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.
Friday, April 1, 2011
Pesce d'aprile
Welcome to 2011 and all the information, deals and new technology you can get over the interwebs.
1. Starbucks MobilePour. Not that I like Starbucks, but still. Instant Frapuccinos!
2. Gmail Motion. This is going to change everything. No more typing. Just dance in front of your webcam!
3. The Huffington Post. Now offering 'sample' articles, in which you can read the first six letters of every word for free (after that there is a charge), plus, complimentary slideshows of kittens!!!
4. Forever Young Puppy of the Month Club. I know its not technology...it's just cute! And affordable!
5. Funny Or Die, now featuring their new Artist-in-Residence: Rebecca Black! So glad she's finally getting the recognition she deserves.
1. Starbucks MobilePour. Not that I like Starbucks, but still. Instant Frapuccinos!
2. Gmail Motion. This is going to change everything. No more typing. Just dance in front of your webcam!
3. The Huffington Post. Now offering 'sample' articles, in which you can read the first six letters of every word for free (after that there is a charge), plus, complimentary slideshows of kittens!!!
4. Forever Young Puppy of the Month Club. I know its not technology...it's just cute! And affordable!
5. Funny Or Die, now featuring their new Artist-in-Residence: Rebecca Black! So glad she's finally getting the recognition she deserves.
Wednesday, March 30, 2011
Alphabet Pony
Too tired, lazy, and ignoring the fact that I need to go on a run/organize my life/brush my teeth. Today will be in lists, blogged from the convenience of my bed, where I am currently residing, sipping a homemade bloody mary (Monarch + V8). Let's not analyze this too much.
1. The Kills. Great. Amazing. Why I am just discovering them now? Probably because I do things like sit inside drunk blogging at noon.
2. Thomas Street Bistro. Good. Mysterious. Confusing. Pretty delicious. My boyfriend and I went there last night, because I had always wanted to go. Also the owner comes into my work all the time and tells me to come visit him. Also I had one of those weird internet coupons that I bought one night when I was drinking a bottle of white wine and 'online window shopping.' It happens.
3. Stitches. Badass. Annoying. Over it. I ran out of bandages and wraps so I currently have a piece of floral fabric tied festively to my wrist (NOT sanitary, I know). I also keep forgetting its there and poking myself in my wound.
4. Moving to New York City. Yes and yes. My boyfriend and I have been planning on moving to New York for about a year or so. I know, I know. But we're really going to move. We have a place now (sort of) and a time frame (ditto on the sort of). Also money. Not really sort of.
5. This Bloody Mary. Not that good.
P.S. SO GOOD
1. The Kills. Great. Amazing. Why I am just discovering them now? Probably because I do things like sit inside drunk blogging at noon.
2. Thomas Street Bistro. Good. Mysterious. Confusing. Pretty delicious. My boyfriend and I went there last night, because I had always wanted to go. Also the owner comes into my work all the time and tells me to come visit him. Also I had one of those weird internet coupons that I bought one night when I was drinking a bottle of white wine and 'online window shopping.' It happens.
3. Stitches. Badass. Annoying. Over it. I ran out of bandages and wraps so I currently have a piece of floral fabric tied festively to my wrist (NOT sanitary, I know). I also keep forgetting its there and poking myself in my wound.
4. Moving to New York City. Yes and yes. My boyfriend and I have been planning on moving to New York for about a year or so. I know, I know. But we're really going to move. We have a place now (sort of) and a time frame (ditto on the sort of). Also money. Not really sort of.
5. This Bloody Mary. Not that good.
P.S. SO GOOD
Sunday, March 27, 2011
Story Of My Life
I have the worst luck ever.
No, I am not even kidding. So, last night. Natalie asked me to take her back room hosting shift, so I went in at 4:30 to begin a long Saturday night of refilling water bottles, buffing silverware, seating guests and stacking glasses. Not the best shift, but I was totally in Good Attitude Worker Mode (I didn't even take a shot before work!). Feeling particularly positive after two hours of work in which I had rearranged the reservation seating chart (could have been a disaster!), got the server station extra stocked up and sparkling clean, AND had time to make myself a chai tea, I decided to do one more extra task to make sure that the servers were fully equipped to attend to their customers.
