Stoli's and Michael Jackson: Mix With Caution

Really, I don’t know what I’d do without my sibs. I’d have a lot less fodder for this blog. In fact, I probably wouldn’t be blogging at all. They are my tether to adventure and ridiculousness. Thinking about my life as an only child (while I would’ve had more toys, clothes, and not had to have fought/still fight for cookies and others sweets would be nice) would be boring. Case in point, our last night at Icon:

Andrea was all decked out because she was there for the calendar competition. Never underestimate the Hobgood Kids. We have friends. And we’re not afraid to use them. Andrea brought her work people, I brought friends and set up a Facebook event, and Kevin brought this whole posse that I think comprised of the entire 2005 Central High School soccer team plus a few other people. We were all prepared for a good time – especially with $2 you-call-its!

We got there around 10:30 and the competition didn’t start for another hour. No worries though, we were chilling and having a good time. Andrea did awesome. Made the final three, and despite having the loudest and biggest number of people cheering for her, she got second place. That was good considering she was wearing a conservative bikini.

The chick who won, I think I saw her run into the bathroom and construct her bikini out of dental floss and string. All I can say is, thank god she waxes. Being face-to-face with another female’s feminine hair isn’t something I’m exactly a fan of. Back to the story.

Andrea is sure she lost because of some ass who was booing her. He was cheering for the girl who got third, and when the competition was down to Andrea and Dental Floss, he began to cheer for Dental Floss and loudly boo for Andrea.

I didn’t hear his booing. I might have punched him. I did, however, recruit fans for Andrea. One guy in the audience tried to cut in front of me. That’s not cool when you’re vertically challenged like I am. I made him get back. And then I made sure he cheered for Andrea. When Dental Floss came out, I had to laugh because I heard him and his friends talking trash about her being a whore. And he called her a slut, yelled it loud, when it came to down between Andrea and Dental Floss.

However, once the dust had cleared and my sister was second, we started dancing. The Booer decided to mosey over and steal a dance from my sister. She turned him away and laughed at him. Note to all guys: Booing is not the correct action course of action to take if you plan on trying to mack a girl later in the evening. Even single and not your girlfriend, we remember those who have wronged us. Also, you’re lucky she didn’t have her foot say hi to your groin.

Andrea, Jada, Ryan, and I and all of those we recruited, we were all having a fun time, a high time, in fact. But no one’s evening topped my little brother’s.

I arrived at Icon with Andrea. Being in a competition with high, high, high heels, she didn’t feel much for drinking. This was fine for me because of the $2-you-call-its. Stoli’s all night baby! However, an hour after we arrived, the little brother hands his keys over to me and says “Erin, you drive my car home.” That phrase put a serious monkey-wrench in my Stoli’s Night. However, as the night unfolded, I was not ashamed or upset with my sober status.

I knew Kevin was going to have a fun night when I elbowed my way through the macabre cluster of people around the bar to take my place and flash some cleaveage at the bartender. I get a call on my cell and answer it. It’s Kevin. He wants two vodka, cranberry, and Red Bulls. I snort and let him know that mixing an upper (Red Bull) and a downer (vodka) will give him a heart attack. He doesn’t care. The bartender comes over and I order his two drinks and a vodka and cran for me. Stoli’s vodka all around!

I’m a Stoli’s girl. True, I could drink Grey Goose for $2, but really when we’re discussing vodka, are we going to trust the French or the Russians? The Russians! I deliver the drinks to my brother and Jada and I disappear to dance with Andrea and her co-workers. A little while later, Ryan appears and tells me about Kevin hitting on this skank.

One of the girls in the competition, a girl who was merely a blip on the radar in the competition, was hitting on my brother. This girl had straight bleach blonde hair, no breasts at all, a Louis Vuitton clutch (which should’ve went to her breast fund in my opinion), and a dress that slashed down her invisible cleavage to her navel. Not to mention, she had some horrible tattoo down the side of her rib cage to her hip. I’m not one to dis tattoos, but let’s try to have some class.

