Just drove by Greta's crib to drop something off, and as I was turning into the driveway, I noticed this tube-like construction thingy sticking out of her and her neighbor's shared parkway, along with a box and something else. That disturbs and intrigues me, coming up on strange construction equipment when it's dark out. Don't know why; it's just a thing.
So, did y'all know that
li'l ol' Reese spent a goodly portion of her weekend making sure Chez Broad got its long-awaited revamp when she totally didn't have to? Now you do -- and I'm pleased as hell. There may still be a few kinks here and there, but overall, we're big-diggin' it. AND she was able to tolerate my
delusionssuggestions even though I'm quite sure I didn't know what I was talking about, and she did it with grace and aplomb. Make sure to tell her how cool she is in the comments.
Onto the Halloween tomfoolery: The good news is, there are some pictures by which to remember the night. The bad new is, they were taken on the new cell phone, for which I have no USB to retrieve them. And I actually wish I could, because the makeup for my costume got better throughout the night the sweatier I got.
How does this happen, you might be wondering. Well, if you're a girl and you're experiencing the walk of shame, it's almost a given that your makeup, however expertly applied the night/hour/minute before, is halfway down your face the morning/hour/minute after the encounter. (That, of course, is if you're doing it right. Sadly, the only reason mine got that way was because I decided to dance for the first time in forever. In a pair of 3-inch heels that I haven't worn in forever. Ow.) Anyway, the costume consisted of said makeup, extreme bedhead (that ended up looking like something out of a Flock of Seagulls video as the night wore on), one of Tara's husband Sean's button-down shirts buttoned all wrong so that a b00b could somewhat escape, jeans, the heels, and perhaps the best part of the ensemble: A pair of (almost) new leopard-print thong panties hanging out of the shirt pocket. It ROCKED. People were cracking up when Poppy or I told them "The walk of shame" or "The morning after." As a bonus, Sean wasn't even grossed out at the thought of my panties in his pocket. Excellent! Poppy, in the meantime, went as a cute little Geisha Girl, although if she'd had the time to run out and get a grandma housecoat, she could've gone as
Ms. Swan, and that would've been hilarious.
The first party we went to, we paid $33 for perhaps the lamest event for which we've EVER coughed up $33; the most exciting part of the evening was Pop getting to feel up the saggy old-woman b00b of this dude's costume and the carrot cake. There WAS, however, an open bar, of which we took fuuuuuullll advantage. Then we ended up going to see my friend's band at this place in Winfield, and that's where things got much better, although I gotta tell you, if you're a woman of a certain age dancing with chicks who you loudly point out are your daughter's age, it is neither cute nor appropriate for you to allow them to grind on you a la
Basic Instinct. I don't care HOW hot you are for your age. The band was good, though -- much better than I expected -- but I suspect there's going to be trouble in Little City with the band's new lineup.
Since Poppy doesn't get out much by virtue of her being a married broad, she was a riot, throwing back Malibu and Cokes all night and singing like a fool. We both were, so if you think you heard a couple of dingbats screaming the words to Joan Jett's "I Hate Myself for Lovin' You" in Crawfordsville, it just might've been us heading to Winfield.
Oh, whatEVER. 