Big Mistake.
I went to the dish pit and grabbed a stack of short glasses. I even set down some of the glassware when I realized that my stack might be too tall to carry safely. Feeling smart about the decision, I carried a foot-tall stack of glasses to the back service station and carefully set the stack down.
Unbeknownst to me, one of the glasses in the middle of the stack was slightly cracked. When I gingerly set the stack down, the crack in the glass crumbled under the weight, making half the stack of glassware explode, and sent a giant dagger of glass straight into my wrist.
I had no idea that blood could squirt out that that, or that it was that dark. After my shocked co-workers rushed me into the kitchen to wrap my wrist in towels, I shakily called my boyfriend. He came and collected me (I apologized to my co-workers for leaving early, and they waved away my concerns as they mopped up bits of glass and blood) and thus began our Harborview Emergency Room adventure.
Harborview. Oh. My. God. What is happening there?! Why do you have to wait for four hours while various sketchy people mill about the waiting room? What is going on the the single person bathroom?! Why is the television set constantly tuned to SPIKE TV and 'America's Worst Accidents'? AND WHO IN GOD'S NAME IS EXPLOSIVELY PROJECTILE VOMITING (I can hear it but I can't see where it's coming from)?!
Part Two of Bad/Weird Luck: I finally hear my name being called. I get up (and my wonderful boyfriend follows, toting my purse, jacket and several snacks from the vending machine) and walk towards the voice. A male nurse turns around and my jaw drops. Its Memphis. What. The. Hell.
So, back when I was at SPU, there was this RA (except that at SPU we called them Peer Advisors for some reason) who was to rich, blond Christian women how Justin Beiber is to most twenty five-year-old lesbians. Every girl in Ashton Hall was obsessed. Like, insane. Maybe it was the fact that this college was made up of about 2200 rich, blond, sexually repressed women (and about 900 equally sexually repressed men), or maybe the fact that Ashton Hall was three floors male and nine floors female, or maybe it comes down to the amount of men who came out as gay post-graduation, but a seemingly straight, single man was in hot demand in those days. Gross, I know.
Anyways, that's not why I turned beet red when Memphis came up and awkwardly "Christian-Side Hugged*" me. I was more embarrassed, because the last time I saw this guy was around 4am, on some Tuesday night back in 2006. I was running around the dorms as a 19-year-old and decided it would be hilarious to strip down to nothing in the dorm elevator (it was 4am, it was the women's side of the dorm and let's face it, everyone was in bed at SPU). I was also singing. Loudly.
Unfortunately I forgot about the fact that every single one of the RAs has 'nightly rounds' that they make during the wee hours of the night (to make sure no good SPU girls are losing their V-cards or drinking Mike's Hard Lemonade). And unfortunately, that night was Memphis' turn for duty. And, yes, of course he was standing on the other side of those elevator doors.
I'm pretty sure those were the first boobs he ever saw.
Anyways, end of story, I poked and prodded and x-rayed and had four separate doctors come in to unwrap the gauze and pronounce it stitches-worthy and finally I got stitched up and sent home. And by home, I mean I went back to my work to sit at the bar and have a stiff drink.
*Appendix:
Christian Side Hug: Because, you know, when you hug "full frontal" it immediately leads to sex, gayness, babies, AIDS and drinking Mike's Hard Lemonade.
Courtesy of fuckyeahnouns.com
No, I am not even kidding. So, last night. Natalie asked me to take her back room hosting shift, so I went in at 4:30 to begin a long Saturday night of refilling water bottles, buffing silverware, seating guests and stacking glasses. Not the best shift, but I was totally in Good Attitude Worker Mode (I didn't even take a shot before work!). Feeling particularly positive after two hours of work in which I had rearranged the reservation seating chart (could have been a disaster!), got the server station extra stocked up and sparkling clean, AND had time to make myself a chai tea, I decided to do one more extra task to make sure that the servers were fully equipped to attend to their customers.
