.  Andy was over there for, like, 30 more minutes, and by the time they left, they were all giggly and in boy love.  Which means Andy totally wasn’t as tough as he should have been, and they spent the last 20 minutes shooting the shit and talking about guy stuff, like sports and boobies.

Coward.

I think it’s clear who wears the pants around here when it comes to crisis situations.

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In high school I had a wrought iron canopy bed with lavender bedding, and lavender and pink throw pillows.  My matching nightstand was filled with scribbled in journals, vases of dried dead flowers that teenage girls hang on until they eventually turn to liquid, and pretty smelling candles to hide the smell of pot. My walls were covered with Guess and Ralph Lauren ads ripped from magazines, and pictures of my friends and I after Musicals, on the bus to soccer games, and tipsy on Southern Comfort at bonfires.

My room was everything that a teen girl’s room was supposed to look like.

I could have slumber parties in there.

I could cry over break ups in there.

I could give hand jobs under the covers with the Verve Pipe playing in the background in there.

It pretty much met all my young adult needs.

College was the same.  My room was a perfect reflection of myself, only with more empty bottles of cheap liquor, condom wrappers, and OAR CDs.

When we got married, I favored registering for expensive pots and pans over bedding.

We’d figure our room out later, we had plenty of time, and besides, who sees it besides us?

Three kids later, our bedroom has all the charms of an episode of Cops.

The crazy episode, where they show up expecting to find a drunk guy, and end up walking into a meth lab and bathtub full of illegally bred African crocodiles.

Over the years, it’s become less eclectic and more prisoner of war chic, and I have no idea how we let it get this out of control.

I always assumed it’d be a temporary situation, that one day, we’d take the time to turn it into the love den we deserved, but, I mean, why put all that money into it when Henry kept chewing the knobs of the dresser, and the kids kept spilling juice, urine and vomit on the sheets, and my boobs kept leaking through the comforter, and the drawers were all sticky with spilled KY and stashed legos and Hot Wheels and Wii controllers and OMG SERIOUSLY.

How did we even make babies in that bed?

Oh right, we didn’t.

I’m pretty sure the boys came from the living room floor while watching Seinfeld, and Gigi was in the crawl space while our sheets were in the washer.  Again.

I have no idea how Jim Bob and Michelle Duggar keep making babies, because I only have three, and I’ve already run out of semi-clean surfaces to have sex on.

As it is, the last place Andy got his pee pee touched was on a couch that smelled like play dough during Jack’s Big Music Show.

We’ve traded in Barry White and Remy Shand for songs about saying you’re sorry and not biting your friends.

I need a bedroom.

A place where I can make-out with my husband or fake cramps and shut the door so I can recover from my woman issues alone with my Oreos and Say Yes To The Dress marathon.

The way God intended.  With matching 300ish count sheets and pillows without hard drool spots.

So, yesterday I bought matching bedding.

I won’t talk about how much it costs, because needless to say, I could have bought Madonna a lifetime supply of the dead orphan bones she is clearly eating to look the way she does at 50, but it was worth it.

It’s clean and it smells like linen, not spoiled milk or that rancid stuff that leaks out of the back end of Henry.

(Seriously, how is that even allowed, nature?!)

It’s the first thing we have done for ourselves in a really long time, and I felt immediately guilty after I did it.

Until this morning.  When I woke up without contracting a yeast infection or lock jaw.

Worth every cent.

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I can’t remember how old I was when we stopped taking family vacations.

I know it was after a road trip to Alabama, when my dad accidentally left me behind on a military battleship tour, and I peed my pants, because I am 60% sure I saw a ghost, and when they finally found me in the galley, I had a knife in my hand and no pants on.

I think my parents fought through four states on the drive home.

After that, we didn’t go on family vacations anymore.

We talked about them a lot.

Traveling here or there.  Seeing something or another.

But, the money was never there.  The plans were never made.

Eventually, my father stopped leaving the house.

Family vacations became something I dreamt about.

One day, I’d have my family, and we’d travel all over the country.

We’d go to Disney and Yellowstone and the Alamo.

We’d have suitcases covered in stickers from all the places we’d been.

And then, I had kids, and realized how much easier it was to sit at home in my underwear, drinking wine and watching the travel channel.

Suddenly, my childhood was making sense.

