Right now marks my ONE-WEEK ANNIVERSARY of living in New York City. In Middle School measurements, that means this city and I are practically pre-engaged.
The night I landed in NYC, I ran over to Bedford to meet Amanda at the Charleston. We're so funny. We can go six months or six minutes without seeing each other and it always feels the same. We just pick up where we left off, talking excitedly over each other and making gross jokes and drinking beers. The best.
Hungover from my first night of being a real, live New Yorker, I woke up late on Monday morning to see half a dozen missed calls on my phone. Crap. One of my other best friends from Seattle, Ruth, was randomly on the East Coast visiting relatives. She had arranged to take a train down to the city to hang out with me on my first full day in my new city. I woke up almost an hour late and didn't get my butt down to the city for another 2 hours. When we finally met up, we wandered around Central Park, St. Marks Street, East Village (where we randomly played beer pong with our fashionista friend Ashley) and finally headed over to Brooklyn to meet up with some friends. By midnight, almost the entire Seattle crew was reunited at Enids: Jon, Liz, Hannah, Ruth and I. So good.
The next few days involved me meeting up with another half dozen Seattle transplants. Seriously, I need to make some actual New York friends. Everyone I know is from Seattle. It's sort of gross.
By Wednesday, I decided that I needed to pull myself together and focus on something other than drinking. I checked my checking account (ugg), cleaned Chris' old/my new bedroom (SO MANY ROGUE HAIRS), bought some sheets, towels and other grown up things, and started looking for a job. Since I am lazy and hate walking too far/taking any sort of transportation, I decided to really channel my energy and effort into looking for a job that was no more than four blocks away from my house. Never mind that quality of the job.
All my time (an hour and a half one afternoon, including 'breaks' for coffee and snacks) of job hunting paid off. On Friday, I began first shift at MRS. KIM'S, a bar (?) on Kent and Franklin. And if you're wondering if a) it's a Korean restaurant or b) if they have Karaoke or c) how I got a job as a bartender, I can answer all of your questions. No, it's not really a Korean restaurant, but they do serve something called a 'KIMDOG.' And no, they don't offer any karaoke but you are welcome to sing along to any of the terrible country music that is constantly being blasted over the speakers. And yes, Mrs. Kim herself (think tiny Korean woman who always wears those huge sunglasses that are supposed to go over a pair of actual glasses and sort of went out of style in the early 80's) hired me to bartend on Saturday nights, even though I have no clue how to make a 'Kim's Mojito' or any of her other specialty drinks. Hilarious.
So here I am. Ready to take Brooklyn by storm, one terribly made cocktail at a time.
Sunday, July 3, 2011
Sunday, June 26, 2011
New City New York
...and here I am, six weeks later.
Yeah, obviously a lot has happened in six weeks. Let's see if we can get it down to some nice neat bullet points:
Week 1: Totes broke. See previous post on cat swallowing two thousand dollar ribbon; cat owner sobs in vet clinic parking lot.
Week 2: Cat owner/Girl decides to throw CAT BENEFIT PARTY in old punk house with some random friends who volunteer to DJ, bartend and paint cat faces on participants in exchange for dollar donations. Sort of desperate. Also, funny.
Week 3: Holy Balls. Girl wakes up morning after CAT-TACULAR PARTY, in which about a gazillion people show up and subsequently declare it the party of the year. Hundreds of photos pop up around facebook for the next week, showing happy, drunk people with smeared cat face paint makeup and hilarious cat sweaters and costumes. Girl counts donations and almost poops pants: $853.
Week 4: Not as totes broke. Girl and her boyfriend throw yard sale and spend perfect, happy Saturday porch drinking with neighbors and friends. Girl counts proceeds and almost poops pants again: $622.
Week 5: Random friend needs help moving back to LA. Girl crams herself in a fully packed mini-cooper (?!) and drives her friend and friend's dog straight to Orange County, in which she spends one odd Monday night at a Laguna Beach bar and counts seven pairs of fake boobs. Flies back to Seattle to pack up life in five days.
Week 6: Packing, packing, crying, packing, screaming, tearing hair out, packing. Last day at work and then more packing. Last night in town included some poopy weather and a few sad beers at Linda's. Peace out, Seattle.