Anyway, I sidle up to my brother as he sits at the bar. The Skank is all in his face. I ask Kevin a question, and Kevin ignores me. A few people perceive me as laid-back, but most identify with me as a bitch. I went into full bitch mode. I crossed my arms over my chest, tapped my foot, and glared at the skank.

She got the picture, said she wasn’t interested to my brother and toddled over to her friends, tossing a few pointed looks and gestures in my direction. Kevin seemed oblivious. This should’ve been clue number one to me. However, I overlooked it, berated him for associating with someone of that sort of caliber.

“Bear,” he said using my nickname, “Bear, it’s cool. Get me another drink.”

And that was when I learned of my little brother’s infatuation with one of the bartenders who was probably ten years my senior (so about fifteen for Kevin). It was quite the spectacle to watch. When he finally cashed out at the end of the night, he signed his name and wrote “Yeah, you’re fine,” on the receipt along with his number. As far as I know, he has received no phone calls.

Anyway, in between flirting with the bartender, Kevin was on the dance floor double-fisting. My little brother can cut a rug. He’s the youngest and has two older sisters and was often coerced into our ploys with minimal manipulation because he just wanted to be included. Yes, he did play Barbies with us. No, he did not play Barbie’s right. Still, we had to include him, mom’s orders.

Despite his flawed Barbie-playing skills, he’s a decent dancer. Not only that, but he’s a fun dancer. He’ll twirl you around, do the fish and reel, throw in a sprinkler, dust off his shoulder…he may look a little goofy, but he’s having fun. And his lack of care is probably why people consider him a decent dancer.

Anyway, one such dance move called for him to throw his hands up in the air. This doesn’t work so well when you have a vodka cocktail in your hand. Someone ended up wearing the drink, though thankfully, there wasn’t much left.

“He’s sorry,” Andrea said as Kevin obliviously continued to dance.

There was also the Seven-Foot-Tall Guy. He was dancing and Kevin decided it would be a good idea to thump the guy’s chest. Kevin isn’t a small guy at about 6’1 and around 220 pounds. He played soccer, and as a big soccer player, he’s used to having people bounce off of him. The Seven-Foot-Tall Guy didn’t bounce. In fact, he tapped Kevin back. Kevin staggered. Andrea, little 5’5 Andrea (ok, she’s not that little, she’s taller than me, but still), got in his face and said “Hey! He’s drunk!”

I also managed to snag a candid photo of Kevin and one of his friends/college roommates together. His friend Dan and Kevin had just come back from another canteen break. Dan bent over in front of Kevin and wiggled his ass in the air. Kevin stood in front of him and did the sprinkler. It was a perfect shot of those two goofballs.

That is when I looked over and saw The Skank dancing pretty much like Dan did (only difference was Dan’s was for fun). She was bent over at the waist grinding her ass all over some other dude’s crotch. I was just glad that wasn’t my brother behind her as if they were simulating doggy-style sex. Then we all laughed as some drunken dude came onto the dance floor and tripped over The Skank and knocked her off balance.

A little bit later, the obligatory tribute to Michael Jackson came on. The song, “Don’t Stop Till You Get Enough” was playing. A few people were dancing to their own rhythm, but a circle had gathered around and white boys and black boys were having a sort of dance-off, each taking turns in the circle.

Ryan handed me his camera phone to record the guys. Kevin saw me recording. “Erin, you gotta get me,” he said. “Get me!” This lasted for about half the song and finally Kevin had an opening. He slid into the circle on his knees, twirled around on his back (lost a flip flop in the process), stood on his knees and did a few pelvic thrusts before jumping to his feet (with only one flip flop on) and vacating the circle. Andrea grabbed his flip flop and somehow managed to place it back on his foot.