Big Mistake.
I went to the dish pit and grabbed a stack of short glasses. I even set down some of the glassware when I realized that my stack might be too tall to carry safely. Feeling smart about the decision, I carried a foot-tall stack of glasses to the back service station and carefully set the stack down.
Unbeknownst to me, one of the glasses in the middle of the stack was slightly cracked. When I gingerly set the stack down, the crack in the glass crumbled under the weight, making half the stack of glassware explode, and sent a giant dagger of glass straight into my wrist.
I had no idea that blood could squirt out that that, or that it was that dark. After my shocked co-workers rushed me into the kitchen to wrap my wrist in towels, I shakily called my boyfriend. He came and collected me (I apologized to my co-workers for leaving early, and they waved away my concerns as they mopped up bits of glass and blood) and thus began our Harborview Emergency Room adventure.
Harborview. Oh. My. God. What is happening there?! Why do you have to wait for four hours while various sketchy people mill about the waiting room? What is going on the the single person bathroom?! Why is the television set constantly tuned to SPIKE TV and 'America's Worst Accidents'? AND WHO IN GOD'S NAME IS EXPLOSIVELY PROJECTILE VOMITING (I can hear it but I can't see where it's coming from)?!
Part Two of Bad/Weird Luck: I finally hear my name being called. I get up (and my wonderful boyfriend follows, toting my purse, jacket and several snacks from the vending machine) and walk towards the voice. A male nurse turns around and my jaw drops. Its Memphis. What. The. Hell.
So, back when I was at SPU, there was this RA (except that at SPU we called them Peer Advisors for some reason) who was to rich, blond Christian women how Justin Beiber is to most twenty five-year-old lesbians. Every girl in Ashton Hall was obsessed. Like, insane. Maybe it was the fact that this college was made up of about 2200 rich, blond, sexually repressed women (and about 900 equally sexually repressed men), or maybe the fact that Ashton Hall was three floors male and nine floors female, or maybe it comes down to the amount of men who came out as gay post-graduation, but a seemingly straight, single man was in hot demand in those days. Gross, I know.
Anyways, that's not why I turned beet red when Memphis came up and awkwardly "Christian-Side Hugged*" me. I was more embarrassed, because the last time I saw this guy was around 4am, on some Tuesday night back in 2006. I was running around the dorms as a 19-year-old and decided it would be hilarious to strip down to nothing in the dorm elevator (it was 4am, it was the women's side of the dorm and let's face it, everyone was in bed at SPU). I was also singing. Loudly.
Unfortunately I forgot about the fact that every single one of the RAs has 'nightly rounds' that they make during the wee hours of the night (to make sure no good SPU girls are losing their V-cards or drinking Mike's Hard Lemonade). And unfortunately, that night was Memphis' turn for duty. And, yes, of course he was standing on the other side of those elevator doors.
I'm pretty sure those were the first boobs he ever saw.
Anyways, end of story, I poked and prodded and x-rayed and had four separate doctors come in to unwrap the gauze and pronounce it stitches-worthy and finally I got stitched up and sent home. And by home, I mean I went back to my work to sit at the bar and have a stiff drink.
*Appendix:
Christian Side Hug: Because, you know, when you hug "full frontal" it immediately leads to sex, gayness, babies, AIDS and drinking Mike's Hard Lemonade.
Courtesy of fuckyeahnouns.com
Friday, March 25, 2011
Out Of Mind
In eleven days and some amount of minutes and hours that I do not know, I will get on a plane and fly to Dallas, Texas and embark upon a really idiotic vacation.
Let me explain.
My friend Dennis collects old vintage care, motorcycles, etc. When the opportunity for him to buy a retired 1970's Greyhound bus arose, he went for it. Problem is, the bus is currently in Dallas, Texas. Dennis and our good friend Josh (of Emery fame, if anyone was a Christian Punk Rocker back in 2002) decided buy one-way tickets, fly down to Texas and drive the vehicle back to Seattle.