Then, over the course of a year, I’ve started traveling.  Every month, schlepping my suitcase to a new city to explore.  Eating amazing food, making amazing friends, taking pictures of places I never thought I’d see in person.

And, as I was eating some sort of marinated meat on stick, on the corner of 57th and Broadway in New York City, I thought, I want to show my kids this.

So, we planned a trip to Chicago.  Just a weekend away.  A tester.  To see if the kids could handle the experience, and to see if I could get through it A. sober and 2. without murdering anyone.

These are the random thoughts I jotted down from that journey.

1.  I had to explain to Jude, in a rest stop off the Indiana turnpike, what the bloody tampon floating in the only working toilet was, and that just because there was blood everywhere, nothing had been murdered.  Unless, of course, you count his innocence.  And my ability to eat soup.

2.  Hotel beds are almost always better than your stupid civilian beds at home, even if there are potentially giant bugs in them.

3.  Elevators are stupid and scary.

4.  I hate doing the tourist photo dance.  You’re at some important point of interest.  You want a family picture.  You look around.  Does anyone look nice?  Is there another family near you wondering the same thing that you can look at, smile, and exchange telepathic “let’s helpsies” messages with?   No?  What about that guy over there?  Do you think he will say yes?  Oh wait, this teenager just asked if we wanted a group shot, except he looks like the Van der Sloot kid and he will probably steal my camera.  Not on my watch, murderer.  Wait, I’ll ask this old lady, they are notoriously helpful, wait…is she homeless?  Yes.  No.  Wait yes.  Ugh.  I refuse to ask the homeless to take a family picture.  It’s rude.  They aren’t the concierges of outside.  FUCKING FORGET IT.

5.  Wyatt and I in the elevator.

Wyatt: *singing* I don’t love you guys, none of you guys, not any of you guys…

Me:  Um… are you talking about me?

Wyatt:  Nooooo.  I loooovvveee you.  I’m talk about, um, other guys.

6.  The Rainforest Cafe serves three purposes.   To justify overcharging you for shit food by sitting you next to rubber wild animals.  To teach you nothing about the rain forest, except that for $30, you can get a cherry icee in a reusable cup with a giant tiger head and swirly straw.   To make sure that, thanks to a sudden jungle thunderstorm, and subsequent vicious wild animal uproar, your children never sleep again and flinch like an abused puppy whenever Diego comes on.

7.  There was a homeless man in line behind us in Walgreens.  We were buying milk, and he walked up behind me, carrying a small container of milk and a small box of cereal.  He had a handwritten sign asking for help, tucked under the one arm that he had left.  He smelled at least a week out from a shower, and I closed my eyes, willing my children not to stare or say anything.  They don’t understand yet.  I decided, in my head, to pay for my milk and then just leave the change from my twenty to cover the man behind me.  Then Gigi toppled over and smacked her chin on the corner of the counter, bit her lip, and was bleeding.  I reached for her to fix things, Andy paid, and shuffled us out the door.  I turned around quickly to see him through the window paying for his things with change he was counting out of a his palm.  I hated myself.  I cried the whole walk back to our hotel.  I should have turned around.    The next day, I gave money to every person we passed.  The woman in a berka asking for help for her children.  The man on the corner playing the saxophone.  But, none of that made anything that had happened the night before right.

8.  Jude likes cabs.  He calls them cash cars, because you give them cash, and they agree to drive you anywhere you want.   As we walked along the sidewalks of Chicago, Jude kept flagging down taxis.  They’d stop, ask us where we needed a ride to, I explained to them nowhere, and then they’d curse at me and drive away.  On our last day in the city, after a long day at Navy Pier, we agreed to a cash car.  Jude was ecstatic.  As we sat in a traffic jam, in 90 degree weather, in our air conditioning-less car, Jude threw up.  Everywhere.  It was the most expensive cab ride ever.

Next month we leave for Toronto.

I look way cuter drunk when I’m wearing flannel.

I can hardly wait.

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If I’m pregnant, it’s Joe Biden fault.

It’s not his fault that we never went back and did the post vasectomy test.  That was mainly just laziness on our part.  And logistically, well, the whole thing just sounded entirely too yucky for me.

It’s also not his fault that my period is wacky right now and it’s freaking me out, even though it may totally just be a result of returning home from a weekend of estrogen in NYC that’s tampering with my moon cycles.

