TMI Thursday: Somehow It Wasn’t Me

It’s that time again peoples…TMI Thursday. As lovely LiLu always says: Alright, folks, you know the rules. Join us all in humiliating the crap out of yourself every Thursday by sharing some completely tasteless, wholly unclassy, “how many readers can I estrange THIS week??” TMI story about your life. Or hell, about someone else’s!

Remember the time when I decided to celebrate my 25th birthday by combining three of my favorite things: day drinking, dive bars and public transportation? And we took the train up the SF Peninsula, stopping at dive bars and drinking en route all day? And the plan was to drink early since I had to be at work at 9:30 the next morning? Yeah, that happened.

The drinking was serious, the costumes were amazing, the bars very divey and the people/pictures awesome. Only the plan failed and I ended up in the Castro on Halloween night. And didn’t get home until 4 a.m. The Castro looked something like this (supposedly)…

And this…

Anyway, it was a shitshow. After drinking all day, someone decided that rather than sending my drunk ass home, they should take me to a party at SF State. But instead, we ended up in the Castro, unclear how or why that happened but it did. Things I don’t remember (once we got to SF) but supposedly happened: eating sandwiches at a deli, nearly getting kicked out of a bar, running into something so hard that I had a giant bruise on my thigh before the night was even over, “losing” my fireman helmet in a bathroom at the train station, getting back to BART.

Things I do remember include: taking back-to-back jager bombs with Baggage at a very very very crowded bar. And by back-to-back, I don’t mean standing with our backs to each other. Meanwhile, SS was having a panic/anxiety attack because it was so crowded(?) Obviously, Baggage and I are great friends. After realizing that SS was seriously freaking out, we went outside to try to get her some air. She sat down on the curb, calmed a bit and then somehow convinced us that we should let her go home on BART by herself. What? Worst friends ever.

When SS decided she could get up, Baggage attempted to lend her a hand to help her up. In what was probably not a statement of her independence as a woman, SS promptly VOMITED ON HIS HAND.

Yes, on his hand. Who does that? And I was the one who was blackout drunk. It really defies logic.

And speaking of vomit, add to the list of people who had a worse night than I did, my other roommate BV, who, despite not coming on the train, not only vomited on herself and her shoes but ALSO came home with a giant gash in her calf.

Basically, I’m counting this as a WIN for me. And I’ve got to give credit to Baggage for being awesome and 1) taking the whole vomit on the hand thing in stride and 2) being the last man standing on my 25th birthday after approximately 15 hours of drinking, and without whom I probably would have been found raped and murdered being licked by dogs and/or homelesses in a gutter in SF the next day.

The end (for now).

And yes, I did just tell this story so that I could feel better about myself. I write a blog, don’t act so shocked.

I’m In Love, I’m In Love and I Don’t Care Who Knows It

So, I know there are plenty of things I should have been writing about for the last few weeks that you might like to read (or maybe not?) like say, my 25th birthday celebration shitshow, my growing urge to jump out and/or push others out the window at work, how I didn’t go to Costa Rica, or the effect this whole having a real job and being an “adult” thing is having on my blogiverse/reader. But, to be honest, those stories don’t matter right now because I’M IN LOVE…

with a stripper crockpot.

My baby

Yes, I realize I am a complete and utter nerd. And sure, you can laugh. But that’s probably because you don’t know the joys of having a slow cooker create delicious meals FOR YOU while you spend the day makin’ that paper at work. It is glorious.

As my roommate pointed out, “It’s beautiful and it cooks for you. What else do you need in true love? Plus it has sausage.”

Yeah, she went there. But really though, how many of you can say that much about your significant other? I mean, it’s dishwasher safe. That’s what I thought.

The crockpot is probably one of the greatest inventions of all time and I just wanted everyone to know that I love my shiny new crockpot that I got for my birthday. If I’m not careful, I might name it. I’m not a crockpot noob, but this is my first fancy slow cooker and I’m going to use it well.

Really, you can’t go wrong with this thing. It’s digital, it switches to “warm” when it’s done cooking, and you can pretty much just throw whatever is in your fridge in there and turn it on and it comes out delish (and it makes the house smell awesome). And there’s Stephanie’s blog with over 365 things you can make in a crockpot (including our favorite: BOOZE). All of these things add up to the crockpot being the greatest lazy people’s cooking tool ever created. It’s amazing and everyone should own one.

