Yee-Haw!

This weekend my Saturday was dedicated to The Fair (also known as The Puyallup and this year the Washington State Fair). The Fair literally put Puyallup on the map, and the only legitimate reason to go there is to eat something fried and proceed to throw it up after getting wild on the Tilt-a-Whirl.

As a kid, my mom made The Fair an annual tradition. She’d pack up all five cousins (how did we fit in the car? We didn’t have an SUV…) and we would spend one full day getting a sugar buzz followed by stomach ache walking the As Seen on TV pavilions and riding rides. Her three Fair rules are as follows:

1. Eat as much junk food as possible
2. Ride as many rides as you can
3. Close the place down

As an adult, reason for going to The Fair has evolved. Usually centered around a concert – this year our reason for going was the Rodeo Playoffs followed by a Trace Adkins concert. Instead of eating as much junk as possible, we now focus on drinking the caloric equivalent in Bud Light.

Because our focus is on cowboy butts and beer, we were sure to be there RIGHT when the gates opened to secure a clutch spot in the beer garden.

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YES. It was awesome.

By concert time, I had a light beer buzz, sore feet and tired eyes. Naturally, 9:30pm is more bed time than Go Time for me but I pulled it together. Boyfriend and my cousin (aka Driver) patiently waited while E and I sang, danced and went to the bathroom more times than I can remember. Apparently I was well hydrated. During my 300th trip to the Lou, I patiently waited in line though I would have been more than happy to drop trou in the bushes if it emptied my bladder more quickly (alas, alcohol enforcement was out). I was finally next in line, when a Lady in Red came up and awkwardly stood next to me.

Here’s the thing, Lady-Lou cutting is not cool. I get it, you’re gonna burst, but that’s what Keigal exercises are for. And women, especially women in Wranglers, are not keen on cutters. So, the
gawks and mumbles started almost immediately.

Almost serendipitously the next stall that opened was her target. She rushed the door so fast I couldn’t even say, “it’s not your tuuuuuurn! I have to peeeeeee!” All of a sudden there was beer pouring, face slapping and more squabbling that a flock of seagulls. Red was screaming, “FUCK WITH MY HUSBAND AGAIN AND I WILL HURT YOU!” while her victim’s posse was trying to pull her away.

I turned to the woman behind me and said, “is this seriously happening” and her respond was, “here…hold my stuff.” She piled her purse and what not on me and headed for the stalls to join the action.

What? A bathroom brawl? Are you kidding me? A mascara running, beer-drenched hair and bitch-screaming brawl that reminded me of that scene from My Best Friend’s Wedding when Cameron Diaz goes all don’t-steal-my-man-bitch on Julia Roberts.

The victim of all of this didn’t want to press charges (guilt-stricken maybe?) and after finally getting to go potty I found Red returning to the scene frantically looking for HER WEDDING RING. That’s right in all of her open-palm slapping and hair pulling, this crazy lost her WEDDING RING. How do you explain that to your insurance agent?

Moral of the story: don’t get in bathroom brawls, you’ll loose shit.

Challenge Accepted.

Ok you guys, I have a few things to tell you. First of all, yesterday while I was trying to make my pallet-turned-ottoman (I’ll explain later) I was innocently putzing around in Manfriend’s backyard. In my spandex, naturally, since it was the weekend. 

Then out of nowhere, I was stung by a bee. A BEE. Confused, I started screaming, jumping and panicking while trying to pull my pants away from my leg. Manfriend, also confused by my circusing-about, began panicking because we are good, bee-fearing folk who just don’t get STUNG BY BEES.

I made it inside at which point he said, “do you want to take you pants off?” Smooth, Manfriend. And, yes I did want to take my pants off but as I was afraid the bee might try to attack me from it’s grave (aka the stinger was stuck in my spandex) so it was a bit of a process. I scuttled upstairs and waited for him to DO SOMETHING since all I could do was not cry.

Then, my parents showed up. And there I was, sitting on my Manfriend’s bed without pants on holding an ice pack against my thigh moaning, “Mooooooooooom I got stuuuuuuuung.”

Low-point.

I can’t even believe I wore pants today to be honest. Jeans, nonetheless. I had to apply 80 million layers of a Benedryl/Cortaid cocktail in order to survive the day without going mad. Then I was going to go to the gym, but my bee sting itched so I didn’t. (Love that excuse? Me. Too.) Redic. 