The morning I left Seattle I was too groggy to be emotional. I woke up at 5 in the morning, shoved a tranquilizer pill down my poor cat's throat, shoved my cat into a carrier and shoved myself and all four suitcases into the car. At the airport, I said goodbye to my boyfriend (he's flying into New York a couple days late 'cause SOMEONE forgot to buy their ticket until last week.), and somehow got all my baggage checked and myself and my cat on the plane.
I landed in New York five hours later and enjoyed a beautiful, holy New York City Sabbath meal: a pink frosted donut and a GIANT iced latte. The Dunkin Donuts lady asked me if I wanted cream (in my latte?!) I decided to say 'yes' to the entire experience. It was gross.
Hello, Brooklyn.
Yeah, obviously a lot has happened in six weeks. Let's see if we can get it down to some nice neat bullet points:
Week 1: Totes broke. See previous post on cat swallowing two thousand dollar ribbon; cat owner sobs in vet clinic parking lot.
Week 2: Cat owner/Girl decides to throw CAT BENEFIT PARTY in old punk house with some random friends who volunteer to DJ, bartend and paint cat faces on participants in exchange for dollar donations. Sort of desperate. Also, funny.
Week 3: Holy Balls. Girl wakes up morning after CAT-TACULAR PARTY, in which about a gazillion people show up and subsequently declare it the party of the year. Hundreds of photos pop up around facebook for the next week, showing happy, drunk people with smeared cat face paint makeup and hilarious cat sweaters and costumes. Girl counts donations and almost poops pants: $853.
Week 4: Not as totes broke. Girl and her boyfriend throw yard sale and spend perfect, happy Saturday porch drinking with neighbors and friends. Girl counts proceeds and almost poops pants again: $622.
Week 5: Random friend needs help moving back to LA. Girl crams herself in a fully packed mini-cooper (?!) and drives her friend and friend's dog straight to Orange County, in which she spends one odd Monday night at a Laguna Beach bar and counts seven pairs of fake boobs. Flies back to Seattle to pack up life in five days.
Week 6: Packing, packing, crying, packing, screaming, tearing hair out, packing. Last day at work and then more packing. Last night in town included some poopy weather and a few sad beers at Linda's. Peace out, Seattle.
The morning I left Seattle I was too groggy to be emotional. I woke up at 5 in the morning, shoved a tranquilizer pill down my poor cat's throat, shoved my cat into a carrier and shoved myself and all four suitcases into the car. At the airport, I said goodbye to my boyfriend (he's flying into New York a couple days late 'cause SOMEONE forgot to buy their ticket until last week.), and somehow got all my baggage checked and myself and my cat on the plane.
I landed in New York five hours later and enjoyed a beautiful, holy New York City Sabbath meal: a pink frosted donut and a GIANT iced latte. The Dunkin Donuts lady asked me if I wanted cream (in my latte?!) I decided to say 'yes' to the entire experience. It was gross.
Hello, Brooklyn.
Sunday, May 15, 2011
Six Weeks
Six weeks from this moment, I will be in New York City.
Gah.
Yesterday I drank a martini, booked my ONE-WAY ticket to JFK Airport, and then quickly drank another martini. I mean, Honestly, I have seventy-eight dollars in checking, an a big fat zero in savings.
What happened to all that money you saved up, you ask?
Well, last Sunday, while I was on the phone doing the obligatory Mother's Day, my own little cat/child Bruce ate a four foot ribbon.
Three hours of surgery, two vet visits and TWO THOUSAND dollars later, my little buddy is waddling around the house in a cone collar. Yes, that was my NYC money. And yes, I cried (at the vet office, while entering in my credit card information; and later, at home, while staring at my bank statement). My wonderful little cat is going to be okay, but, man. I have no money. None.
So, six weeks. I have some interesting things planned. I am going to sell all of my possessions, in a ritual called a 'yard sale.' I am going to scrub my entire residence and pray to the apartment gods that I get my entire deposit back. Also, randomly, my boyfriend and I are going to be receiving a car from his grandma. So, obviously we're going to sell it.