But who wants to drive an empty bus 3000 miles?
AKA Why not invite thirty friends? And put couches in the bus instead of seats? And all non-drivers indulge in California's (and some of the other states') open container laws? And bring a video camera to document it all?
AKA Me buying a one-way ticket to Dallas, Texas while drunk at the Unicorn last week.
Let me explain.
My friend Dennis collects old vintage care, motorcycles, etc. When the opportunity for him to buy a retired 1970's Greyhound bus arose, he went for it. Problem is, the bus is currently in Dallas, Texas. Dennis and our good friend Josh (of Emery fame, if anyone was a Christian Punk Rocker back in 2002) decided buy one-way tickets, fly down to Texas and drive the vehicle back to Seattle.
But who wants to drive an empty bus 3000 miles?
AKA Why not invite thirty friends? And put couches in the bus instead of seats? And all non-drivers indulge in California's (and some of the other states') open container laws? And bring a video camera to document it all?
AKA Me buying a one-way ticket to Dallas, Texas while drunk at the Unicorn last week.
Wednesday, March 23, 2011
Gorgonzola Salad
Just went on a jog, listened to Lady Gaga on my iPod, stopped by my boyfriend's coffee shop to share a vegan sandwich and a spinach, cranberry and Gorgonzola salad, separated the recyclable containers and compostable spoons (and went on to recycle and compost the items, of course) and finished the morning by buying a gift certificate for an independent women's spa for my boyfriend's sister's birthday present.
GORGONZOLA SALAD. Help me.
GORGONZOLA SALAD. Help me.
Night Work
I am making a couple of New Year resolutions (and yes, I know, it's March) and I intend to keep them. One is that I go running three times a week (ha, we'll see on this) and two, that I keep writing this damn blog.
The other resolution/goal thing was saving money to move to New York, but I've pretty much blown most of my savings on this laptop. You know, so I can write. Yeah, I don't know either.
I have been working a lot lately, so maybe that third goal is not entirely hopeless. It's weird, working late at night. I wake up at noon, putz around the house, maybe run an errand or two, and then go to work. Work is... saying the same things over and over to customers, feeling like a robot, trying not to turn into a ball of bitterness and hanging out near the "self-serve" wine station and doing shots of white wine late at night. Classy lady.
In between working, I've had an endless stream of family obligations. My cousin got married on Saturday and I figured, what the hell, let's just throw my boyfriend into the deep end of the whole "meeting the extended family" pool. Luckily, I didn't let the situation melt me into a pile of anxiety, and luckily there was alcohol at the wedding. Also, (I shouldn't have been surprised), my family loved him. Including my 80-year-old Grandma Dietzel. Okay, it sort of seemed like she was trying to hit on my boyfriend. A little weird, but whatever.
Speaking of weird, here's 'Invisible Light' off the new Scissor Sisters album "Night Work."
Yeah.
The other resolution/goal thing was saving money to move to New York, but I've pretty much blown most of my savings on this laptop. You know, so I can write. Yeah, I don't know either.
I have been working a lot lately, so maybe that third goal is not entirely hopeless. It's weird, working late at night. I wake up at noon, putz around the house, maybe run an errand or two, and then go to work. Work is... saying the same things over and over to customers, feeling like a robot, trying not to turn into a ball of bitterness and hanging out near the "self-serve" wine station and doing shots of white wine late at night. Classy lady.
In between working, I've had an endless stream of family obligations. My cousin got married on Saturday and I figured, what the hell, let's just throw my boyfriend into the deep end of the whole "meeting the extended family" pool. Luckily, I didn't let the situation melt me into a pile of anxiety, and luckily there was alcohol at the wedding. Also, (I shouldn't have been surprised), my family loved him. Including my 80-year-old Grandma Dietzel. Okay, it sort of seemed like she was trying to hit on my boyfriend. A little weird, but whatever.