Since I feel as though this bee attack was unprovoked (it’s not like I dropped my pallet soon-to-be-ottoman on top of the deck under which it seems these little b-holes are living), Mother Nature and I are having a little bit of friction. I mean, ok, I threw away a few plastic bottles and sometimes I get plastic bags for my groceries when I am out of Seattle-proper but a bee-sting? Poor me.

So then, tonight, three-ish days before I leave to go camping with Manfriend and his high school “bros” I realize that I am going camping. But it’s ok because I am a camping pro. If “camping” is defined as staying anywhere that ends in “motel” and is classified under 3-stars on TripAdvisor.

Since it’s not, here’s how the conversation went:

Me: so..is there a store near this ‘camp site?’

Manfriend: no. well, like 10+ miles away.

Me: how are we supposed to eat?

Manfriend stares. Then stares some more. I am pretty sure he was suppressing a smirk.

Me: does that mean we have to pack all our food? then cook it…over a…fire?

Manfriend: …yes…

Me: but what are we supposed to pack?!

Note: while I am not an idiot, I am really not acing the ‘play it cool, you can camp’ in front of my Manfriend.

Manfriend: beans, corn, steaks, hot dogs…

Me: oh, so this is like REAL camping?

5-minutes later…

Me: but we can shower right?

Manfriend continues to stare…and smirk…

I wouldn’t lie to you, when he pitched (hah! i’m so clever) this to me he told me it was like car-camping, which in my defense means there is access to a car which go on roads which lead to Starbucks.

Oh, shit. I just had the coffee-epiphany. Eff.

Except, yknow what? I was a Girl Scout. I can totally do this. Even when my troop mate picked a spot for our tent on a hill (what.the.hell) on a night that it monsooned (srsly.lakes.) I stuck it out.

So, I am going to pack me some Via, dry shampoo and bug spray and head to the “woods.” I use the “” because I feel like it’s going to be a clearing where there are no bears, snakes or things that bite…right? RIGHT. 

Challenge accepted, Manfriend.

 

 

 

Venus v. Mars

The last week of 2012 is meant to burn remaining PTO days, and due to a year of good health (woohoo!) I was fortunate enough to have three left over. I decided to push them out as long as possible, and took them the last three days of the year.

Originally Manfriend and I had planned on leaving for our annual ski vacation the morning of my first day off, Thursday. Rather, his BFF (yes, guys have them too) was in town for a short window of time on Friday so we adjusted our schedule so they could frolic and giggle together for twelve glorious hours.

This meant I had a full 48-weekday hours to do…something. Usually I only take time off to travel, so tripling my weekend with two of those days free left me a little lost. Since I am the best girlfriend ever – literally of ALL time – I decided to paint the spare bedroom at Manfriend’s house where, mind you, I don’t live or pay rent. Since he unofficially deemed the spare room “mine” I took it upon myself to paint it a modern palette of yellow and grey.

Why now you ask? Well, I got a sewing machine from Santa (he’s the man) and it’s going to live in that room. If I set up my new, shiny toy there first, I would completely forget about ridding the world of the hideous brown/orange that previously coated the walls. My life would become dedicated to cutting quilting squares, hemming things that don’t really need to be hemmed and making people pajama bottoms and pillow cases. For real you guys, I am a pro (at those two things).

We trekked to Lowe’s, our homestore of choice, and got supplies. You know how most girls would be ::blinkblink:: “pay for this” ::blinkblink::? The EXACT opposite happened. As we were walking into the store, I was like “ummm ::pause:: you know how I bought all those groceries? Maybs you could get one of the two gallons of paint?” And naturally, Manfriend said yes.

You know why? Because THIS girl not only bought the groceries, made the food then decided to paint a room that she has no legal right to and also pay for 50% of the paint. Generally speaking I think girls are like “it’s not mine, YOU pay for it.” And really, why buy the paint when you get the painter for free? …that was a poor analogy. What I mean is, why offer to pay for 100% when all that is asked of you is 50%?

The man is smarter than I thought. It’s like he jedi-mind-“tricked” me into thinking the natural assumption would be for me to pay for the paint. Genius. Simply stated.

