Slug Bug is Serious Shit

This is more than a game.

If you have the great misfortune of ever having to take a car ride with Dreamy and me I sincerely apologize in advance.  My apology is due to the fact that Dreamy and I play the classic game Slug Bug.  Actually, play isn’t really an accurate representation of intense rivalry that exists between Dreamy and I when it comes to tracking down Volkswagen Beetles.  For us Slug Bug is not simply a game, but a way of life.

In fact, we are so intense that we have alternative rules.  Most notably, we have several Beetles that may only be called when away from their usual locations.  For example, a local aquarium shop has a Bug painted like a clownfish (think Nemo).  Nemo is off limits unless he is away from his usual parking spot in front of the store.  If he is even a space removed from the usual spot Nemo is fair game.  This rule also applies to the red Beetle down the street, the silver one that belongs to an employee at Walgreens, the Geek Squad Bug and any being sold at any dealership (cars not for sale are callable).

If I haven’t made it apparent already, Dreamy and I don’t joke around when it comes to Slug Bug.  Every time I get in the car and buckle my seatbelt I’m on edge the whole freaking ride.  No matter the destination I am constantly on alert because the last thing I want to do is miss one.  We keep a daily count and every Beetle matters.  But of course as much as losing the whole thing sucks, get punched can suck even more.  In fact once Dreamy punched me so hard – forgetting his I’m-a-six-eight-giant-of-a-man strength – my instant reaction was to scream multiple obscenities and punch him right the eff back.  Yes, friends, he hit me so hard I broke the "no hit-backs" rule.

And that got me to thinking; Slug Bug is basically a perfectly acceptable form of domestic violence.  What other game can you play with you friends, your kids, your boyfriend or your grandma that lets you punch them?  When else is punching someone you care about considered appropriate?  Now correct me if I’m wrong, but generally punching your girlfriend as hard as possible would usually be called spousal abuse.

Let’s pretend for a minute that the police were actually called to handle a domestic violence case and it ended up being a game of Slug Bug.  You know, I’m just going to stop right there, because they’d probably laugh in your face.  Or at least look at you like you were nuts.  Because punching in Slug Bug is accepted, expected and just the right damn thing to do.

All of this has lead me to believe that a game of Slug Bug is perhaps the best way to relieve the everyday pressures of a relationship.  Why not solve any and all disagreements by hoping in the car, hunting some Beetles and punching the shit out of each other?  I think with a little Slug Bug we can make the world a better place. 

RED ONE!

The Biebs

Yes, that is the infamous Justin Bieber in my blog's background.  No, I don't particularly care for Justin Bieber.  But I figured as people have started to notice, I might as well address his prepubescent presence.

So why the Biebs?  Well, Hooters' walls are festooned with photos of fames people.  And when you type "famous people at Hooters" into Google he's right there on the top.

Plus, Dreamy has an ongoing joke about how much he likes him that stems from people telling him he looks like Justin Bieber.  For the record Dreamy looks NOTHING like Justin Bieber.  Unless Justin Bieber is suddenly 6'8 and his balls have dropped.  Really Dreamy looks a lot like Ashton Kutcher.  Especially in that new movie with Natalie Portman.  Seriously, seeing that movie freaked me out with how much Ashton Kutcher looked like my damn boyfriend.  I could date uglier people I suppose.

Wow, look at me ramble!

Bieber Fever.

Sauce and Dreamy the Diner Boy

Dreamy and I live on opposite sides of the clock.  We go to work exactly twelve hours apart.  This can be quite frustrating for a relationship, especially one that is relatively new.  We should be in the honeymoon phase, but here we are trying to make two very different schedules align for a few precious hours a day.  It's a pretty lame deal, but it's worth it to call a sweet, 6'8, hottie my man.

