Last week was a big week of firsts for The BF and I. For starters we successfully acquired a “household” Costco card. On Wednesday of last week, yours truly had finally achieved one of her life’s dreams: to own a Costco card of her own to buy ridiculous amounts of products that no single individual could ever need or use in a reasonable amount of time. Yes, this is true. Do I want four-dozen eggs, five pounds of bacon and a literal sack of flour? No, I don’t. But can I buy it? Absolutely. Will I buy it? The magic eight ball is saying “Chances are high.” I am about to have a very crowded and over stocked apartment, dear friends.
The second big event? Our first ever couples retreat. Yeah, that’s right. We whisked our lovely friends off to the wonderful world of rural Vermont for a weekend of booze and over indulging in food. How did we stock up for this monumental event? A trip to Costco of course, where I purchased $50 of booze that was quickly consumed in one evening. It was a sodden and glorious weekend of communing with nature, board games and a crackling fire.
I can't even take credit for all the styling here. The BF arranged the asparagus so prettily.
Two weeks ago I traveled a rather circuitous route to Penn State to attend an award ceremony for my father. I took a train from New York out to my parent’s house in Connecticut and was going to drive out to Penn State from there with my mother the next day; yes I traveled east to go west. Not forty minutes into our trip, the tire on her car exploded. I shit you not, the tire e.x.p.l.o.d.e.d. It felt like we were going over some pretty horrendous rumble strips, so I slowed down a bit while we puzzled it out when I noticed that controlling the car kind of really sucked. My mother started screeching, “PULL OVER AISLINN SOMETHING IS WRONG!!” So I calmly and deftly pulled over, avoiding a rotten ‘possum carcass, whereupon we were engulfed in a smoke cloud of stinking burning rubber. Awesome.
It gets awesomer (real word, I promise you). My mother’s tires are “run-flat” which means, ostensibly, you can drive on them for fifty miles going no more than 50mph if you get a flat. Too bad we ripped open the entire side of the tire and it was completely deflated. Like a really sad inner-tube. It also means, that BMW does not provide you with a donut tire and/or tools to fix it yourself. Nope. Nothing. If you don’t have AAA you call the BMW hotline or whatever, listen to a completely incompetent woman ask if you’re in a dangerous situation (“I’m stranded on the side of the highway in the middle of nowhere, you tell me how to objectively tell you if this is a dangerous situation.”), butcher the name of the highway you’re near (the Taconic, pronounced Tuh-con-ic, not Taw-son-ich) thus ensuring no one will ever find you, and then after half an hour tell you it’s going to be another two hours ‘til the tow truck comes. Awesomer.