Times is tough.
Okay, I have twelve minutes until work and I need to down this mimosa that I just ordered. Wish me luck.
Gah.
Yesterday I drank a martini, booked my ONE-WAY ticket to JFK Airport, and then quickly drank another martini. I mean, Honestly, I have seventy-eight dollars in checking, an a big fat zero in savings.
What happened to all that money you saved up, you ask?
Well, last Sunday, while I was on the phone doing the obligatory Mother's Day, my own little cat/child Bruce ate a four foot ribbon.
Three hours of surgery, two vet visits and TWO THOUSAND dollars later, my little buddy is waddling around the house in a cone collar. Yes, that was my NYC money. And yes, I cried (at the vet office, while entering in my credit card information; and later, at home, while staring at my bank statement). My wonderful little cat is going to be okay, but, man. I have no money. None.
So, six weeks. I have some interesting things planned. I am going to sell all of my possessions, in a ritual called a 'yard sale.' I am going to scrub my entire residence and pray to the apartment gods that I get my entire deposit back. Also, randomly, my boyfriend and I are going to be receiving a car from his grandma. So, obviously we're going to sell it.
Times is tough.
Okay, I have twelve minutes until work and I need to down this mimosa that I just ordered. Wish me luck.
Monday, May 2, 2011
Reasonable Expectations
Its been a while since I did anything productive on this stupidly expensive device called a laptop. How do I know this? I am currently attempting to dig out some crumbs of some sort of snack (that I ate while watching netflix, I'm sure) from the cracks in between the keys. Sad.
What else is sad? This weather. Yeah, I'm sick of hearing from friends in Brooklyn who are like, "I ran around with my top off today it was just SO hot!!!" Makes me sick.
In other news, my life has been a little bit up in down. Last week, my boyfriend burst into the living room with two (2) counts of good news. One, the giant two-bedroom apartment in Greenpoint that our friends Jon and Chris live in is now OURS (well, half is ours, we will be sharing it with Jon once Chris vacates for the summer) starting July 1! A place to live in Brooklyn! For cheap! And Jon says that our little sublet might turn into a 'permanent' thing if Chris decides not to return after the summer. !!!
Second good thing. My boyfriend's grandma calls, says she wants to see her grandson and his ladyfriend, and would we mind if she flew us out to her humongo ranch in Colorado for a weekend? Oh and would we mind taking an extra car off her hands and driving it in a super awesome road trip back to Seattle? !!!
So, obviously I am super, super excited. A road trip is just the thing I want to do before a giant cross-country move after which I will completely broke for maybe the rest of my life. So, I go around, telling everyone about the upcoming road trip, how I am basically being given a car to drive cross-country, how my life is AWESOME, etc.
And then. My boyfriend forgets to call his grandma back. Like, for weeks. He finally calls, and after a brief conversation, hangs up and informs nonchalantly me that his grandma assumed I couldn't go on the trip so she bought tickets for her grandson and his dad, not me. So I get to miss out on an amazing trip. Great.
Still fuming at my boyfriend, we end up going out to eat sushi a couple of days later. My boyfriend is telling me that he's sorry, that we should look on the bright side, and that I shouldn't let this get to me. That I should keep my expectations high and hope for the best.
Then I pull out this:
Bah. My life.
What else is sad? This weather. Yeah, I'm sick of hearing from friends in Brooklyn who are like, "I ran around with my top off today it was just SO hot!!!" Makes me sick.
In other news, my life has been a little bit up in down. Last week, my boyfriend burst into the living room with two (2) counts of good news. One, the giant two-bedroom apartment in Greenpoint that our friends Jon and Chris live in is now OURS (well, half is ours, we will be sharing it with Jon once Chris vacates for the summer) starting July 1! A place to live in Brooklyn! For cheap! And Jon says that our little sublet might turn into a 'permanent' thing if Chris decides not to return after the summer. !!!
Second good thing. My boyfriend's grandma calls, says she wants to see her grandson and his ladyfriend, and would we mind if she flew us out to her humongo ranch in Colorado for a weekend? Oh and would we mind taking an extra car off her hands and driving it in a super awesome road trip back to Seattle? !!!