Speaking of weird, here's 'Invisible Light' off the new Scissor Sisters album "Night Work."
Yeah.
Sunday, March 20, 2011
Fun, Fun, Fun
I forgot, here's that idiotic music video by Rebecca Black. Watch at your own risk.
I just got back from my cousin's wedding up in Mukilteo, where, among other things, my 80-year-old Grandma started hitting on my boyfriend. More on that later.
I just got back from my cousin's wedding up in Mukilteo, where, among other things, my 80-year-old Grandma started hitting on my boyfriend. More on that later.
Saving Yourself
I just watched that Rebecca Black 'Friday' music video and now I have an endless loop of "Fun, Fun, Fun, Fun" stuck in my head. That's exactly how this weekend felt. Like an auto tuned thirteen year old singing about partying and dancing. So disturbing but you can't help but watch the damn music video for it.
I started off the weekend (sort of) with aforementioned corned beef and cabbage fest, followed by a corned beef and cabbage hangover. Friday ("Friday, Friday, Friday...") involved eating more corned beef for breakfast (why) and then realizing that my I had a bridal shower to go to in two hours.
Not just any bridal shower. Back story. I went to SPU. As in, dry campus, "cross your legs for Jesus," Christian university. Believe me, I had no idea what I was getting into went I signed on there. Anyways, almost seven years after freshmen year, my first college roommate is getting married. As in, "saved herself for twenty-five years and has no clue" getting married. Eeek.
I arrive at the bridal shower (way up in North Seattle, in a quaint little three bedroom house shared by three twenty-something Christian girls) and survey my surroundings. There are metal folding chairs arranged in a subservient little circle in the living room. A "love seat" that my grandma would have thrown out ten years ago and two stiff backed velvet chairs sit in the corner, daring someone to sit on them. Doilies. Coasters. Paintings of pastel flower petals. A magazine rack with Readers' Digest. A candy dish. Yeah.
The next five hours of my life (I had no way out of there, it was a half hour drive from my apartment, I had gotten a ride with someone and there were no buses that ran anywhere within a mile) were spent in this circle of metal folding chairs, playing "ice-breaker" games with women that I didn't really want to get to know. When it came time to open presents, the bride-to-be carefully unfolded pale pastel packages of pajama sets and knee-length slips from Nordstrom ("Every girl needs some decent slips" everyone nodded). A few of her closest friends felt comfortable enough to giggle and hand her some sort of present with "lingerie" inside (a stiff, cheaply made disaster of black lace and straps, probably purchased from "Lover's"), although these present were considered gag gifts. I myself had actually found an incredibly beautiful, well-made Betsey Johnson nightgown in dark purple (it was on sale, and only one left, and I could barely let myself give it away) but the bachelorette simply put it in the pile of gag gifts and didn't say a word.
After the presents we sat around, not knowing what to do. There didn't seem to be any devices for playing music in the house, and our awkward coughs bounced painfully off the bare walls. One of the women, who seemed to be magically tipsy on sparkling grape juice (the one bottle of champagne had been politely sipped away among 12 women, much to my dismay, who at this point was frantically texting my friend "THERE IS NO ALCOHOL LEFT GET ME OUT"), suddenly leaned in towards the guest of honor and smiled with an all-knowing grimace, "So, nervous for your wedding night?"
If the bride wasn't nervous at least the other ten unwed, virginal girls were. Everyone stopped fidgeting and leaned forward, hoping to catch some sort of advice. The woman who had asked the question had already been marked in my brain. She was the one who had demanded that we "ice-break," earlier, had this loud, all-knowing voice that you just couldn't drown out, and now, with an aggressive flash of her wedding ring hand, she decided to let everyone know that she was married, not a virgin and thus, the Expert On All Things Sexual.
The discussion that ensued made me want to laugh, cry and vomit all simultaneously. It was the worst sex advice I had ever heard, and I grew up in the Wisconsin Public School system where they make you watch three explicit home videos of teenagers explosively birthing out babies while screaming and crying as the main component of their abstinence-only program.