So, I spent my two days off priming, taping and painting. I showered infrequently and slept until 9am. It was surprisingly glorious.

While waiting for paint to dry, I decided to go to Target to pick up the THREE below items:

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Instead, I completely lost my shit at Target. Between sleeping in, not showering and barely making myself look presentable for public getting out of the house was a feat in itself. (FYI: if you haven’t seen my hair unwashed, you won’t TRULY get this. Just know that my morning hair surpasses all morning hair ever. Not kidding.) I was definitely NOT prepared for the Target after-Christmas clearance. And if there is anything I love more than sleep, it’s a sale. ESPECIALLY a Target after-Christmas clearance sale.

So there I was, aimlessly wandering the aisles of Target in my Lulu pants with my messy hair and overslept eyes. A real sight I am sure. Just as a reminder I came for this:

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And I left with this:

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Evidently, in addition to painting rooms for Manfriend (at my own 50% expense) I have also decided to start decorating. Before it was just me repurposing things I already owned (here! take my things! FREE!). At some point between the paint fumes and the dirty hair, I morphed into a wannabe housewife that needs to decorate with Target clearance decor.

And, if you were wondering, the wine was the last thing in my overflowing cart. Once I came to and realized that I had spiraled into that, I needed something to calm my nerves.

And calm it did.

PS – that faux-leather ottoman/storage thing looks bitchin’ next to the 80’s style sectional. I would totally buy it again and again.

PPS – while I was technical on a paid day off, I likely would have been better off going to work and saving myself lotso money. Idle hands…

Welcome 2013!

Hello, reader! Remember four years ago when I started this fabulous blog? I was job-less, on a spending-spree and time was plentiful. Ah, the good old days of unemployment when I still didn’t go to the gym because I was sleeping in and I barely made it to work at the restaurant at 4pm. 

Even with my days open and free, I still had trouble staying on task with my blogging but I was dating enough weirdos that I had ample to write about. And my fans (you)  liked my blog SO much that it went straight to the inflated place in my head. So, every time I baked something yummy and my roommate said, “that was delicious” what I heard him say is “this pie is amazing you should start a blog with a supporting twitter/Facebook/every.social.network.ever account!!!” Or when I started running, and my aunt was all, “that’s so cool” I translated it to “you should log that via the interwebs!” 

Epic fail. 

Three blogs. THREE. Who starts three when they can barely keep up one? I started a baking blog to rebel against weight loss and log my Grandma’s recipes. But really, after Thanksgiving who has time to think about pies? I gained 10 pounds so fast all I had to do was LOOK at chocolate and BOOM another 4 ounces. I started running to counteract those same 10 pounds. And it was so fun and time consuming, I started another blog.  Both had corresponding twitter account – did I tell you I don’t like twitter? That I only use it when I am 16 ounces deep and watching football? 

So here we are, the beginning of a new year. I keep reading Facebook statuses (stati?) along the lines of, “omg 2012 was so hard but I learned so much – clean slate!” From personal experience I can tell you the slate isn’t really clean. That people still remember that time you had a few too many cosmos and lost a shoe somewhere. (Never gonna live that one down). For you, the new year is a time to make resolutions that will last between 3 and 5 months, overcrowd the gym so every day patrons complain and go on a detox of some sort. And for me, it’s a time to swear back writing – in.one.blog. This means if I have a block, I might post a past recipe from Sexier than Meatloaf. Or remind you of the time I thought I might wheeze myself to death at Greenlake from Woggin’ and Joggin’. Something is better than nothing people. 

Cheers to you, cheers to 2013 and most importantly – CHEERS TO ME. 

Typical

Through a series of events, I ended up having dinner with a fantastic person tonight. I had met said person on a handful of occasions, however in my mind we’d never really talked and were more acquaintances — we weren‘t even Facebook friends, I mean, come on.

Toward the end of our meeting, I went on to tell her all about how sometimes I can be a real a-hole when it comes to realizing I’ve met people. I continued with, “here’s a perfect example”…then outlined a recent social interaction I had with another mutual friend. In this oh-so-typical scenario, I received a Facebook friend request and was unsure if I had even met her recently, if at all.

First, yes.

And second, it was last Saturday.

(No, I was not drunk – take that thought back.)