Meanwhile, I nearly collapsed on the dance floor from laughing so hard. I seriously popped a squat (thank you, yoga) and hugged my sides as I laughed. Ryan and Jada were bent over me also laughing. About five minutes later, I finally caught my breath. The dance was a thing of beauty. Not a whole lot could top that. To make the dance even sweeter, every moment of it was captured on Ryan’s phone in decent detail. I’m waiting for it to be uploaded onto Facebook, Ryan.

Anyway, the evening began to wind down. Kevin had planned on going out with his friends, but alcohol is a powerful manipulator and Kevin decided to stay at Icon with his sibs. We walk out. Andrea goes to her car, Ryan is behind us schmoozing some ridiculous people, and Jada is helping me get Kevin to his car.

We get him to his car and once Kevin finds out Jada is driving herself home, he insists we drive her to her car. This isn’t exactly a big parking lot, and Jada tells him she’s fine. Kevin still insists and won’t get into his car. Jada reiterates that she’ll be fine. Kevin is stubborn. Jada is crafty.

“I don’t think you can get into the car by yourself, Kevin,” she tells him.

This bit of reverse psychology works and Kevin is nearly in the car. He is sitting in his seat, but one foot is out. Jada gently persuades him to put the foot in the car, then we hurry and shut the door on him and she scoots off to her car.

I put the car in gear and drive to the road. We have to drive back in front of the club. Kevin wants me to drive slowly so he can holler at some girls.

“Erin, slow down! Hey sweetness,” he says. “Hey hot stuff, Erin, go slower,” he says until we’re passed the club and are pulling out onto the street.

There is a concrete divider in the street and all cars have to turn heading south. Our house is north. This means at some point, I’m going to have to turn around in a business’s parking lot. In his alcohol-addled state, Kevin missed the concrete divider.

“Erin, you’re going the wrong way,” he says and my phone begins to ring. It’s Andrea and she asks me where we are. I tell her. “Erin, this is the wrong way,” Kevin says. I try to pacify him and talk to Andrea simultaneously. I find a parking lot and turn the car around to get going the right way.

“There’s the Civic!” Kevin exclaims happily as we see Andrea’s car waiting for us in the parking lot to make sure things are going well.

Apparently I hit a bump as we pull into the parking lot. The bump barely registered with me, but I was not hanging my head out the window yelling at people like my brother was.

“Ow!” he yells. “Damn, Erin! That hurt! Like you hit me with a fucking bat.”

“Well, why was your head out the window?” I ask him.

“Ow,” he says still feeling the effects of the window frame. “God, I didn’t know I was in a car with Don-fucking-Mattingly. Jeez.”

Somehow, we manage to get home. Kevin pretty much passes out immediately. That is kind of sad because we don’t get to see him do his Silence of the Lambs dance. Andrea and I settle down, shaking the adrenaline of the evening off as we ready ourselves for bed. She may not have won in the judges eyes (but she certainly should have), but the evening wasn’t anything close to a loss!

A Bunch of Crooks - My Insurance Company

I called my health insurance company the other day because the quarter was up and I needed to pay the premium. I have nothing against paying monthly, but unless I want to give them my bank account to just pull the premium out whenever the bill comes due, I have to pay an extra $10 a month processing fee. If I pay quarterly, the insurance company gets only $10 in processing fees, not $30. That’s $20 they DO NOT need.

Sure, I could give them my checking account, no problem, and have them then deduct the money at no extra expense to me, but you’re operating on the idea that these people are not crooks. I’ll get there in a minute.

So I call the insurance company to pay the premiums for my sister’s policy and my policy. I tell the little customer service guy (If they’re charging me $10 to process something, SOMEONE is going to do some work). He tells me he’s not sure if I can pay my sister’s account.

“Ok, time out,” I say. “I don’t want access to her medical information, I don’t want to know what happened on her last pap smear, I just want to pay her bill.”

“Yes, Ms. Hobgood, I understand, but we can only let those authorized by the insured pay.”