I finally managed to escape around 11:30. I headed straight for my favorite bar, where my sweet, wonderful "living-in-sin" boyfriend was waiting for me with a large beer. Now that's true love.
I started off the weekend (sort of) with aforementioned corned beef and cabbage fest, followed by a corned beef and cabbage hangover. Friday ("Friday, Friday, Friday...") involved eating more corned beef for breakfast (why) and then realizing that my I had a bridal shower to go to in two hours.
Not just any bridal shower. Back story. I went to SPU. As in, dry campus, "cross your legs for Jesus," Christian university. Believe me, I had no idea what I was getting into went I signed on there. Anyways, almost seven years after freshmen year, my first college roommate is getting married. As in, "saved herself for twenty-five years and has no clue" getting married. Eeek.
I arrive at the bridal shower (way up in North Seattle, in a quaint little three bedroom house shared by three twenty-something Christian girls) and survey my surroundings. There are metal folding chairs arranged in a subservient little circle in the living room. A "love seat" that my grandma would have thrown out ten years ago and two stiff backed velvet chairs sit in the corner, daring someone to sit on them. Doilies. Coasters. Paintings of pastel flower petals. A magazine rack with Readers' Digest. A candy dish. Yeah.
The next five hours of my life (I had no way out of there, it was a half hour drive from my apartment, I had gotten a ride with someone and there were no buses that ran anywhere within a mile) were spent in this circle of metal folding chairs, playing "ice-breaker" games with women that I didn't really want to get to know. When it came time to open presents, the bride-to-be carefully unfolded pale pastel packages of pajama sets and knee-length slips from Nordstrom ("Every girl needs some decent slips" everyone nodded). A few of her closest friends felt comfortable enough to giggle and hand her some sort of present with "lingerie" inside (a stiff, cheaply made disaster of black lace and straps, probably purchased from "Lover's"), although these present were considered gag gifts. I myself had actually found an incredibly beautiful, well-made Betsey Johnson nightgown in dark purple (it was on sale, and only one left, and I could barely let myself give it away) but the bachelorette simply put it in the pile of gag gifts and didn't say a word.
After the presents we sat around, not knowing what to do. There didn't seem to be any devices for playing music in the house, and our awkward coughs bounced painfully off the bare walls. One of the women, who seemed to be magically tipsy on sparkling grape juice (the one bottle of champagne had been politely sipped away among 12 women, much to my dismay, who at this point was frantically texting my friend "THERE IS NO ALCOHOL LEFT GET ME OUT"), suddenly leaned in towards the guest of honor and smiled with an all-knowing grimace, "So, nervous for your wedding night?"
If the bride wasn't nervous at least the other ten unwed, virginal girls were. Everyone stopped fidgeting and leaned forward, hoping to catch some sort of advice. The woman who had asked the question had already been marked in my brain. She was the one who had demanded that we "ice-break," earlier, had this loud, all-knowing voice that you just couldn't drown out, and now, with an aggressive flash of her wedding ring hand, she decided to let everyone know that she was married, not a virgin and thus, the Expert On All Things Sexual.
The discussion that ensued made me want to laugh, cry and vomit all simultaneously. It was the worst sex advice I had ever heard, and I grew up in the Wisconsin Public School system where they make you watch three explicit home videos of teenagers explosively birthing out babies while screaming and crying as the main component of their abstinence-only program.
I finally managed to escape around 11:30. I headed straight for my favorite bar, where my sweet, wonderful "living-in-sin" boyfriend was waiting for me with a large beer. Now that's true love.
Friday, March 18, 2011
That Person
Just got done with a run, a quick shopping trip at QFC, followed by a stop by Pagliacci Pizza. One step forward, two lazy, fatty steps back.
So, you know those self-checkout machines at the grocery store, right? And how they start to notice what you buy and note the patterns and then spit out automatic coupons for stuff they think you might be interested in? It's like Google ads; creepy but right on.