Laughing ensued, and man, what a good conversationalist I am. I was all, “omg we so should have been friends in college!”

Then this happened.

She said, “So..I think you might have been my GEL* buddy.”

…crap.

That’s right, while touring colleges we LITERALLY shared a dorm floor while pretending to be college freshman and considering the campus.

I stared, it clicked, and I said it: “I told you I can be a real asshole.”

She was, of course, entertained (I think?) and likely humored by the entire situation. I am still embarrassed and realizing how completely oblivious I can be. And save all of the niceties that time that I asked a friend where his girlfriend was, then the room went silent because, well, they’d broken up that morning. At least that’s understandable. No matter how much time (infinite) I can spend on Facebook it’s almost impossible to keep up with these things.

So, here it is, we’ve probably met and I probably don’t remember one of two things: your name or your face. Which is the exact reason I have a boyfriend – the official kind that has to buy me dinner and stuff because otherwise I complain about being deprived….and hungry. I keep him around so he can introduce himself to people I can’t remember or say hi to people he knows.

If only I would have had him in my sleeping bag (I wish) GEL weekend.

*GEL (Gonzaga Experience Live) weekend is a campus preview event during which high school seniors that have been accepted can visit, stay in the dorms and participated in fun activities that scream “it’s worth $30k a year!”

 

 

That’s What You Get

Hello friends. Remember me? That literate voice inside your head as you read to remind you that you indeed did go to college and are able to read? Hi.

You probably want an apology. Something like, “I am so sorry for not blogging for months.” Too bad ’cause you’re not going to get it. However, you will get this new post from me. Oh yes, me…the aspiring writer. If you’re wondering where I have been the past few (read: six) months, here’s my list:

  • My foyfriend (patent pending) and I decided to commit (to each other) which spawned some sort of nester from my inner self. Don’t hate, she’s pretty french-toastin’ cool. 
  • My company hired a new VP of Sales and Marketing. I am not exponentially more busy than I was before. Then I was just “busy” but not I am “omg why is my hair so frizzy?! can i get more caffeine over here?? – busy.”
  • I went to Europe. ‘Nuff said. 

So what inspired this post? Well, eavesdropping and lots of wine….obviously. I am traveling for work tonight – yup just the one night – and the W Hotel I am staying charges $15 a day for internet – which btw is total crap – so I went to the one place I knew it was free: the bar.

I also knew they had food + wine, two of my favorite things EVER. Let me start by saying, as a curvy woman, there are boobs everywhere here. I didn’t know that Las Vegas cocktail waitresses spanned outside of the state. I was wrong.

Back to my inspiration: eavesdropping. While waiting for my two part dinner of truffle fries and lamb sliders, I have been catching up on my (free) e-mail. Prior to my updated relationship status, which was 26-years of “umm…single”/”umm…kind of seeing someone?”, I loooooooved my some socialization. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not a leper now or anything, but I do enjoy solo bottles of wine mixed with hours of Law & Order SVU and/or NCIS because have you seen Mark Harmon? Um, have my babies much please? My newly found status and solo travel has left me very low-key, chill and buzzed on red wine (one glass.)

However, I was distracted by a slew of “fucks” carrying over from across the bar. Sorry Mom, since I’m not the one saying it, I feel it’s ok to use it in writing. Here’s how it went:

Girl with large (fake) boobs: ANYWAYS, it’s like my purse was $600, my wallet another $400..

My inner voice: Ohhhh she’s drinking champagne…I love champagne. Why is she yelling?

Girl with large (fake) boobs: and so I’m like “FUCK ALL MY SHITS GONE.

My inner voice: Whoa, earmuffs. Also, send that champ my way, would ya?

Girl with large (fake) boobs: my CREDIT CARDS AND MY SOCIAL SECURITY CARD.

My inner voice: In all fairness, they tell you not to carry your social security card with you…that’s your own fault.

To follow, I then looked at her surrounding company and I wonder, does Mr. Salt and Pepper Hair really think that MacFake Boob is going to put out?

Read my next post to find out more.

Oh, Cannonballs.