Plus, if you do it right, you won’t even burn the house down…TWSS

Slow cooking FTW!

PS – I promise not to be one of those girls who constantly talks about her crockpot and stands up for it even when it’s wrong and posts stupid pictures of us making out food with each other.

Halloween Baby

However you might feel about pumpkins, I think we can all agree that Halloween is truly a holiday for all ages to have a good time. Minus those “Halloween is a celebration of the devil for heretics and sinners” people, but let’s be honest that’s probably why all the cool kids love it.

File under: amazing, creepy, things PETA hates

It’s crazy to think that 25 years ago on All Hallow’s Eve, my mom was laid out on a surgery table having a giant, slimy, bloody, placenta-covered baby me pulled out of her. All 10 lbs., 10 oz. and 23 inches of me. Can you imagine? That poor woman was carrying a toddler, for a nice hot summer. No wonder I love her.

Anyway, I was thinking about getting all sentimental and deep about what 25 years old means to me, but then I remembered that Halloween is all about parties, candy, booze, sugar-highs, haunted houses, costumes, hangovers, trick-or-treating, scaring the shit out of others and general debauchery.

Besides, everybody knows that being deep is something to save for Arbor Day and the Summer Solstice.

With all the mischief and mayhem and excitement about being able to finally smoke buy porn drink rent a car on the cheap, I’ve been thinking (big ups to Jenn for the inspiration) a lot about the madness that has been being a Halloween baby. As if yearly costumed birthday parties and people (obviously) giving out candy in my honor weren’t enough, I went to the college capitol of STDs Halloween mania, where 30,000 of our closest friends celebrated my birthday with me every year. Therefore, compiling this list (yeah I said it) of my top 15 Halloween/birthday moments was a tough task, but somebody had to do it. What are your favorite Halloween memories? Here’s hoping I add some more on Saturday. Enjoy…

Reason why Star Wars fans should not procreate.

Cheddar’s Top 15 Halloween Birthday Moments

15. First birthday – Dove head first into the bobbing for apples tub. Pretty sure there were no apples left. Began impressive bobbing for apples career, ended by Bob Sanchez 19 years later (see #8)

14. Seventh birthday – Seven, seven-year-olds. Crying, pizza making, Mom left alone with us while Dad went to the movies. ‘Nuff said.

13. Eighth birthday – Crazy driver nearly hits children while trick-or-treating. Dad throws godson’s stroller at hood of car. Amazing.

12. 21st birthday – Bunkmate and I clear path of (hookup) destruction at party. Run into Bunkmate’s makeout partner (hickies and all) at Denny’s birthday brunch the next morning. Die laughing.

11. 18th birthday – Dorm friends head out on Nov. 1, nearly vomit at site of dirtiest kitchen in IV. Boxers McGee climbs rips open bathroom screen and climbs out of the window.

10. 24th birthday – Halloween in KnoxVegas. Followed around by super awkward Jamaican from my master’s classes.

9. Third birthday – Video evidence of my grandfather entering the house and scaring the shit out of me while wearing a Richard Nixon mask. Convinced it would still scare me today.

8. Ninth birthday – Mom makes cake of Candlestick Park, complete with baseball figurines. Cake falls apart. Mom freaks and buys a new cake, even though I like the Candlestick after the ‘89 quake cake better. Jokes ensue.

7. 22nd birthday – Tuesday night at the Carlos Club (aka 5 people including the bartender and us): Samoan bartender makes us shots containing jager and crown royal, calls them “magic.” Possibly homeless man at the bar talks shit loudly about Native Americans. I somehow resist the urge to fight him. Thank goodness we lived within walking distance.

6. 13th birthday – Hotel party at the Embassy Suites. Pretty sure this was the one that convinced me I never want to have a daughter.

5. 19th birthday – Organize brief gathering for my birthday. Can’t convince roommates to bob for apples with me. Compete against two guy friends. Bob Sanchez beats me, on my birthday. Rips off shirt in triumph. (PS – I want a rematch)

4. 21st birthday – Sort of hookup with a Nigerian Prince. Throw a skinhead out of our house to meet the black guys he was yelling at. Do a happy dance knowing that he got his ass beat.

3. 10th birthday – Joint party at the park. Things go wrong when the other birthday girl gets clocked in the head rocked by rogue pinata. Classic.

2. First birthday – Family friend rides off down the street on a Big Wheel in a Rainbow Brite costume. Parents don’t realize she’s missing for several minutes.