So, obviously I am super, super excited. A road trip is just the thing I want to do before a giant cross-country move after which I will completely broke for maybe the rest of my life. So, I go around, telling everyone about the upcoming road trip, how I am basically being given a car to drive cross-country, how my life is AWESOME, etc.
And then. My boyfriend forgets to call his grandma back. Like, for weeks. He finally calls, and after a brief conversation, hangs up and informs nonchalantly me that his grandma assumed I couldn't go on the trip so she bought tickets for her grandson and his dad, not me. So I get to miss out on an amazing trip. Great.
Still fuming at my boyfriend, we end up going out to eat sushi a couple of days later. My boyfriend is telling me that he's sorry, that we should look on the bright side, and that I shouldn't let this get to me. That I should keep my expectations high and hope for the best.
Then I pull out this:
Bah. My life.
Saturday, April 23, 2011
Living Large
I'm currently sitting at my work, sweating lightly (way to go, Seattle! 63 degrees in a cause for celebration here), feeling slightly uncomfortable with the amount of steak tartare I just ate and sipping my third glass of rosé wine.
I love working at a French restaurant.
I also have to work in two hours so I better sober up here.
Life lately has consisted of 1) not running enough. 2) not having enough money 3) drinking away what money I do have.
Seriously. Friends keep coming into town, and I just keep ending up buying a fifth and reliving the 'good old times' with them into the wee hours of the night. Not good for my pocketbook, or my health (I have a chronic 'hangover cough.' Gross.), but great for memories. Or not remembering the night. Whatever.
What else is happening. Oh, yes. I am going back in time ten years and doing things like getting my driver's license. I know. Luckily, my boyfriend is also a non-driver, having grown up in urban Seattle and riding the city bus since he was seven years old (The only way to get to school, and there is a twenty-minute stop downtown in which he used to go grab free condoms from the needle exchange and make balloon animals out of them. Seattle kids, I tell ya.). So, we decided to start 'learning' how to drive together. I practiced for weeks and weeks (I drive like an old woman), while my boyfriend neglected to find anyone to teach him how to drive. The day of his test, with me scoffing at his claims that he is a 'natural' and doesn't need to practice, he gets into a car for the first time in half a decade. And, of course, he drives perfectly and proceeds to pass his test with minimal effort. Pfft.
Is it weird to feel jealous of someone you're dating? Maybe I am a more competitive person than I allow myself to believe, but I sometimes just get pissed off. I graduated college in three years and worked by butt off for a 3.6 or 3.5. My lovely manfriend took his time in college, partied as much as he wanted(I didn't touch a drop of alcohol until basically the last semester), didn't show up for half of his classes and still passed with close to a 4.0. Not fair.
Maybe he is just some sort of genius at not studying and driving cars perfectly, but it still bugs me.
Maybe it's just time for another glass of wine.
Here's my song of the moment, without further comment:
I love working at a French restaurant.
I also have to work in two hours so I better sober up here.
Life lately has consisted of 1) not running enough. 2) not having enough money 3) drinking away what money I do have.
Seriously. Friends keep coming into town, and I just keep ending up buying a fifth and reliving the 'good old times' with them into the wee hours of the night. Not good for my pocketbook, or my health (I have a chronic 'hangover cough.' Gross.), but great for memories. Or not remembering the night. Whatever.
What else is happening. Oh, yes. I am going back in time ten years and doing things like getting my driver's license. I know. Luckily, my boyfriend is also a non-driver, having grown up in urban Seattle and riding the city bus since he was seven years old (The only way to get to school, and there is a twenty-minute stop downtown in which he used to go grab free condoms from the needle exchange and make balloon animals out of them. Seattle kids, I tell ya.). So, we decided to start 'learning' how to drive together. I practiced for weeks and weeks (I drive like an old woman), while my boyfriend neglected to find anyone to teach him how to drive. The day of his test, with me scoffing at his claims that he is a 'natural' and doesn't need to practice, he gets into a car for the first time in half a decade. And, of course, he drives perfectly and proceeds to pass his test with minimal effort. Pfft.