I love my blog, and wish I could quit all things work related to sit around trolling the Internet all day then writing about it, however unless someone gives me a million dollars or marries me so I can stop working all together, this will not happen soon. This weekend I pulled myself out of hibernation – which includes cooking/eating, Glee/Grey’s and 8+ hours of sleep – and had two big events that filled up my socialite requirements for the month. Obviously, I was the backbone of both and without me they would have failed miserably. (Ok, slight exaggeration.)
Event One:
I belong to an “athletic” club disguised as an expensive social networking club that throws a huge gala every December. Being that I love all things this party promotes – dinner AND dessert buffets, champagne, dancing AND formal attire – I skipped at the opportunity to go.
In an effort to find a new manfriend/husband that could promise a life without work, I found a gorgeous dress with a beaded plunge, to allow focus on the goods. Now, I enjoy cleavage and the rewards that are often reaped from have a noticeable bra size, believe me. And seeing that new unders were needed, Mom and I headed to the always popular Victoria’s Secret. Though some of your may scoff and others may cheer, VS has always been my source for all things under PLUS I had a gift card so it was a no brainer. I snatched up my size, the same consistent size I have been for years, and headed to the fitting room.
Standing there, appalled, I could not figure out for the life of me WHY this stupid bra did not fit me the way it always had. Of course! VS has changed the pattern and suddenly the bra that once shelved me nicely, had created some sort of boob sandwich that was no where near attractive, nor comfortable. Six bras later, I finally found one that fit. It was my last resort. The only option I had unless I wanted to brave back to the mall (it was Black Friday) and give it another go. Seeing that I had been up since 3:30am, I decided to bite the bullet.
No big deal, right? Wrong. This style, the style that lies to boyfriends, suitors and husbands-to-be everywhere, tacks on two extra cup sizes. TWO. If you are an A-cup, you might be cheering, but let me tell you sister, no man will ever have that same response when realizing that you falsie advertised and there is less to hold onto. This was not my woe, rather, I felt like I needed to schedule a reduction consultation because my melons were out of control. How is it possible that the ONLY bra that Vickies had to offer gave me bowling balls? If you are interested in purchasing said bra, it is called the Bombshell – however you could probably stick two throw pillows in your bra and receive the same effect more economically.
Event Two:
Every year my alma mater basketball team (GO ZAGS!) plays a game in Seattle, at which time all GU alum meets pre- and post-game to celebrate how awesome it is to wear red and blue. It’s always a marathon of a day, which can add up quickly. Sans Bombshell, I picked an appropriate cleavage-baring shirt that would ideally cut my bar tab, while also saying “I’m respectable.” (Oxymoron?) After a mis-communication with the bartender last year, and him confusing my identity with someone else who was more than willing to claim my name in return for SEVEN SHOTS, I have also relinquished my rights to leaving an open tab when surrounded by sneaky classmates with no shame. (Hussies!)
A friend insisted on buying me a shot, which after several attempts I finally gave in. Where are my convictions!??! He promptly returned with three shot glasses filled with the clear liquid of my choice – vodka.
Ew.
Being the quick thinker that I am, I checked my blind spot. Empty.
Reviewed the carpet. Crappy.
Checked both directions for viewers. Clear.
And once he turned away, motioned my head back and threw the shot over my shoulder. With one hand over my mouth, I started to gag, realistically and similarly to how one does when swallowing anything that tastes like lighter fluid. Upon turning around, he was surprised to see that I had gone ahead without him. I apologized with dry heave, and took a sip of my Bud Light as if to wash away the fire in my throat.
If you learn anything from this post, let it be that you can fake a bra size — and you can almost always fake a drink. Just check behind you first.

My Mother, the Rockstar

Fun fact: my Mother will never leave the house without lipgloss. Ever.

It used to be an annoyance of mine, waiting for her as she carefully re-applied her Color of the Month in her visor mirror. As if those extra 30 seconds (she’s precise) would actually make a difference in the scheme of things. Yet now, I appreciate her constant attention to detail. Even when going through treatments for the “C” word, she never looked short of spectacular.

So, it should come as no surprise that today, while making an unannounced and inaugural visit to my office, she looked like a movie star. If you know her, you know I am not exaggerating. I am not sure how my co-workers perceived her prior to said drop-by, however not they call her my mom “the Rockstar.”

Clad with a tea length, winter white fur, classic black pants, sunglasses and open-toed heels – and a perfectly cropped platinum bob – she walks with an ease that makes me curious which genetics I got when trying to walk in stilettos.

