somebody buy me a drink, dammit

Labor Day weekend, I partook in a little trip over the Mississippi river, through the woods of Arkansas and into the great beyond of Missouri where every third billboard is a thirty-foot baby demanding that you reconsider thoughts that you are obviously having at that exact moment about murdering it in a women's clinic. Instead, it would like you to love it.

For real. Apparently, all babies want to get borned. Also? All your base are belong to Missouri.

ANYWAY.

After a fantastic weekend of singing and dancing like hooligans in a piano bar, eating $7 fro-yo, watching Lifetime movies and generally pretending (well, at least on my part) to be in college, I was on my way home, driving in a groggy daze with my day-two hair, my day-two jeans and my day-three Mizzou tee shirt, when the flashing lights pulled up behind me.

And really, Missouri, had I been pregnant at that moment I totally would have birthed the baby right onto the car seat. So I guess your propaganda is working.

The officer claimed I was going 83 in a 70, which seems fairly improbable to me since I don't take the Green Bean over 80. (A few days later I mentioned this to a friend, and he said I should've asked to see the radar. Naturally, I didn't even know this was an option. UGH.) When he gave me the ticket, it had a reference guide on it so that I could see right then and there how much it was -- $115 worth of how much.

Needless to say, I WAILED for about the next 50 miles. All while cruising one mile under the speed limit.

That unexpected expense crashed plans I had for the next weekend with Stefanie to hit up the Bill Clinton Presidential Library in Little Rock like the colossal dorks that we are. And no sooner had I rain-checked her on our weekend trip than the little Green Bean started flipping its little green lid. The steering wheel was pulling, the check engine light came on, lights and buzzers and arrows were going off pointing directly at my head and $700 later I was pretty sure that there was, in fact, a sign taped to my back and it probably said "Kick me, and then do it again when I'm down PLEASE."

Since then, of course, I've been trying to save every penny and have basically retooled my finances. Mostly what this means for you is that I have managed to sit and sip beverages on an embarrassingly low number of patios. And unless you have a winning lottery ticket with my name on it, I just don't see it increasing any time soon. Initially I'd imagined myself begging you, the internet, for an extension on my deadline to November 1. But y'all, booze costs money no matter where you drink it. It was very easy to commit to such a lofty goal back when Mr. Risky Business had a vested interest in getting me drunk and would therefore bankroll many such operations. Alas.

Though I'll continue on the quest as I can, I think I'll have to resume the challenge next spring. The only upside to this entire ridiculous domino-like chain of money-sucking events is that since the state of Missouri requires weight on one's driver's license and the state of Tennessee does not, the little highway patrol officer guessed my weight on the ticket.

I lost 15 lbs. on the side of the highway that day.



cheers,
elizabeth