Is it weird to feel jealous of someone you're dating? Maybe I am a more competitive person than I allow myself to believe, but I sometimes just get pissed off. I graduated college in three years and worked by butt off for a 3.6 or 3.5. My lovely manfriend took his time in college, partied as much as he wanted(I didn't touch a drop of alcohol until basically the last semester), didn't show up for half of his classes and still passed with close to a 4.0. Not fair.
Maybe he is just some sort of genius at not studying and driving cars perfectly, but it still bugs me.
Maybe it's just time for another glass of wine.
Here's my song of the moment, without further comment:
Sunday, April 17, 2011
Looking Good
I am currently staring down at my Texas-sized gut and wondering why I just ate eleven plates of sushi.
Ug. This whole 'eating less/healthier/running' thing is not working out as well as I planned.
Oh well. Next week I'll start my new healthy lifestyle. This week, I've got enough on my plate (no pun intended). I just got about twenty forms in the mail that I have to fill out, describing my work injury from three weeks ago (I have an awesome scar now!). I just spotted three overdue-bill-type envelopes that I am too scared to even open. Plus, I am sitting in my kitchen in between piles of mail and just looked over at my Beta Fish and I am scared that him floating at the top of the bowl without movement might just mean the worst.
In happier news, I have been working lots this week, which means money. My evenings have been filled with such wonderful activities such as dancing at karaoke bars, stuffing my pie hole with food (see above description of sushi intake), and getting drunk at the movie theater. PS. "Your Highness," best movie ever. So funny that I accidentally dumped an entire airplane bottle of Jim Beam on my lap.
Speaking of bright futures, I was at QFC the other day, picking up my prescription before running off to shove food into aforementioned pie hole. I noticed a rare 'sample table' near the pharmacy and stopped by to grab a freebie. It was some sort of soy/protein/gluten-free/organic/vegan diet drink thing. As I was trying a sip of it (tasted like SlimFast on a diet, and the lable said "LOOKING GOOD!'), the old QFC lady handing out the samples started talking to me. Not about the product she was shakily pouring into little Dixie cups, but about her life. Ug, really depressing. Next thing I know, the little grey-haired lady has whipped out a copy of "Chicken Soup for the Soul" (Yes, really.) and it reading me passages about late-in-life changes of heart and how so-and-so was seventy-two when she wrote some Broadway musical and how she could totally do that ("I'm only sixty-three!"). And the whole time I'm standing there wondering how many bottles of "LOOKING GOOD PROTEIN DRINK" I have to buy to get away.
I buy three. I drink them at work, and they make me have this unbelievable gas bubble in my stomach that makes me walk around the restaurant with a hand resting on my gut because my intestines hurt so much. I get a few soft looks from the clientele and I realized that I look like I'm about four months knocked up. Great. LOOKING GOOD.
Ug. This whole 'eating less/healthier/running' thing is not working out as well as I planned.
Oh well. Next week I'll start my new healthy lifestyle. This week, I've got enough on my plate (no pun intended). I just got about twenty forms in the mail that I have to fill out, describing my work injury from three weeks ago (I have an awesome scar now!). I just spotted three overdue-bill-type envelopes that I am too scared to even open. Plus, I am sitting in my kitchen in between piles of mail and just looked over at my Beta Fish and I am scared that him floating at the top of the bowl without movement might just mean the worst.
In happier news, I have been working lots this week, which means money. My evenings have been filled with such wonderful activities such as dancing at karaoke bars, stuffing my pie hole with food (see above description of sushi intake), and getting drunk at the movie theater. PS. "Your Highness," best movie ever. So funny that I accidentally dumped an entire airplane bottle of Jim Beam on my lap.
Speaking of bright futures, I was at QFC the other day, picking up my prescription before running off to shove food into aforementioned pie hole. I noticed a rare 'sample table' near the pharmacy and stopped by to grab a freebie. It was some sort of soy/protein/gluten-free/organic/vegan diet drink thing. As I was trying a sip of it (tasted like SlimFast on a diet, and the lable said "LOOKING GOOD!'), the old QFC lady handing out the samples started talking to me. Not about the product she was shakily pouring into little Dixie cups, but about her life. Ug, really depressing. Next thing I know, the little grey-haired lady has whipped out a copy of "Chicken Soup for the Soul" (Yes, really.) and it reading me passages about late-in-life changes of heart and how so-and-so was seventy-two when she wrote some Broadway musical and how she could totally do that ("I'm only sixty-three!"). And the whole time I'm standing there wondering how many bottles of "LOOKING GOOD PROTEIN DRINK" I have to buy to get away.