So, as a safety precaution, I was just  gonna go ahead and not do it for a while.

It will be like when I pretended I was a virgin before we got married the first time around.   Even though Andy was like, that only actually works if I’m not the one you’ve sleeping with for eight years.

Where’s your imagination, Andy?

Then comes Biden.

Andy came home from work early.  Which almost never happens, because it’s summer, and if he is out of the office at all during daylight hours, he heads to the golf course.

But, he came home.

Which was jarring, because I have Brittany stuff that I do during the day, and I need warning.

So I can, like, hide wrappers, or wipe bleach off my lip.

And, he was totally all lovin’ up all over me, and I’m thinking, dude, no.

There is something amiss with my lady cycles, and there is no way I am gonna open this up for business until I know for sure I won’t find myself camped outside the Rite Aid at 7am in 14-28 days, looking up pregnancy symptoms on Yahoo Answers from my Blackberry.

What are you doing home?

The Vice President came to my work today to tour the place, and then he sent us home early to go be patriotic in this pretty weather while he and his handlers chat it up with the big wigs.

And, your version of being patriotic is rubbin’ all up on me?

Yes’um.

No.  We should go buy a flag.   It’s crazy we don’t have one.  I’m sure that’s the more patriotic thing to do.

Nope.  I tried to buy one last July and you told me there was no way you were going to let me drill a hole in the post to hang a flag because you weren’t feeling stars this year.

They’re just over played, that LA Ink girl has them all over her forehead, that shape has clearly jumped the shark.

Right, regardless, he sent us home early, I shook his hand, told him I was going to go take care of business with you, and drove straight home.  Well, not straight home because I stopped to get us smoothies.

I’m sorry.  That’s weird, because it sounds like you just told the Vice President you were coming home to have sex with me.  For…America?

I did.

…

He high fived me.  It’s odd when grown men do that, but yeah.  He seemed jazzed.

How do you even argue with that?

I mean, I don’t want to have sex right now, because it’s going to be next to impossible to chart things and not worry something is off, but dude, I’ve basically just been drafted.

So I had to.  Because I love my country.  And freedom.

And, you know what, this all just figures, because I’m pretty sure I already jinxed myself last week.

I keep diapers all over the car.

Size 4 under the driver’s seat.

Size 2 in the glove compartment.

Size 5 in the center console.

You just never know.

Sometimes the kids might need one.  Sometimes I might need one.

So, like I mentioned, a week ago I started my period two weeks early.

I had already used the tampon I keep in the car to apply eye glitter the week before, and I hadn’t replaced it yet.  It was still sitting in the cup holder, but menstruation is already busy enough, it doesn’t need to sparkle.

So, I used the size 1 under my drivers seat.

My last size 1.

It was so tiny and soft.

And gone.

I was sad about it for, like, four seconds.

I don’t know.  I just feel done.

Maybe it’s maturity, or my career.

Either way, I’m at a point where I feel complete, and there are things I want to do with my vagina that have nothing to do with placentas.

Except now…I have to wait.

For Joe Biden.

For America.

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Because only good things come from the conversations you have on long car rides after the kids fall asleep.

You remember what our song is, right?

I think yeah, it’s that song by Salt and Pepper right?

Salt n Pepa?

Whatever, the one you always sing when I tell you I’m going to mow the lawn.

Push It?

I think so, is that right?

You think our song is Push It by Salt n Pepa?

Wait, I don’t know, I am not good with names of songs.  You’re talking the one we danced to at our wedding, right?

Do you think we danced to Push It in front of my grandparents and my priest at our wedding?

Er, wait.  Is that a song about STD’s or AIDS or something?

Are you, like, high right now?

I don’t know, why do you always asked me this pointed shit while I’m driving, I mean, I don’t know, I get all the girl bands confused, was it not that, then?

We danced to Into The Mystic and Van Morrison is a dude.

Well, I didn’t just pull Salt and Pepper out of thin air.  Is that our normal song?  Like, for our coupleness?  Why do you girls have all this weird, obscure shit assigned to things that we have to remember and not piss you off about, and it’s just really hard.

…

Is it that song from that movie  with the Fashionable Male guy, about the asteroid hitting the earth, with the girl from Aerosmith?

You are ruining the magic, Andy.

