Douchebag Riot

So we had family over for dinner last night, and had noticed over the course of the evening that more and more cars were driving up to our neighbor's house (their backyard backs up to the side of our backyard). Some had even driven up our (long) driveway and walked up to our house assuming 3+cars in a drive = party. We walked our family out at 10:30, and looked over into the neighbor's yard, and could see at least 50-60 kids in their driveway and playing beer pong in the garage. John, old man that he is, sat in a chair on our back patio (maybe 30 yards away) and watched the stupidity unfold. Not wanting him to get lonely, I turned off our floodlight and joined him. (We were hidden by our barbecue pit - thank God John hadn't moved it when I asked him to weeks ago).

It was so ridiculous it was funny. We witnessed half-naked drunk girls falling all over each other, dudes walking out into the dark of the backyard to pee along the back of the house, general teenage douchebaggery, some chick falling down drunk and puking.

Me: "I kind of wish we were invisible, so we could get up closer to witness the idiocy."
John: "If we were ninjas, we could."
Me: "That is awesome. I am totally going to post about this."

By 11:30, things were in full swing, which could mean it was time for only one thing: a drunken fight. We heard dudes yelling ("GARY!!! GARY!!! DUDE!!! STOP IT!!! GARY!!!), chicks screaming ("I AM THE FUCKING ADULT HERE! I AM THE FUCKING ADULT HERE!" Nice.), and suddenly there was a brawl. After a couple of minutes, it hadn't broken up, more people (girls, too!) were getting involved, and it was spilling into the street and into other neighbor's yards, many of the kids started to scatter like cockroaches, and I called the cops.

John said I wouldn't admit to being a narc on my blog, but dude, drunk teenagers fighting and then peeling off into the night = not cool. I was a good girl in high school, but I went to parties where alcohol was served, but I was not stupid enough to a) partake in someone's front yard, and b) stay in a venue where it was OBVIOUS that shit was going to go down.

And let me say I'm not against house parties in general - I generally have no problem with loud music, the sounds of faint shouting and laughter, and cars parked up and down the road (assuming I don't have to work the next day). The advantage of having the houses out here spread farther apart means you can get a little louder. But when your bodily fluids threaten to encroach onto my property, we have a problem.

Ten minutes later, the fight and screaming is still going, and the sheriff shows up, lights blazing.
First two cars.
Then three.
Then four.

At this point I'll note that our house is at the entrance of the neighborhood, on the street that is the only way out. Because there were so many cars still parked along the street and kids still trying to drive off to get away, the cops blocked the street and set up a check point. At the end of our driveway. This is where I wish to God I'd thought to take a picture, because seriously: how often are four lit-up cop cruisers, half a dozen cars, and a line of 20+ scared shitless teenagers lined up in front of your house? How bizarre. It was nearly 2 this morning before the last of the mommies and daddies showed up to escort their children home and the cops finally left.

No one was arrested, and I told John that these kids probably just got the piss scared out of them, it kept them from driving off drunk and reckless into the night, they will probably be grounded from a month ("OMG, what if I can't go to Homecoming!") and maybe scared them straight (at least for a while).

So what are the morals of the story?
1. Don't be an idiot.
2. If you're going to be an underage-drinking idiot, at least try to be discreet.
3. Gary is a d-bag.
4. Get the hell off my lawn.

How do you people find me?

I'm not being snotty - it's an honest question. How did you stumble upon my humble blog?
Did you google "public bralessness" or "wave your hands in the air, shake your derriere"?

Do tell, my bloggy friends.

Happiness is...

...being in my kitchen, well into my second (large) glass of wine, frying chicken, squash casserole in the oven, mixing up cookie dough, listening to my Dusty Springfield Pandora station, singing along with and doing dramatic interpretive dance to The Supremes in my underwear and tank top.

You so wish you were here with me.

Editor's note: I sort of scorched some of that chicken while I was typing the post. Totally worth it.

I realize I am at times guilty of this (says she who posts between the hours of 9 and 5 on a weekday, ahem), but I have a really hard time sympathizing with people who gripe about having too much to do and not enough time, cry about being overwhelmed, bitch about working past 6, when they don’t roll in until after 9, and spend their day running around on bullshit made-up errands.

The awesomosity of this idea is so, uh, awesome that I can't even come up with anything snarky to accommpany it: behold, Effective Connotation Of Sarcasm In The Written Word.

A text-message conversation

Background: my friend D and I text each other song lyrics. (J and I do this to. Does anyone else do this?)
Anyway, this is from yesterday:

D: You so crazy…I think I wanna have your baby.
G: Wow, out of context, that’s pretty…brazen.
G: I think that will be my new go-to response for compliments.
G: “I like your shirt.” “You so crazy, I think I wanna have your baby.” WORKS FOR EVERY OCCASION.

I challenge you to use it in conversation today. Bonus points if it is directed towards someone of the same sex.

The scheduling software I use here at work requires that I enter my username and password each time I open a week’s schedule. I usually have 12 weeks open at any given time. Which means 12 times in a row every morning, username/password. Yes, it’s antiquated.

This morning, pre-coffee, I was prompted to change my password (which I haven’t had to do in about 4 months). So I changed it (which took 3 tries since there is a stupid !)#*(&%(&#$ special character requirement, can’t be the same as the last 10, must be at least 10 characters, etc. And so when I finally changed it, and proceeded the chore of entering it TWELVE MORE TIMES, my fingers refused to communicate with my brain, which is connected to my eyes, which is reading the new password I just wrote down. Which means I have entered a password - first the old, then the new - TWENTY-FOUR TIMES. AND IT IS ONLY 8:30.