I buy three. I drink them at work, and they make me have this unbelievable gas bubble in my stomach that makes me walk around the restaurant with a hand resting on my gut because my intestines hurt so much. I get a few soft looks from the clientele and I realized that I look like I'm about four months knocked up. Great. LOOKING GOOD.
Tuesday, April 12, 2011
Four Handles Later
I have no idea what I last wrote about my life on this here blog, and I don't care. I just added another ridiculous adventure to my life.
(I'm currently sitting in the back room at my work, surprised at how quickly I just sucked down this Bloody Mary. Hm. Apparently vacation really upped my tolerance levels.)
This all started one week ago. It was last Monday around midnight, as I was getting drunk at work, stressed about the amount of packing I still had to do for Party Bus 2011. By 2 in the morning, I was at home, tipsy, but had somehow managed to stuff a week's worth of short shorts and tank tops into my duffel bag.
The next 24 hours was a blissful blur of drunkenness. Those involved in the cross-country revelry included myself, my boyfriend, boyfriend's best friend Rylan, my old roommate Josh, Josh's new-ish girlfriend Erin, Erin's two besties CJ and Liz, and, of course, our humble Party Bus owner/driver: Dennis.
We arrived at the airport in time to suck down a couple o' Bloody Marys each (this became a definite theme on our trip), then proceeded to run to our gate and board the plane for some more airplane alcohol. By the time we arrived in Texas, we were doing preeetttty good.
Good thing we were drunk because the news we got when we got off the plane was not good.
Dennis (who had been in Texas for 4 days at this point, doing the final touches up on the bus engine to ensure our safe journey), greeted us with a somber face. The bus, he said, as we huddled around in a team circle, is absolutely unfixable.
Remember how we bought ONE-WAY tickets to Texas? Yeah.
With absolutely NO plans, nowhere to stay, no money and no idea how we were going to get back to Seattle, the eight of us did what most people should do in this situation: we went out and drank. A lot. Texas bars, I tell ya. Its all country music, friendliness and stiff drinks. Maybe the best night of my life.
By 4 am I am running around a pitch black cemetery, my shoes somehow gone, in a mini skirt and tank top I am somehow still sweating lightly in the still 85-degree weather, shouting, leaping, hollering, wooping it up. I am wondering how I came to be here. We stop at a grave and take grainy pictures. A quiet tombstone reads: OSWALD.
The next day we all wake up in a crusty motel off the highway, all sticky and in big friendly piles of stiff blankets and empty beer cans. We laugh at the ridiculousness of it all and drive to a Starbucks to steal Wi-Fi to try and buy some tickets back home. The cheapest tickets are the following day, but we already are reluctant to leave Texas.
Dennis, Rylan, my boyfriend and I find cheap tickets to LA and decided, what the hell, let's make the most of this crazy vacation. After another two days in Texas in which we overeat (the thought of Texas fried chicken and BBQ instantly makes me salivate. You cannot even imagine.) and overdrink (We had bought a half gallon of Irish Whiskey, Bourbon, Vodka and Tequila and put it all to good use) and fulfill Rylan's lifelong dream of visiting the JFK assassination sight, the group splits up. The three girls and Josh fly back to Seattle, and Rylan, Dennis, the Boyfriend and I take a Bloody-Mary infused jet to Los Angeles.
LA. What a different world. It's all highways and designer sunglasses and image and status. My boyfriend's brother lives there. James is a highly paid, fast-talking business man, more than likely a good deal insane and definitely an alcoholic. The second James picks us four up at the airport, the old sibling conflicts arise. James wants to go back to his apartment (which has recently been ransacked and partially destroyed by his crazy stripper ex-girlfriend) and drinks; we want to go find some cheap, delicious tacos.
