Yesterday, I decided to have an adventure with my girl, Ronda.

We do this almost every Thursday.  For whatever reason, my pay-week at work ends on Thursday, and inevitably I will have hit 40 hours BEFORE Thursday, so I’m forced to not work.  I know.  It’s a hard life I lead.

I started my day off by doing light chores around the house (because, frankly, I don’t know how to be still inside my own house), and then I met my mom for lunch at Another Broken Egg.  Although we had a great lunch, there was a fire in the kitchen, the lights went out SEVERAL times, and several plates were dropped.  I expected four horsemen and locusts at any second. 

When I pulled into my garage at the house after lunch, a GIANT-ASS truck pulled into my driveway, so gargantuan in its GIANT-ASS-NESS that I began to fear for my life.  It seemed to swallow the entrance to my garage whole.  I thought, obviously, that the mafia had finally found me and my knees were to be whacked.  I rather like my knees.  I noted that, in my garage, I had exactly NOTHING to defend myself with, save a half-inflated Curious George balloon that would’ve at least bought me time by confusing the assassin.

Luckily, it was the member of my own mafia.  It was Ronda, in this GIANT-ASS truck.

In fact, just to show you how truly monstrous it was, I demanded that she stand by it so I could take a picture.

See how tiny she is?  I mean, can you even SEE here in that picture?  Barely, but only because her amazingly colored hair sets her apart from the GIANT-ASSness.  And just to, again, quantify how truly UNNECESSARILY large this vehicle was, I did three front handsprings to my right, and then took this picture.

It was, like, the Stay-Puft Marshmellow Man of trucks.  Seriously.  It was like mounting a Clydesdale to get up into that cab, and we felt majorly awesome in it.  We constantly tried to berate passing hybrids and terrify old people while we were driving.  That truck, it made us not-nice people.  And we liked it.

We went in to bother the daytime mallrats, which we wrote off as “exercise”.  After all, we had to WALK all the way to the escalator in order to get to the Food Court.  It was exhausting.  But we rewarded ourselves with a little health food:

WHAT?!  Why are you judging?!  It’s made with, like, 45% cacao or something similar!  That’s got to be good for something!  And it was at Fresh Market!  That makes it indigenously healthy.

Indigenous was our word for the day.  Because the bio of the skinny biatch who actually created this chocolate said some nonsense like, “Skinny Biatch is now devoted to sharing all of the indigenous foods of many varied cultures in her exquisite chocolate line”, and we were all, YEAH, OKAY TO WHICH CULTURE IS CHOCOLATE-COVERED-BACON INDIGENOUS, and then we realized, with chocolate-covered shame, that it was indigenous to our own.

And we LIKED IT.

(Although they did smell like Beggin’ Strips.)

(Which slowed us down for, like, eight-point-two seconds.)

(Then we made up for lost time.)

Then, SURPRISE, here comes my husband and The Boy, all skulky and like, “HA, WE CAUGHT YOU ASSING OFF,” but I played it cool and pretended that this is where I work, obviously, and tried to convince them that, no, that box of chocolate-covered bacon was totally already there, why would WE eat such a horrific creation, as if it were indigenous to OUR culture or something?  We were clearly at the mall to EXERCISE, idiots.

Not that I would ever call The Boy an idiot.

Cause I don’t.  He’s actually smart as a whip. 

And he looks like Opie, see?

So, anyway, since we needed to dispose of the evidence, we decided to hit Claire’s.  Why?  Because we were girls out shopping, and when we were twelve, that was the ONLY place in the mall you went to.  In fact, I considered having my ears pierced just ’cause.  And I realized I hadn’t been in Claire’s since I started my period.

Guess what’s back in style? 

I KNOW, RIGHT?  They had ‘em, in like, eighteen different shades.  Also, these:

And I know that’s a crappy picture.  But most cameras can’t handle the loveliness of Hollywood Montrose’s sunglasses.  And, sadly, I couldn’t find any better pictures of them.  But they were there as well.

Which, you know, the girls behind the counter were all like, “Aren’t these glasses so RETRO?”

But then our hips gave out and we needed to refill our oxygen tanks, so we left.  But not before noticing that you could get a “to-go” pack of fake hair for $2.50.  I appreciate a good bargain like that.

We also ran through the wig store, cause why would we NOT, and we shopped for new hair.

I liked this one:

As soon as I get a raise, I’m SO going back to get it.

Cause I think that hair just SCREAMS “I just got a raise and spent it on my hair”.

So, shortly thereafter, we realized that, oh bloody hell, the daycares would want us to come pick up our children at some point.  So we obviously went to visit Ronda’s grandmother.  Who has some VERY strong opinions on the Duggars, apparently, but who doesn’t, really? 

Eventually we did pick up all of our spawn.  And we returned to our normal lives.

TO ASS OFF ONCE MORE.