“So, let me get this straight. If someone calls you out of the blue…a wealthy benefactor, an admirer, or my sugar daddy, you’re going to tell them that they cannot pay my premium because…why exactly?”

“They are not authorized.”

“Okay,” I say thinking this over. “So, people offer you money to pay bills and before you accept that money, they have to be an authorized person?”

Maybe I’m a little patronizing here, but honestly, when I worked at the bank and someone wanted to pay an overdraft or a loan, the bank could care less who gave them the money as long as they got the money. Sugar daddy, actual daddy, guilty married lover, boyfriend, secret admirer, pimp, friend, the bank didn’t care so long as they got paid!

“That is correct.”

“So, not everyone’s money is accepted here. Because I thought money was money, accepted everywhere.”

“Well…”

“What kind of crooks are you to say who can and can’t pay a premium?” I asked and yes, I did say crooks (Andrea loved this part of the conversation).

“Ms. Hobgood, before you get upset (Well, too late for that buddy) let me see if you are an authorized signer on the account.”

“I better be. I paid her initial premium. She doesn’t have checks or a debit card or a credit card. She strictly deals in cash.” This is due in part to an unfortunate miscalculation back during her freshman year of college that my father ended up paying (pre-divorce; pre-douche bag). “Our insurance broker will tell you.”

“Yes, but he is not authorized,” the poor unsuspecting customer service guy says to be cut off.

“I thought you were checking!”

Guess what. I am authorized to pay my sister’s health insurance.

“I’d also like to say that whoever in the world calls to pay my health insurance, I don’t care if they’re the president, Castro, my guilty married lover (I’d never do that, but I’ve got a point to make), or Carmen San Diego, if someone wants to take this ridiculous burden out of my hands for a quarter, they are authorized.”

He gets the point and takes my payment. Then he makes the mistake of saying, “You do realize that we are charging you with processing fees, processing fees that we wouldn’t have to charge you with if you had this deducted out of your account monthly.”

You know how you see a cat react to a dog? It arches its back up, the fur along its spine standing ramrod straight, to accompany the vicious hissing sound and flying spittle? This little phrase was my dog. Had I been Wolverine, my claws would’ve came out (well, regardless of my non-mutant status, claws still came out).

“And give you access to my checking account?” I ask passing patronizing and petulant. “Give a bunch of crooks who charge someone over $100, $100 that you guys just take and have a party with because the odds are good I’ll never see this money, give you access to my checking account to just deduct and deduct at will?”

“Ma’am, we wou-“

“Shush, shush, shhhh! I don’t care. I worked for a bank. Odds are good I’ll be with another insurance company next year because you’ll raise my rates more than I want to pay. When I switch, I do not want you taking my money out citing computer errors. I worked for a bank, buddy! I’ve seen this happen. And I know exactly how screwed I’d be then because you guys don’t simply return the money.”

“Then you could send in a check. We prefer a check or automatic deduct.”

“I prefer to use my credit card. They’re crooks I can handle.”

Yes, pretty much everyone got called a crook today. I don’t know what got in to me. It had been awhile since I’d uttered the word “crook,” let alone called everyone within an arm’s length of me one. Nevertheless, it was fun calling people a crook. Maybe that’s what happened. I used it once and realized how fun it was.

“Like I said, we prefer-,”

“I’m the customer, I prefer a credit card.”

This man obviously had no idea who he was messing with. I’m still holding grudges against people from sixth grade (let’s just say, that’s more than ten years ago). I don’t argue unless I know I’m right, and if the tragedy ever occurs and I happen to be wrong, well, it pretty much takes an act of God to convince me of my wrongness.

“Ma’am,” he says “It’s just what we prefer.”

