I’ve been asked to see if I can remember my past here in Syracuse and if I’d like to write some of my favorite memories and I just had one come to mind.  It involves everyone in the front row and a fourth person you’ll never see a picture of – he hates cameras.  There were others involved, they were at Wally’s the other night and that prompted this memory and it’s a doozy.

When I was fourteen, I was given a car.  We have a big yard and I drove it all over the place but since we legally can’t drive until we’re sixteen, that was the extent of what I could do.

One night when my parents were out of town and my sister who was left in charge was sound asleep, my friend suggested we run to the gas station.  To be honest, I have no idea why we thought we needed to run to the gas station.  We had poked a little smot so we were pretty stupid but I was somehow convinced (dared – I can’t pass up a dare) to take the plates off my sisters car, put them on my unregistered lawn car, push it across the field and go for a joyride.

The four of us, all life-long friends (clearly to this day since that picture above was taken a few days ago and this happened nineteen years ago (holy shit).

This is how it all went down.  (It gets better. Click to continue reading…)

Go Random. Go To The Un Mom. Right Now. Well, Read This First. Then click this. She's hawt.

So I’m at home visiting for the holidays and it was suggested that I write about my fondest memories and I was thinking that I’d dedicate this week to it.  This is the perfect day to do it because I realized I don’t remember enough to really justify a whole story.

I lived on the second floor of an all brick house when i was twenty.  It had a full upper porch that we used to get baked on.  One day I was inside with a bunch of friends hitting the five footer we made when out of nowhere Louie walks in from the porch and screamed, scaring the absolute piss out of us.  That motherfucker somehow scaled the brick on the side of my house and got on that porch.  He totally Spidermanned my house.

I worked at the mall pet store.  At night I’d shut the gate to the store and I’d go in the back and smoke pot with a bunch of mall employees.  I made them bring me gifts in exchange for permission to partake in puppy playtime.  Shirts from Hot Topic, food from the various restaurants.  Whatever.   I can’t believe how much pot I used to smoke, the thought of it now gives me panic attacks. Anyway, I used to set all the bigger dogs loose in the store and let all the tiny puppies run around in the smaller puppy viewing area.  We had this Golden Retriever once that rocked.  I grabbed one of those rope tugs off the wall and started playing tug with her and then I let it go and launched her across the linoleum and that dog held that rope and slid across the floor into the aquariums. (It gets better. Click to continue reading…)

I’m about to tell you the story of how I became Mrs. Julie Jones. I was 20 years old, it was 1997.  I was an awesome Julie Jones.  My daily activities did well with an obscure name like that.  I actually had a license plate that said JJ Rocks.  It was before I knew I was awesome.

If this story sucks it’s because I’m in Syracuse surrounded by children who refuse to sit still so I keep getting distracted.  I asked Facebook what I should write about because the noise is making my ears bleed and I’ve been so busy flipping Felber off from mom’s house to his across the street, I’m useless.  One of my Facebook friends, Julie Jones (no shit) asked that I write about my favorite Syracuse memory and I decided I’m going to dedicate this week to the things I actually remember.  This one is going to be long and I’m going to giggle.  You might, too.  To protect the identity of those involved, I’m going to use their real names.  This is dedicated to Julie Jones. (It gets better. Click to continue reading…)

You want to make me happy?  Fill my room with these.  I can’t get enough of these.  I walked into the store, saw that giant pile of Pillow Pets and dove right in.  I want Pillow Pets.  Everyone send me a Pillow Pet. Please.

Fuckin’ Christmas.  This is a rant.  I’m about to bitch.  I’m sorry but the only day I like is the day before Christmas Eve. Christmas Eve Eve.  The calm before the storm.  The storm that is officially a 48 hours long hell where we wake up and run wild from house to house, dragging our children everywhere, holding our breath waiting to see we “get” to open up, “help” put together and eventually step on when we’re not paying attention.

That’s right.

LEGOS. (It gets better. Click to continue reading…)