1. 21st birthday – Engage in drinking competition with an 18-year-old. At work. After being at the bars for several hours. Stealth barf in my office. Pass out on couch. Wake up with pink cardigan and “I love my body” pin. Call it a success.

Bitterella, Bitterella

Today I’m going to be a little bit bitter, as you might have guessed from my title, which coincidentally is also the affectionate name The Stepmother gave my stepsister for the entirety of her teenage years. She’s such a loving parent.

Anyway, while making my daily weekly rounds on my reader, I was reminded that this weekend marks the nuptials/birthday bash of LiLu and Maxie (#PBandTUNA). If you don’t know who these two are, GET OUTTA MY HOUSE! Or, go check them out now. I’ll wait…

This one's for you, cat ladies!

Wasn’t that worth it? These two are some of the funniest, hottest, best dancing chicks I’ve ever had the honor to know through the internets. They are the reason I continue to pee my pants daily blog. Anyway, they’re professing their undying love for each other in front of God Blog and everyone who’s anyone is going to be there to celebrate.

And by everyone who’s anyone, I basically mean everyone but me. Due to my current location on the Best Coast, and silly career choice, I will be working at a volleyball match tomorrow while Maxie, LiLu, Jennifer, Cavy, et al. will be drinking from a penis ice luge having a good time together.

Add to that, the fact that I was supposed to be honoring my favorite hetero life partners by drinking all day at a beer festival with hot rugby players and firefighters, but now have to work, and that my favorite roomie will be gone for the weekend (and drinking at the beer fest) and you’ve got a full on bitterella in the house.

Bitter ass. *giggle* TWHS

Rather than stab my inept co-worker in the eye with a letter opener, I’ve decided to channel my anger in the form of haiku (yes, I had to look up instructions for writing a haiku. no, I didn’t pay attention in middle school english) in a tribute to #PBandTUNA. May you share a long, TMI-filled existence together.

Ode to LiLu

TMI Thursday

Grossest creepiest weirdest

Poop is still funny

Bloggerface Maxie

She who hates so much

Our own T-Pain in training

YouTube superstar

#PBandTUNA

‘Twas love at first blog

They dance drink sing together

True wub lasts forever

And, I’m spent. Probably the worst haikus ever, but they were written with love so I think that counts? Anyway, wish me luck salvaging  the weekend. Is it wrong to drink beer all day before work and take a flask to the game with me? I vote no, and (no offense) my vote’s the only one that matters. Here’s to #PBandTUNA, I’ll be following the festivities on Twitter. Do me proud kids!

Happy weekending tweeps!

Let’s Get Serious…or Something

So yesterday I was reading blogs instead of doing a wide array of other tasks which need to be completed, such as work, writing my own blog, kicking ass and taking names. I know this comes as a surprise, but what can I say? I’m unpredictable.

Anyway, I read Nicole’s little gem and was inspired to write something meaningful and serious. Unfortunately, I’m not creative enough and ended up basically plagiarizing except my life is not as interesting as hers. “The time before I worked with socially awkward people, and the time after” just doesn’t have the same ring to it, so I’ve scrapped that idea. Let’s just say that I’m not one for seriousness or reflection.

Instead, I’m looking ahead to what people are telling me is a very important day in my life. I’m quickly approaching the big 2-5. That’s right, in just 25 days I will be able to RENT A CAR and DRIVE WITH KIDS WITH A PERMIT! Badass!

I'm guessing it will be a lot like this.

But really though, supposedly this whole quarter-century thing is a really big deal. I’m not really seeing it, but maybe in 25 years (if my liver allows) I will look back and this will be a life-changing year? So, to help things along, I’m thinking of stealing ideas from Nicole and Maxie by making a list of things I want to do as a 25 year old. That way when it’s all over, I can sing along to that Veruca Salt song, “goodbye 25, you were a good year for the girls.” I’ll see you in a year, YouTube.

Side note: Does anyone else remember Veruca Salt? Am I already at the point where I’m aging myself? Did you know I used to walk barefoot through the snow seven miles uphill to get to school?