I’m going to be honest here, it had been awhile since I’d had a willing participant in this kind of back-and-forth play. I was enjoying my position as the “always right” customer. Plus, there’s my fetish for taking out my frustrations on unsuspecting customer service people: the cell phone company, the Limited credit card company, and my credit card company. However, there’d been no more broken phones and no need for me to get crazy with anyone from Verizon, I ditched my Limited card because the I had to continually fax in receipts for proof of payment, and my credit card company is actually being good (I believe I’m in a small minority of people happy with their credit card company…of course this may be because I don’t use my card and when I do, I have a compulsion to keep it paid off).

But no…a new, willing even, opponent emerged. My insurance company. From it’s policy of not all money is accepted here to it snubbing my credit card (with a zero balance, for crying out loud!), to its general crooked nature.

“It’s not what I prefer. Am I going to get some receipts? Even if you didn’t, the nice thing about paying with a credit card is that we can always get my credit card company on the line and they can explain how you took my money even if you didn’t credit me with it.”

“I can email them,” he says, but makes no mention about my preferred choice and of payment. It’s rather sad, but I realize he is ending this little tête-à-tête. Right when I was having fun too!

I relay my email address and received confirmation. Then I put the confirmation in my “saved” folder. Like I’m really going to trust those guys.

I hung up the phone with a big smile plastered across my face, then snatched it back up and dialed my mother.

“I called my insurance company crooks!” I squealed a bit gleefully because I knew, come November, I’d put that ten dollars I was being charged for processing to work and wear someone’s nerves down!

As a side note: I’d like to add that the biggest crook, bigger than my insurance company, all of the mobs in this country, almost bigger than Charles Manson and that nasty kidnapper that had that Kaycee girl for nearly twenty years, is the government. They claim to have best interests at heart, but let’s examine the origins of Superman, shall we…to fight against tyranny and crooked politicians!

There’s that word again.

Furthermore, even if the people in government were as pious as the metatron (not to be confused with Megatron), the amount of excess fat and blatant in efficiency is enough to make me cringe thinking about them handling my health care. And costs? We can’t afford for the baby boomers to start claiming social security, yet we’re going to offer a public option. Right…

I think I’ll save my frustrations for my private insurance company.

When in Doubt Blame the Strippers...or the Hookers

I had a nice little Saturday evening planned for about week. Jada was to come by and we would watch True Blood on my laptop and roast marshmallows for s’mores.

Because Amazon was the cheapest, I called my mom when she was home on lunch on Monday and had her buy season one from my account. Our website usage is tracked at work, and I wanted to get it by Saturday.

It didn’t ship until Wednesday and as I write this, it still hasn’t come. Not that that’s much of a surprise with it being Labor Day and all the mail not running today (I should get it tomorrow though).

Then, Saturday afternoon around 3 p.m. as I sat reading book 8 of the Sookie Stackhouse novels (The basis for True Blood), it started to rain. Rain and fire don’t really mix. If it kept up raining the s’mores would be a mere dream.

There was one thought that I did have though. As long as it didn’t rain hard, we could sit on the back porch and still roast because we had a roof over part of the patio. So I moved the fire bowl and covered the wood.

Come 7:30, after getting out burgers ate and halfway through one of the episodes I began to get stuff ready for roasting (when Eric wasn’t in a scene, of course). Once the episode was over, we moved outside and realized that we didn‘t have any marshmallows, both assuming the other had brought them.

Marshmallows are kind of vital for s’mores.

We left for the store and nearly as soon as I got into Jada’s car, my cell rang. I glanced at the display and saw it was my sister.

My sister is seven time zones away. It was nearly 8 p.m. in the States, it was 3 a.m. Sunday in Denmark. I figured she was drunk and was a little worried. Hans had taken her to a party. His ex was going to be there; it was the first time Andrea met her.

I answered and found incoherent babble amongst the tears, but did make out that she wanted me to purchase her a plane ticket home ASAP. Well, plane tickets from Denmark to Indiana aren’t cheap at any time, and I was sure that at the last minute, they would be even more expensive. Despite my college degree, I don’t make enough money to loan anyone $1,000+ without knowing I’ll get the money back upon arrival home.