And then, we didn’t talk for an hour and I had to pretend to look out my window all hurt the whole time, which was super hard, because the sun was on my side, until he finally tried to win me over with a Tupac pez dispenser from the gas station he took the kids to pee in.

Except, he says it’s not Tupac, but rather, Barack Obama, and that he knew I’d like it because I voted for him.

I just don’t understand boys at all.

And, for the record, our song has always been Oh My Love by John Lennon, with the only other acceptable answer being Northern Sky by Nick Drake, which was playing when he proposed.

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So, as you may have heard me make mention, I recently got back from a trip to New York City.

New York is one of my favorite places to travel, because I love hot dogs and unidentifiable rashes.

It’s like dinner and a show!

Anyways, this last trip was particularly awesome, and while I could write about it, Heather and I thought it’d be way more fun to just tell you in person.

If you have trouble viewing this video, click here.

While I’ve been compensated by Schick Intuition for this post, it’s important for you to know that my opinions about why elevators have hidden video cameras are my own.  Click here for more information on Schick’s K.I.S.S. & tell campaign, a $4 off coupon and a chance to win $5000!

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I keep saying I’ll wait until I love myself.

A little bit thinner.

A little bit tanner.

A little bit more like this crazy memory I have of myself eleventy billion years ago where I thought, for a moment, I was beautiful.

Months pass.

Months of dieting.

Months of working out.

Months of me looking in the mirror going what the fuck, body.  Two years ago, you would have been in shape by now.

I’m tired.

I’m tired of dieting.

I love chicken wings.  I love beer.  I love fried things, and powdered things, and things covered in guacamole.

I’m tired of untagging myself in photos, and hiding behind my children in photos.

I’m tired of letting other people make me feel unpretty.  Or fat.  Or less than.

I’m tired of hating myself every time I look in the mirror.

I’m done waiting for some stupid goal.

I can’t put off my life, or these really amazing things happening to me, because of this complex I’ve allowed myself to have about the number in my jeans.

People love me exactly how I am in this moment, and if I can’t wrap my brain around that, and do the same, I’m a selfish asshole.

How dare I be so wrapped up in my own self loathing, that I diminish any of the happiness people around me deserve to feel.

I am a whole person.

I’m funny and witty and successful in a lot of things I’ve worked very hard for.

Sometimes I need a little help to think I’m pretty.

One day I hope to be able to think it all on my own.

But, for now, I thank Mishi.

I know, right!?

She has an amazing eye and and even better ability to remind me I’m a woman.

Not just a mom.  Or a wife.  Or girl who cuts the tags out of her underwear.

But, a brilliant, capable, sexy as hell woman.

*All photographs courtesy Mishelle Lane Photography.  Mishi is bringing her camera to Vegas this December to offer boudoir sessions.  Isn’t it time you felt sexy again, too?

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Sometimes, I like to pretend I am a hair stylist.

It’s one of those jobs I always wished I had, much like being a teacher so I could decorate bulletin boards or a marine biologist so I could be tan.

Never mind that other people’s children annoy me, or that the ocean is a giant salt water toilet with sharks and dead bodies.

Being a hairstylist always looked like so much fun.  Cutting, and curling, and gossiping, and wearing capes.

Who doesn’t love to wear capes?

I always thought it was silly you needed a license to do hair, but not give people bikini waxes, which, in my opinion, is way more invasive, but whatever.  I’m not in charge of making laws.

Wait, Andy is telling me you do need a license to be a bikini waxer.

Apparently something more than a guy in Cancun with a shirt that says “Part Time Gynecologist.”

I thought I had my bases covered there, but he is just never gonna let me live that one down, like the scarring isn’t enough.

So, while I may not be able to cut hair in, say, a salon, there is nothing stopping me from buying a 40 piece razor kit from the Hair Accessory aisle of Walmart to play cosmetologist with at home.

Also, my kids go ape shit when strangers come at them with scissors.

Plus I totally get all warm and turned on when people play with my hair, so if I cut Andy’s, it’s basically foreplay, which means no more ball tickling.

This is easily the best purchase I have ever made.

The first time around, it was rough.  I’m not gonna lie, I have never been good at things like eying measurements, or holding multiple objects at once.

But, after a few cuts, I found my footing, and I’m starting to look pretty professional when I look at myself doing it in the mirror.

Tonight was haircut night.