Now I have always had trouble with James. I have a short temper and little room for offensive behavior when it comes down to it. I have always had to bite my tongue whenever James starts drinking and verbally abusing his brother in front of me. The Alpha Female in me wants to punch him squarely in the nose, and stare him down until he puts his tale between his legs. But I can't do that. He's not MY guy friend, he's not a stranger in a bar. He's my boyfriend's brother. He's family. And family you just have to put up with.
Anyways. The next three days involved a lot of 'putting up with James.' Our first night he got drunk at a Mexican Cantina, and kept ordering us rounds of insanely expensive shots of tequila. That was nothing compared to the next day. James woke us up blasting insanely loud music, demanded that we go to brunch, ordered food for us (his trademark habit, ordering things for people to remain in complete control), went back to the apartment to do shots of vodka (it was barely 11am at this point), insisted that he drive us to the Getty (we, thank GOD, convinced his to let Dennis drive), arrived at the Getty and found that they were full at the moment, watched James swear at the doorman, finally got into the Getty where we were dragged into the museum restaurant where James got RAGING drunk and started yelling at little old ladies, children, whatever. While the boys went to go find the car, I sat with James while he drunkenly pronounced me ugly, annoying and told me that he hated me. FAMILY. Yeah. Great.
We got James home in one piece, where he passed out cold for the next six hours. From then on, we had a splendid time, walking along the beach, taking pictures, exploring, meeting up with Rylan's sister, going to bars in Silverlake, and finally passing out for a few short hours before waking up to go to the train station. Oh, yeah. We couldn't find any cheap flights so we decided to take Amtrak up the coast.
After saying a stiff farewell to James (who had woken up and seemed a bit penitent for his drunken offensiveness), the four of us boarded the train for a breathtaking 34-hour trip up the coast from LA to Seattle. We still had two handles of liquor, and tons of snacks, and cozy seats to watch the country zip by. We kept buying orange juices from the club car and sipping little screwdrivers in between long naps for one of the most relaxing train trips I have ever experienced. We met a couple of nice kids our age, with whom we shared our liquor with (until I realized one of the boys was 17 years old. Yeesh). Overall, a wonderful end to our trip.
By the time we were back in Seattle, we were pretty much perma-drunk. We all raced up back to the hill to drop our stuff off at my apartment and head out again. In half an hour, we were sitting at a cozy booth at the Unicorn reunited with all eight of the vacationers, reliving the magic of having the stupidest vacation EVER.
On that note, maybe I should get another Bloody Mary.
(I'm currently sitting in the back room at my work, surprised at how quickly I just sucked down this Bloody Mary. Hm. Apparently vacation really upped my tolerance levels.)
This all started one week ago. It was last Monday around midnight, as I was getting drunk at work, stressed about the amount of packing I still had to do for Party Bus 2011. By 2 in the morning, I was at home, tipsy, but had somehow managed to stuff a week's worth of short shorts and tank tops into my duffel bag.
The next 24 hours was a blissful blur of drunkenness. Those involved in the cross-country revelry included myself, my boyfriend, boyfriend's best friend Rylan, my old roommate Josh, Josh's new-ish girlfriend Erin, Erin's two besties CJ and Liz, and, of course, our humble Party Bus owner/driver: Dennis.
We arrived at the airport in time to suck down a couple o' Bloody Marys each (this became a definite theme on our trip), then proceeded to run to our gate and board the plane for some more airplane alcohol. By the time we arrived in Texas, we were doing preeetttty good.
Good thing we were drunk because the news we got when we got off the plane was not good.
Dennis (who had been in Texas for 4 days at this point, doing the final touches up on the bus engine to ensure our safe journey), greeted us with a somber face. The bus, he said, as we huddled around in a team circle, is absolutely unfixable.
Remember how we bought ONE-WAY tickets to Texas? Yeah.
With absolutely NO plans, nowhere to stay, no money and no idea how we were going to get back to Seattle, the eight of us did what most people should do in this situation: we went out and drank. A lot. Texas bars, I tell ya. Its all country music, friendliness and stiff drinks. Maybe the best night of my life.