25 Year Olds Have More Fun?: The List (in no particular order)

1. Walk across the Brooklyn Bridge
2. Get into a fist fight (and live to tell about it)
3. Run a 5k
4. Make homemade cheese
5. Complete another triathlon
6. Complete a pub crawl (by train) up the peninsula
7. Visit D.C.
8. Meet some of my bloggy friends IRL
9. Go on a date (just one- I’m not asking a lot here)
10. Go on a kickass road trip
11. Finish a NY Times crossword
12. Buy a bottle of Corralejo Reposado (big ups to Maxie)
13. Go wine tasting
14. Take a boxing class
15. Start saving for Rio 2016
16. Become a regular volunteer with a non-profit
17. Blog everyday for one month
18. Become fluent in Spanish
19. Get a pet
20. Become a runner or a swimmer (again)
21. Get flowers from someone other than my family
22. Drink a glass boot full of beer
23. Tailgate before a sporting event other than football
24. Get a manicure
25. Plan a blogger meetup in the Bay
26. (just for good measure) Produce many, many cringe-inducing TMIs (see Nos. 25, 22, 23, 13, 12, 10, 6, 8, 2)

What would you add? Am I getting too old to have my list revolve around drinking? I’m hoping to avoid 25 being over-hyped and then falling short so I’m going to try my damnedest to make it at least as fun as 24. Then again, I’m not sure how you top a slip and slide party, walking across SF in an argyle sweater and vomiting in front of an elementary school.

I guess we’ll have to wait and see…25 days and counting.

Argyle: Redux

Part two of two. When we left off we had been drunk, drank some more, jumped on a train, peed in public and had an ass rubbed on us. At The Nurse’s apartment in the Sunset…

We did eat pizza and SS passed out on the floor and Baggage and The Nurse went off to her room. Feeling a little awkward, I attempted to fall asleep on the couch.

Text message, approx. 4:30 am:

Baggage: hey we should leave. her roomie is being stupid.

Me: If you want to. I’m just here cause we’re here.

Baggage: Ya me to (ed. note: lies, lies, lies). It’s not you guys…promise (cough cough)

Me: It’s up to you. She’s your nurse not mine.

Baggage: We’re leaving in like 5.

Either due to the lack of sleep or the copious amounts of alcohol, we set out on foot towards BART instead of, you know, paying for a cab or sleeping where there was a place for us to sleep indoors. Lucky for us, I own an iPhone, otherwise we may have walked in circles for hours. In hindsight, we may have been better off doing that.

After walking out of the Sunset, up past UCSF, through the Castro, past many many homelesses sleeping in doorways, we reached the BART station at around 6 am. BART trains don’t start on Sundays until 8 am. We quickly determined that waiting down at the station entrance (still closed) was a bad idea when we saw a lovely man-lady in a yellow sleeping bag huddled up next to the grate. Fortunately, I keep my prison shiv in my shoe there was a McDonald’s across the street. And it was open.

Not only was it open, it was hoppin’, AT 6 AM ON A SUNDAY. Definitely a sign you’re in a good neighborhood where you aren’t going to get jumped or peed on by a homeless while wearing shorts and argyle sweaters. Despite the creepy vibe, we found our way to some open seats which we realized much later were the kids table, which explains why the table was so low and the stools were so small.

No idea who these kids are. Thanks google for making the internets easy.

At the kids table we discussed our new plan which involved more walking but also meant getting the fuck out of the shadiest McDonald’s ever, let the exhaustion set in, and tried to avoid eye contact with all the creepers.

New plan: walk another two miles to the train station, wait for the first train at 8 am, go South to my car, drive my car back across the Bay, pass out (hopefully in that order). We figured it was better than getting shanked at McDonald’s or being beaten by homelesses and left for dead in the gutter.

Off we went for another two miles (bringing our grand total to five), arriving at the train station around 6:40 am, meaning the doors to the building where it was warm were not due to open for at least 20 minutes. Thus, SS and I stopped off at the grocery store across the street to pee (in a toilet! what a concept) and grab food/beverage, while realizing that we had actually come full circle since our night in the City had begun there just 6.5 hours before. Baggage assured us that he wanted to be left on the bench outside but that he did need us to get him a maple bar.

I don’t even want to imagine what the Safeway employees thought of the two of us as we navigated their store, wearing inverse matching argyle sweaters and shorts and flip flops at 6 am on a Sunday when it was around 60 degrees out. Either way, they sold us juice, water and donuts so we were set.