Which means I clean off the bathroom counter, put up the rugs, lay out my supplies and take off my shirt and coat myself with baby powder, because hair sticks to powdered flesh way less than it sticks to cotton, and there is nothing attractive about full body itching.

There is also nothing attractive about finding enough hair under your breasts to knit a scarf, but it’s the nature of the beast.

The boys are easy.  I distract them with candy while they ask me questions.

Why do ants live in holes?

Why do you cut our hair wearing your bra-wl?

Do boys wear bra-wls?

Is the moon rich?

While Andy is equally easy, and I distract him with boobies, he is a much larger job.

It is not uncommon for people to assume my husband is Greek or Indian.

He has dark skin.  Black hair.  A beard.  And he’s really, really hairy.

He doesn’t look one ounce of the Irish blood he has pumping through his veins.

By the time I finish cutting his hair, it’s like I shaved a poodle, and I swear I pick it out of my teeth for a week.

There is so much, and it’s just…everywhere.

If I knew how to make clothes, I’d be rich, because he’s basically like having one of those alpacas they sell on television promising you both companionship and income, only way easier because he doesn’t spit or poop on the floor.

This week, I decided to go the Jersery Shore route, and I can tell he’s super excited about it.

I'm basically Paul Mitchell or a less nasaly Jonathan Antin.

The boys were super easy, as I was just re-shaving the mohawks I forced onto them after I grew tired of washing syrup, pop rocks and Children’s Tylenol out of their long surfer cuts.

But as for me and Gigi, we won’t be cutting our hair anytime soon.  You don’t get anywhere in the toddler or adult pageant scene with short hair.  The judges just feel sorry for you.  Everybody knows that.

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In my experience, nothing extraordinary ever happens at 4am.

When I was a teenager, it was sneaking back into my bedroom window before dawn, praying my mama wasn’t waiting in my room threatening to send me to a convent where they don’t allow push-up bras or wine coolers.

In college, it meant drunk food at a seedy 24 hour waffle place along the highway, with glitter and mascara streaked across my face.

Now that I am married with kids, the thought of seeing 4am turns my stomach.  It means someone pooped through their diaper, or is vomiting something up, or I’m having a panic attack, or someone younger, drunker and with a much more exciting life than my own accidentally dialed my number, and I answered it all freaked out because I assumed someone must have died, but then she is all, where’s Robbie I’m super horny, and I’m like, promise me you are getting a degree in something and that Robbie doesn’t have an ankle monitor on.  And then she calls me a crazy bitch and she hangs up, and I can’t go back to sleep, so I lay in bed wondering if she’ll turn up on next season’s The Real World.

(Incidentally, just typing Real World randomly made me google Melissa from Real World New Orleans, which was, in my opinion, one of the last great seasons, because they still cared about showing up to their fake jobs, and had way less HPV floating around up in there.  Anyways, she used to blog at princessmelissa.com, but has since moved on to tumblr, and she is married with a daughter, and it’s adorable and I just want to shake Tonya from Chicago and be like, listen, amazing things can happen for you when you put underwear on.)

So, sitting in the LaGuardia Airport at 4am on Monday morning, I had low expectations.

And things were already not off to a great start.

The bakery only had onion bagels, and the man sitting next to me smelled like pee, and I have this thing when I travel, that I cannot go to the bathroom, no matter how much I try, and after 5 days of eating everything wonderful New York had to offer, my stomach was hard and distended.  Like those kids on the Feed the Children commercials.

It was the first time Andy and I had gotten away since we had Jude 4 years ago.

It was a mix of eating and making out and sex without Yo Gabba Gabba on and sleep.  Lots and lots of sleep.

But, at 4am, I was still exhausted.

I laid my head on Andy’s shoulder, mentally deciding, as I leapt in and out of sleep, that I would rub my belly as if I were pregnant, so that the fellow passengers sitting at Gate D2 would think I am, in fact, not fat and bloated, but rather, adorable and pregnant.

Kiss me.

What?

Kiss me.

Um, we’re in the airport, there’s a Rabbi staring at us.

So.

But, I have onion breath.

I don’t care.

So I did, and I waited for him to wince, because I don’t care how much you love someone, onions are onions, and that taste had been festering on my tongue for at least half an hour.

So, what was that all about?

I just wanted it to be romantic.

The kiss?

No, the moment.

Why? Are you still drunk, because I’m totally not going to do it in the airport bathroom if that is where this is going.