So why in the hell am I telling you all this?  You want to hear about Hooters.  Not my silly little relationship problems.  There are enough of those crappy blogs on the Internet.  I'm brining all this up because Dreamy is a graveyard waiter at Denny's.  And in that, my friends, I find humor.  There is just something mildly entertaining about the Hooters Girl dating the Denny's waiter.  It sounds like a movie that they should totally make.  Oh wait, they did make that and called it Waiting 2.  It was fairly lame.  Whatever.

Anyhooters, I generally go to work at 10:00 a.m. and Dreamy starts his shifts at 10:00 p.m.  Basically we live exactly the same life at totally different times of day.  It is not a "Grand Slam."  We'll meet up for a bit before he goes to work and I'll have dinner while he enjoys his breakfast.  It's all very humorously annoying.

What I find even more amusing is when I work the night shift and I roll into Denny's to give Dreamy a quick hello before bed.  There I am sitting at the counter bitching about my night, nylons and Hooters top barely visible under my cover up, while my boyfriend makes me an Oreo shake - extra Oreo of course.  The Hooters Girl visits the all night diner boy and they fall in love over talk of shitty tippers, drunken jerks and cranky cooks.  This, my friends, is a match made in food service heaven.

As long as we can figure out the scheduling this thing might just keep working.  It's already worked for a few months, so I suppose it'll just have to keep working.  I lo you, baby (my way of saying I more than like you, but less than love you).  I'm corny, deal with it.

The Smoking Contract

I've got a new man in my life.  And by new man I actually mean a guy I've dated for a while but haven't talked about.  It's not that I don't want to talk about him, it's that for some reason blogging seems to jinx my relationships.  Of course it could also have a lot to do with the fact that I've had rather horrible taste in men in the past.  Horrible, horrible taste.  Naturally, that probably leads you to question my taste this time around.  Fear not, this time I have found myself a nice guy.  I'm talking southern gentleman nice.  And he's tall.  So in tall in fact that he makes me look short even in my most towering of heels.  He is six feet, eight inches of pure tall, dark and handsome awesomeness.  Plus he was a college athlete like me.  Plus he sings.  Plus he cooks me dinner.  As far as I'm concerned he's a keeper.

But not everyone can be perfect.  Even tall, gorgeous, compatible men.  Sometimes your dreamy boyfriend decides to have a vice that frankly disgusts the shit right out of you.  Sometimes your dreamy boyfriend smokes.  And that is a major turn-off.  Once upon a time I decided I would never date a smoker.  Then Dreamy came along and I broke my rule right in half.  Now by broke my rule I really mean that I pester him relentlessly to quit smoking.  And I never kiss him after a cigarette.  Maybe that sounds mean, but he's wanted to quit.  Why not help him along a bit by withholding my sweet kisses?

So he's been trying to quit.  Not so much for me, but for himself.  It hasn't been easy for him and though he's cut back significantly he still can't seem to completely kick it.  Which is understandable; it's addictive I hear.  So what are a boy and his adorable girlfriend to do?  Well they make a contract.  Wait, what?  Yeah, they make a contract.  He quits and I do something for him.  So what does he get out of quitting?  He gets blonde Sauce.

You see, long ago in the ancient times of two and a half years ago I was blonde.  In fact though I'm now brunette I was blonde for 23 whole years.  That's a lot of blondeness.  But one day this blonde decided to become a brunette.  And then cut her once long hair into a short A-line cut.  You could call it a change.  A sexy change that got tons of compliments.  But not everyone was happy with the new brunette Sauce.  By everyone I mean my Dutch dad.  After all what is more Dutch than a tall, blonde chick?  Well maybe a tall, blonde chick in wooden shoes, but you get the idea.

Then Dreamy came along and, after seeing a few pictures, joined team dad.  He wanted to see the blonde in person and not just in a bunch of old Facebook albums.  So after some thought I decided to offer to dye my hair in exchange for him quitting smoking.  And he loved it.  If he can quit smoking and maintain it for two months - and my spies confirm - I will become blonde once again.  I think it's a fair trade. 

By Christmas we may again have a blonde Sauce on our hands.  Don't worry, I won't let all the dye go to my head.