Walking out to find Baggage nodding off on the bench and two kids, who were probably too young to have been left alone with luggage outside of a train station in the City at 6 am, snickering at him was obviously a highlight of the day. As was feeding the pigeons while Baggage hummed/sang “Feed the Birds” for us. We may or may not have given them names. If we did, some of those names may have been people we knew. Needless to say, it was a long wait.

We probably looked a lot like this. Hot mess (of argyle)

Another group of young people arrived and demonstrated that they had, in fact, slept that night and probably indoors, as they were loud, chipper and generally making us want to remove their voice boxes and perhaps eyeballs with a rusty spoon. We drew the line at the guy trying to show us magic tricks, trying being the key word. Four failed disappearing cards later, he realized that the death stare, that took nearly all of my energy to muster, was actually intended for him and returned to his side of the waiting area.

At long, long, long last, the train was ready to depart and I attempted to remain focused on staying awake so that I could drive us back home when we did finally arrive at my car. While SS and Baggage slept, I calculated time in my brain and was on the verge of jumping from the moving train when I realized that I would likely be able to sleep for approximately 40 minutes before having to get on BART and go back to the City. That’s right, back to about two blocks away from the train station for Giants-Rockies at AT&T Park. No matter what way I spun it in my head, I determined that skipping the game on my mom’s birthday was not an option. In hindsight, I realize that I definitely have room on my mantle for the World’s Worst Daughter Award and could have proudly displayed it.

Always nominated but never a winner!

So, about 14 hours after Saturday “night” began, the three of us wandered our way down to my car, made the trek back across the Bay and arrived home to find everyone at our house just rising. Words cannot describe the feeling of crawling into your own bed after walking across San Francisco and not sleeping. Many, many words can describe the feeling of waking up 40 minutes later but they aren’t family friendly and we know that’s the kind of blog I run. I’ve got jokes!

And that was the time I drank a lot, wore argyle, drank some more, rode nearly every form of public transport in the City, stayed up all night and nearly walked across the entire city of San Francisco. It was fun but I’m never doing it again. Keep this in mind when reading my late night tweets. If you see anything about trekking across anything, please stop me. I’ll pay you back in high fives and compliments.

The One in Which There is Argyle

As demanded (cough::bob::cough) I’m back. I didn’t think this really qualifies as TMI Thursday but don’t worry there’s plenty of cringe-inducing ridiculousness and I promise the last month has produced plenty of TMIs for next week. But for now, this bad boy is so ridiculous awesome I’ve had to break it into two parts. Welcome to part one. It’s a bit of a doozy, but really that’s what happens when things begin like this…

You know it’s a good sign when your Saturday “night” starts in the day and it’s about 95 degrees and you’re putting on an argyle sweater.

Dubs, SS, Creamsicle and I headed off to play Pub Golf for 007’s birthday. Across the Bay we went and arrived just in time to tee off on the second hole. A sake bomb, a car bomb, a tequila shot and several other drinks, some food and some shit-talking to a guy in an Iowa hat later, the 15 of us are making the turn and on our way to the train golf carts to head to the last hole.

It is approximately 9:45.

We have already reached the point where a few are pit-stopping to pick up tall boys across the street and I am begging demanding asking them to buy me a Chelada…

Bud Light + Clamato = Match made in heaven?

…just so I can “try it.” Yes, I said it. No, I’m not Mexican ashamed.

Unfortunately, those people hate me and only got me a regular Bud Light tall boy. Which SS and I nearly finished before the train had arrived. Win. Off we went to the last stop. Picture a large drunken group wandering from the train station to another bar, decked out in argyle, golf gloves and cabbie caps and you’ve got an idea of the spectacle that was us.

Like this. But with beer.

Just for good measure, SS and I made sure to complete our round of Pub Golf, including our shot penalty for missing the first hole. Because we needed more alcohol.

Round about 11:30 we had made it back to 007’s where the entire crew was about ready to pass out. Meanwhile, SS is getting texts from Baggage (her ex/best friend…long story) to come to the City and meet up with him.

We decided it would be a good idea. For some reason everyone at the house agreed and merrily sent their fellow drunks off to play near the train tracks hop on the train to the City. And by “the train” I mean the last train going North for the night. And by “hop on” I mean sprint towards the train and jump on after the conductor has held it to let us on without paying.

Supposedly the train ride to the City happened although I contend we actually ran towards some sort of rip in the space-time continuum since I don’t remember this “train ride.”