No, I want you to marry me again.

What?

Marry me.  Again.

And then I died.  Because, who does that at 4am in a dirty airport terminal, with sticky seats and Rabbis, and still have it turn out completely and utterly, balls to the wall romantic?

Gate D2, LaGuardia Airport 4:13am

So.  We’re getting married.  Again.

And this time, we’re doing it the fun way.

The first time around, per Andy’s request, we had a boring, traditional wedding, when I wanted nothing more than a fat Elvis impersonator to walk me down the aisle, and then spend the night partying it up in the city that never sleeps.

So, we made a pact to have a conventional wedding first, and then the next year, head to Vegas and do things my way.

But, with each passing year, I kept getting pregnant.

But, not this year.

This December, we say I do.  Again.

So, we were thinking…while I have my once-again groom and my gaggle of bridesmaids, a burgeoning tolerance, and a plan to maybe/probably lose weight, I am missing a huge crowd of crazy amazing people to party along side us, from a pre-wedding faux-bachelor party, to witnessing the big event in all the campy glory Vegas has to offer!  If Vegas has it, we’re gonna do it.  Every moment fun.  Every moment amazing.  Every moment youtube worthy.

So, now I have to ask…are you free to whoop it up with us this December?

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I’m not sure what Andy thinks happens when I travel.

I imagine he fancies it some sort of non-stop slumber party.

We spend all day in our underwear, eating cupcakes, dancing to girly music, having tickle fights.

The reality of traveling with me is much less glamorous.

In fact, as anyone who has ever roomed with me will attest…it’s down right messy.

My bed.  I’ve been here 24 hours.  Seriously.

It’s, like, the Neverland Ranch of hotel nightstands.

Jen’s bed.

Basically, she hates my guts.

I am…incredibly busy.

And, I don’t let the maid service in because I feel like they lick my water bottles in the fridge, and judge me because my garbage is full of Starburst wrappers, red bull and maxi pads, and wet spanx that smell like organic hotel shampoo are hanging on the tub.

So, because I am so busy do things that aren’t, like, showering, or brushing my hair, or shaving…I have to improvise so I don’t go out into public smelling like Tommy Lee looks.

Things that help?

Washing off my stinky parts in the sink with a rag and some hand soap, or baby wipes, or those wetnap things you get from lobster restaurants.

I also dab a little clear lip loss on the apples of my cheeks to make me look young and dewy.  I saw Jessica Simpson mention it a few years back on some talk show.  I am sure it’s still completely relevant.  As is my Wet N Wild purple eyeliner.

Lastly, I shave.

But, not my old school, dry shave with some lotion and pray for the best sort of way.

Because that never ended well for me.  My legs were streaked with razor burn, wind would touch them and I’d cry, and I would always forget a patch of hair, like a little soul patch near my ankle.

Enter, Schick Intuition Razor.  Which, I had actually tried a few years before while pregnant with Gigi and unable to reach my…well…anything.

So, gave it another go, because I had a party to host, and Gavin Degraw was coming, and you don’t ask someone to be your kids step father with hairy legs.  Obviously.

So, I balanced on the edge of the sink, wet my legs down, and shaved.

And, it was amazing.  Super fast and easy, because the lube is actually attached to the razor, so it just kinda glided along, removing all the hair, and the street grime, and also, apparently, moles.

Like the cute one that used to sit adorably on my left calf.

Cut it clean off.

Of course, I didn’t notice that, got dressed, walked into the bathroom, slipped in  pool of my own blood and ended up on my back staring up and the blood soaked leg of my pants.

It was like I had murdered a puppy in there.

There was no way I was letting room service in there now, like I need Detective Stabler up my ass on the biggest night of my career?

This was nothing a little hand sanitizer and a change of clothes can’t fix.

But the fact is, despite my inability to work with sharp objects, my legs were ridiculously smooth.

Which means I am free to easily and effectively shave my legs in any situation involving water, whether it be a dirty rest stop sink or the fountain at the mall.

Which is shockingly relevant to my lifestyle.

Weird.

Although we all know it’s not uncharacteristic of me to take a pirate bath in a hotel in New York City, it’s important to mention I have been wonderfully compensated by Schick Intuition for this post.  Click here for more information in their amazing K.I.S.S. & tell campaign, a $4 off coupon and a chance to win $5000!

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