Two of my co-workers returned, rushing to the windows at the mention of “my Mom just popped by, sorry you missed her” – impressed, and likely surprised that the girl known to sport sweatshirts and tennis shoes was bred from such a creature.

Co-worker #1: “What was your Mom all dressed up for?”
Me: “Umm..I mean, that’s just what she wears. Oh, and it’s the company holiday party at her office tonight.” 
Co-worker #2: “Was that real fur?” 


And with that, I will leave you with this snotty, only child remark: my Mom’s more fabulous than your Mom.

Six Reasons to Always Eat Ice Cream

Recently I have become OBSESSED with trendy, yuppy ice cream. No, not the chain-style Cold Stone or [slightly]healthier TCBY – but the calorie-packed goodness of Molly Moon’s. I know, I’m late on the uptake here and people in Sea-town have been licking on this creamy goodness for years. However, as a somewhat rebellious flip-flop Weight Watcher I have attempted to cut all things that could set off the Fat-Sensors across the world – which includes high-end ice cream. Kind of like how I associate high-end purses with HIGH price tags, similarly I associate this ice cream with a caloric content in the thousands.

Ok, I have to note that this TOTALLY goes against my other blog, Sexier than Meatloaf, which is committed to convincing you calories don’t count – and is all about baking, yum! You say hypocrite, I say that I am a not-so-closet sugar fiend trying to repress her constant desires to eat anything high in calories. Po-taaaa-toe / poh-tah-d’oh!

Anyway, any and every time I drive past this somewhat discrete gem of a creamery, I try to come up with any and every reason/excuse to stop for a scoop…or a pint. Y’know, for later.

Reasons include:
I had a stressful week. (And, clearly, eating my feelings will fix it.)
I can skip another meal to subsidize the calories. (But I won’t.)
I can go for a run…err, walk. (But I don’t.)
It’s shark week. (Advil is overrated.)
It’s Saturday. (Or Sunday…)
I drank to much and it will settle my stomach. (Oh ya? I’m sure your body loves that one, Champ.)

After compiling this list of logical, rational reasons, I have come to conclude that it can also be applied to purchase of the following:
Thai food
Shoes
More ice cream
Shoes
Cupcakes
Shoes
Wine
Shoes
Mexican food

A slippery slope of temptation if you ask me. Ice cream here I come…

CARMA

About a month ago my boss sent me on a field trip to research products in our category carried by a national drug store chain. Being that I love any excuse to leave the office, I excitedly nodded my enthusiasm to writing down brand, retail/temp. reduction pricing, etc. while standing in the middle of an aisle. Better than listening to my co-worker ask me how to merge cells in Excel or remind her dog had not pooped yet that day. (Jealous?)

Off I bounced, happily to my car and off for an errand. Similar to paying bills, I enjoy weird mindless tasks like buying shampoo and making free right turns.

As I pulled into the parking lot, I realized that each parked car alternated with an empty spot, a bad equation for door dings when parking in between them. Being that I am harped on constantly by the Subaru Doog Ding Patrol, I opted for a much smoother alternative. The row directly across offered wide open space, free of aggressive door slammers, so I backed Lucy in between the lines and joyfully headed into the store.

Ten minutes later I emerged, notes in hand, and approached my car.

“What is that?” I thought. A parking ticket? I apprehensively looked around. I am familiar with the area, and know there are numerous cat-callers, had someone left me a note? Yes, I am in fact narcissistic enough to believe that someone would leave a note on my windshield indicating interest in me. I wear puffy vests with fur hoods, who can say no to that?!

How wrong was I? Well, rather than a phone number and creepy invitation for drinks, I was surprised with a phone number and…insurance information. Wait, what? She hit my car? I frantically circled my property, almost with a defensive crouch, looking for the dent, the gash, the scrap! But..nothing. I quickly rescanned the note..”right front fender.” My eyes darted..scan..scan..scan..and there it was. A small, dime size blemish that protruded out of my bumper.

So, that’s how it goes huh? Park in a ding-free zone and get backed into. All I can say is this driver must have some fantastic karma, because backing into Lucy – pushing her bumped in the bumper beam – is going to cost a whopping $1000.

I would have much rather gotten a sketchy phone number.