Cut to our arrival in the City. SS needs to pee, but the bathrooms at the train station are closed. What’s a pair of girls in argyle sweaters and shorts to do? Oh, one can pop a squat on the sidewalk in plain view of traffic and passersby while the other keeps look out, you say? Done and done.

Look us up in the dictionary, we’re under “classy.”

One unpaid MUNI ride later, we’re in the Sunset and partying it up at a bar with a tiny dance floor where Baggage is rubbing his very nice ass on us, instead of The Nurse, who he’s “talking” to. Because (boys take note) rubbing your ass on other girls is definitely the way to a girl’s heart.

You know when people tell drinking stories and they say, “And that’s how you knew we were drunk”? For some people it might have been when SS and I were forced to make a Baggage sandwich on the dance floor, or for others it might have been when the DJ started playing “Jumper” by Third Eye Blind as the last song and, despite commenting that this was the crappiest last song ever, we all sang along. However, for me, I’d say you knew we were drunk when Baggage stole a 10-spot off the bar, stuck it in my bra and I decided it was less conspicuous to just steal it than to put it back on the bar.

Not that the money didn’t come in handy later. At least I’ve already come to terms with the fact that I’m going to hell. Which, for me, will likely be a place full of socially awkward people and hundreds of TVs playing Criss Angel: Mindfreak on repeat. But I digress.

Now most people would say, wow, that was a great story. What a crazy night. Let’s eat some pizza and pass out. But, as we’ve previously established, I’m not most people. Especially when teamed with SS and Baggage. We go big or go home? Or we do both.

Stay tuned for part two. It might make your Friday. Or it might drive you away forever. Either way, I didn’t get my Chelada.

Oh Hello There

So, it’s been over a month. Sorry for not calling. You know it’s a bad sign for your blog when a recurring tag is “I’m baaack.” But I’m not going to talk about how I’m the worst blogger ever because honestly the thought of even looking at a computer after I get home from work lately has made me want to vomit. Thus, a month-long hiatus.

And as some of you probably noticed, I haven’t touched my reader in so long that when I ventured a look yesterday I saw that I had missed 400+ amazing and hilarious posts from my favorite bloggy peeps (Big Ups!), along with thousands of posts from the rest of the internets. So apologies go out to everyone who probably hasn’t really missed reading my comments.

I’d also like to give a HUGE shoutout to Andhari who has not sent me any hate mail (yet) despite the fact that her contest prize is still currently residing in the box, ready to be sent, under my desk. So everyone send her some positivity since I am a total slacker/spaz. I’d promise it’s going in the mail next week, but that’s what I said over a month ago and look where it got me.

I’d say it’s good to be back, but let’s get serious, I may relapse and/or forget about my blog after going into a computer-induced delirium. So instead, I’ll say thanks for hanging in there. I know you’ve probably missed hearing about vomit, although I’m guessing my TMI Thursday compatriots have filled the gaping hole (that’s what she said) left by my disappearance. And by gaping hole, I mean lack of hard-hitting vomit coverage.

Since I’m here, I think I’ll just add one of my favorite things to do to you guys, a list. So here are some of the things I may or may not end up being able to write about that you’ve missed in the last month or so…

• the time we wore argyle and drank a lot
• the time we drank all day on a Sunday
• the time I proved my prowess as a petty thief
• the time I was still wearing argyle and illegally rode public transportation
• the time we realized I might be a bad influence on my new roommates
• the time I met a dog named Bobby (and did some other stuff) at 4 a.m.
• the time I was still wearing argyle and my also argyle-wearing roommate popped a squat on the street
• the time we may or may not have been blacklisted from a bar in the City (still unconfirmed)
• the time my roommate and I walked across the city of San Francisco (literally) in argyle at 5 a.m.
• the time we had a couch dweller who made our lives quite an adventure
• the time I went to a baseball game with my mom for her birthday on 40 minutes sleep
• the time I lived in a house with college kids again and consumed a lot of alcohol (ongoing)
• the time we realized that our house is chock-full of drama
• the time I was sippin on gin and juice. Laid back. With my mind on my money and my money on my mind.
• the time I also had a full-time job that may have driven me to drink (see above)

So yeah, chew on that and let me know how it tastes. Hopefully there will be more to come and I’m going to make an effort to check my reader once a day (mark all as read makes me feel like an asshole). I’m going to send you out for a kickass weekend (mine includes dinner in the City and day drinking on Saturday so it’s bound to be awesome) with this little nugget. It’s an oldie but a goodie and one of my faves. Enjoy and happy weekending!