This may sound a little callous, but you have to know my sister. Had she absolutely without a doubt needed a plane ticket home, I would’ve scrounged together the funds somehow. But I was not going to get her plane ride home when she’d drank too much and had a fight with her fiancé. That was not an emergency; that did not require me doing my sisterly duty and providing her safe passage home.

Back to the phone call – I’m trying to piece together what has her upset. I make out the words that she hates it in Denmark, she wants to come home and then I hear her say, “Go away. Go away. I don’t speak Danish. No speak-o Danish.”

Honest to god she said “No speak-o Danish.”

I hung up and called my mom. I did manage to find out that she had tried calling my mom with no success. Knowing my mom keeps her cell phone in her purse, I called her boyfriend’s cell. He answered and I talked with my mom.

Jada and I got the marshmallows and got home. We were roasting and having a high time. Eric was looking uber-hot and sexy on TV. It should be criminal for a man to look that good.

Andrea calls again.

She’s still crying.

I ask her if she’s talked to mom, she says yes and that Hans is talking to mom now. She just wants to talk to me. I don’t mind, but it’s hard to talk to someone who is crying. I try to calm her down. I finally get out what sat her off. The Danish people laughed at her. The Danish people laughed at her because…

Wait for it…

Wait for it…

Wait…a bit more…

A stripper stole her jacket.

This is not a joke; she really did say that a stripper stole her jacket.

I finally get off the phone with her and Jada asks what this is about a stripper stealing stuff. I tell her. We really don’t know what to make of this piece of information. Having your jacket stolen by a stripper would be enough to set me off, but how in the hell did the stripper manage to abscond with my sister’s jacket.

My mother gets home and elaborates.

Everything was fine and they were laughing and having fun on the walk home. Andrea wanted Hans to carry her to the hotel. The hotel was a mile away and while my sister barely registers triple digits on the scale, she isn’t exactly a rag doll. Hans told her she could walk. This didn’t sit well with Andrea and she got pissed. She tried running away from Hans.

When she finally got a hold of my mom, she told her Hans left her. Then she told my mom that Hans was on the other side of the street. Hans also tried to assault her. This was because he was grabbing her so she wouldn’t run off (I presume this would be across the street). Her jacket, well no one really knows what happened to it. She noticed it was missing when they were outside and she was cold, thus, she formed the hypothesis, that a stripper stole the missing jacket.

Things settled down eventually.

Anyway, I was talking to her this morning and asked about the stripper. Seriously, that is just a classic phrase – the stripper stole (insert missing object)! That is when I found out (she as well) that the strip club wasn’t a strip club.

“We went to a strip club, but no one was stripping,” she told me. And then she told me to hold on. “Oh, it wasn’t a stripper it was a hooker…a hooker club. It really did have a red light too”

My sister ended up in a Danish Brothel. A Danish Hooker might’ve stolen her jacket….or shawl thingy (Hans said it wasn’t really a jacket, just a little thing she draped over her shoulders).

She then goes on to tell me about the walk back. Apparently, while they were fighting, some woman comes up to Hans and says…

“It’s okay, I’m a social worker.”

Ok. Stop here for a minute. “I’m a social worker?” Who says that like they’re some kind of damn super hero? Was she wearing a cape (No, she wasn’t…damn)? And now the million-dollar question…what was a social worker doing out at three in the morning handing out business cards like she was at a networking luncheon (In her defense, I do not know if a business card was handed out, but still, WTF).

All I can say is…wow…Saturday evening…despite the interrupted plans…proved to be one for the record books. Stripper/hookers, marshmallows, sexy-ass Eric Northman, and www.peopleofwalmart.com…does it get any better than that?

Oh, by the way, if you haven’t been to that website…you have to…there are several people in capes…I wonder if one of them was the Danish social worker.

And now if you excuse me…I have another fictional man to dream about!