Lately the only coupons that the machines spit out are for cat food and tampons. I'm turning into THAT PERSON.
So, you know those self-checkout machines at the grocery store, right? And how they start to notice what you buy and note the patterns and then spit out automatic coupons for stuff they think you might be interested in? It's like Google ads; creepy but right on.
Lately the only coupons that the machines spit out are for cat food and tampons. I'm turning into THAT PERSON.
100%
Happy post-Patty's day, and good luck with that hangover. I suggest a Olympia-and-V8 (sounds awful but it works), a sleeve of saltines and a giant bottle of Gatorade for your morning breakfast. You'll be fine.
I started my drinking early, and was snoring in bed by 11. Not so bad. After going into work for an entire hour and a half (had to cover the end of someones shift), I kindly sat down at the bar to collect my shift drink. The daytime bartender, Charlie, greeted me with a rare burst of St. Patrick's Day enthusiasm in the form of a boozy concoction aptly named a "Dirty Leprechaun."
Two hours later I find myself at Big Marios, doing shots with a couple of co-workers. My boyfriend calls ("Where are you?! We're supposed to be at my dad's house for dinner!"), and I jump on the bus to head over to his father's annual Jameson and Corned Beef fest. Oh boy.
By 9pm, we are filled to the brim with beef, potatoes, cabbage and guinness. We stumble home, where I sit around contemplating my life, and where I'm going with it. I'm sick of school, but I should go to grad school. I want to make money, but I want to keep not caring about money. I want to travel, but I want to feel settled down. I don't know. Maybe I should pick one thing and stick with it.
Look at this guy. He knows exactly what he wants to do and he does it 100%. It may just be that he has made a career of being an 'extra," but at least he's not doing a half-assed job of it.
He just got an award, too!
I started my drinking early, and was snoring in bed by 11. Not so bad. After going into work for an entire hour and a half (had to cover the end of someones shift), I kindly sat down at the bar to collect my shift drink. The daytime bartender, Charlie, greeted me with a rare burst of St. Patrick's Day enthusiasm in the form of a boozy concoction aptly named a "Dirty Leprechaun."
Two hours later I find myself at Big Marios, doing shots with a couple of co-workers. My boyfriend calls ("Where are you?! We're supposed to be at my dad's house for dinner!"), and I jump on the bus to head over to his father's annual Jameson and Corned Beef fest. Oh boy.
By 9pm, we are filled to the brim with beef, potatoes, cabbage and guinness. We stumble home, where I sit around contemplating my life, and where I'm going with it. I'm sick of school, but I should go to grad school. I want to make money, but I want to keep not caring about money. I want to travel, but I want to feel settled down. I don't know. Maybe I should pick one thing and stick with it.
Look at this guy. He knows exactly what he wants to do and he does it 100%. It may just be that he has made a career of being an 'extra," but at least he's not doing a half-assed job of it.
He just got an award, too!
Thursday, March 17, 2011
Impending Crisis
I am sitting on my couch, fully dressed in my running gear, trying to ignore the loud, lazy snores of my boyfriend and my cat. The two guys are curled up in the bed, not in the least bit worried about how their thighs are starting to look or the fact that the pair of jeans from high school that have ALWAYS fit can no longer be zipped or how you feel like you are turning into a lazy pile of UNACCOMPLISHED.
Welcome to your quarter life.
Instead of running (I'll get up in a minute, I swear!), I'm going to share with you my useless information of the day. I wish there was an awesome acronym for that but there isn't, so get over it.
Creepy Shamrock Shake commercial!
Happy St. Patty's Day! Alright I'm seriously going to get up and go running now. This will definitely be the only healthy activity I engage in today.
Welcome to your quarter life.
Instead of running (I'll get up in a minute, I swear!), I'm going to share with you my useless information of the day. I wish there was an awesome acronym for that but there isn't, so get over it.
Creepy Shamrock Shake commercial!
Happy St. Patty's Day! Alright I'm seriously going to get up and go running now. This will definitely be the only healthy activity I engage in today.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)