By 4 am I am running around a pitch black cemetery, my shoes somehow gone, in a mini skirt and tank top I am somehow still sweating lightly in the still 85-degree weather, shouting, leaping, hollering, wooping it up. I am wondering how I came to be here. We stop at a grave and take grainy pictures. A quiet tombstone reads: OSWALD.
The next day we all wake up in a crusty motel off the highway, all sticky and in big friendly piles of stiff blankets and empty beer cans. We laugh at the ridiculousness of it all and drive to a Starbucks to steal Wi-Fi to try and buy some tickets back home. The cheapest tickets are the following day, but we already are reluctant to leave Texas.
Dennis, Rylan, my boyfriend and I find cheap tickets to LA and decided, what the hell, let's make the most of this crazy vacation. After another two days in Texas in which we overeat (the thought of Texas fried chicken and BBQ instantly makes me salivate. You cannot even imagine.) and overdrink (We had bought a half gallon of Irish Whiskey, Bourbon, Vodka and Tequila and put it all to good use) and fulfill Rylan's lifelong dream of visiting the JFK assassination sight, the group splits up. The three girls and Josh fly back to Seattle, and Rylan, Dennis, the Boyfriend and I take a Bloody-Mary infused jet to Los Angeles.
LA. What a different world. It's all highways and designer sunglasses and image and status. My boyfriend's brother lives there. James is a highly paid, fast-talking business man, more than likely a good deal insane and definitely an alcoholic. The second James picks us four up at the airport, the old sibling conflicts arise. James wants to go back to his apartment (which has recently been ransacked and partially destroyed by his crazy stripper ex-girlfriend) and drinks; we want to go find some cheap, delicious tacos.
Now I have always had trouble with James. I have a short temper and little room for offensive behavior when it comes down to it. I have always had to bite my tongue whenever James starts drinking and verbally abusing his brother in front of me. The Alpha Female in me wants to punch him squarely in the nose, and stare him down until he puts his tale between his legs. But I can't do that. He's not MY guy friend, he's not a stranger in a bar. He's my boyfriend's brother. He's family. And family you just have to put up with.
Anyways. The next three days involved a lot of 'putting up with James.' Our first night he got drunk at a Mexican Cantina, and kept ordering us rounds of insanely expensive shots of tequila. That was nothing compared to the next day. James woke us up blasting insanely loud music, demanded that we go to brunch, ordered food for us (his trademark habit, ordering things for people to remain in complete control), went back to the apartment to do shots of vodka (it was barely 11am at this point), insisted that he drive us to the Getty (we, thank GOD, convinced his to let Dennis drive), arrived at the Getty and found that they were full at the moment, watched James swear at the doorman, finally got into the Getty where we were dragged into the museum restaurant where James got RAGING drunk and started yelling at little old ladies, children, whatever. While the boys went to go find the car, I sat with James while he drunkenly pronounced me ugly, annoying and told me that he hated me. FAMILY. Yeah. Great.
We got James home in one piece, where he passed out cold for the next six hours. From then on, we had a splendid time, walking along the beach, taking pictures, exploring, meeting up with Rylan's sister, going to bars in Silverlake, and finally passing out for a few short hours before waking up to go to the train station. Oh, yeah. We couldn't find any cheap flights so we decided to take Amtrak up the coast.
After saying a stiff farewell to James (who had woken up and seemed a bit penitent for his drunken offensiveness), the four of us boarded the train for a breathtaking 34-hour trip up the coast from LA to Seattle. We still had two handles of liquor, and tons of snacks, and cozy seats to watch the country zip by. We kept buying orange juices from the club car and sipping little screwdrivers in between long naps for one of the most relaxing train trips I have ever experienced. We met a couple of nice kids our age, with whom we shared our liquor with (until I realized one of the boys was 17 years old. Yeesh). Overall, a wonderful end to our trip.
By the time we were back in Seattle, we were pretty much perma-drunk. We all raced up back to the hill to drop our stuff off at my apartment and head out again. In half an hour, we were sitting at a cozy booth at the Unicorn reunited with all eight of the vacationers, reliving the magic of having the stupidest vacation EVER.
On that note, maybe I should get another Bloody Mary.
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