TMI Thursday: Ways to Desecrate an Elementary School

As LiLu always says…

Alright, folks, you know the rules. Join us all in humiliating the crap out of yourself every Thursday by sharing some completely tasteless, wholly unclassy, “how many readers can I estrange THIS week??” TMI story about your life. Or hell, about someone else’s! As always, you can check out more TMI stories aqui.

This TMI all started with an innocent invitation to a coworker’s house for dinner. And by innocent invitation I mean, the first time we went there for dinner she mainly fed us beer and got us playing drinking games. ON A TUESDAY.

Anyway, it’s always a good idea to accept these invitations, especially when you’re new on the job and you know said coworker (Aussie) is the boss’s fave. And it’s always a good sign when you walk into someone’s home and find them drinking margaritas out of glasses from Vegas like these:

Key to a long night

So, SS (the new roomie) and I start things off with margaritas too. Normal people sized margaritas that is. Now Aussie and her husband, Ball Player, don’t mess around – those margys were made with some quality tequila and topped off with grand marnier. Fortunately, they decided to feed us before drowning us in beer and liquor. If it wasn’t for the pasta and garlic bread, I’m pretty sure we wouldn’t have made it to the fruit tingles, or the racist comments or the passing out on a bean bag.

Fast forward to a margarita, a tequila shot and a beer later and we’re all in the kitchen until Aussie gets a genius idea of what we can do with the Coors Light and Bud Light we brought with us! I had a bad feeling when she laughed and ran into the garage. I realized my instincts were right when she emerged with a beer bong in her hands.

Following a rinse, the discovery of several colors of mold in the tube, and an amputation of 2/3 of the tube by Baseball Player, we were in business. Yes, we did do beer bongs in our coworker’s kitchen, out of a beer bong that just minutes earlier had at least 4 different colors of mold inside it. Yum?

You would think that the moldy beer bong or the second tequila shot or maybe even Aussie’s signature “fruit tingle” (aka alcohol, alcohol, alcohol, syrup, syrup, soda) would have put us into the puking danger zone. However, we were good. Unbeknownst to us, Aussie went to her room and passed out. Then, SS went the same way:

There are so many things wrong with this photo I don't know where to start

Needless to say, we all passed out rather quickly. Fortunately, with SS in the bean bag, I snagged the spare bed. Hours later, we all wake up with a headache or two but nothing majorly wrong. Aussie ordered Baseball Player to the store to get bacon, chorico and potatoes to make us all breakfast burritos. I couldn’t have been more stoked.

As Baseball Player cooked and Aussie ordered him around (I wonder what life is like as a princess?), I realized that somehow I was feeling worse than hours before when I woke up. Never a good sign. When the food dropped in front of us, I was hungry but wary. Looking at the chorico made me anxious so I picked my way through the burrito.

Still very concerned about the state of me, SS and I finally got to make the trip home where beds and movies awaited. This is when everything went wrong.

Approximately 35 seconds of driving later, I requested that SS pull over somewhere so I could puke. Yes, this has now become a puking story. Again. I swear I don’t even puke that often which is probably why when I do it is epic.

I don’t know about you guys, but I think that the best way to impress your new roommate/coworker/friend is to yak up a breakfast burrito in front of them in public. Yes?

Unfortunately, the first and best place she could pull over (other than someone’s yard) was the local elementary school, about a block from Aussie’s house. Great. Fortunately, SS found a very nice tree that was just minding its own business until I puked behind it. A tree at an elementary school across the street from some nice houses in the middle of the day on a Saturday.

This is why I’m a classy broad.

My only consolations were that (1) none of the neighbors were standing outside their lovely homes and (2) school is not in session yet so there is less of a chance that a small child would step in find the vomit on Monday morning.

And now I know what breakfast burrito puke looks like. Adding it to the list which also includes: Count Chocula, pancakes and eggs, Pepto-bismol and, of course, booze. I blame Aussie and Baseball Player, the racist.

Fortunately, SS is still speaking to me and laughed with me about it later. Either that or she’s secretly judging me and holding out until the perfect time to use this information as blackmail material. Or both.

And that kids, is how you desecrate an elementary school. You’re welcome. My moms (the 2nd grade teacher) would be so proud.

Wordless Wednesday: Not A Tiger

But equally as cool…

Courtesy Dubs/Charlie Daniels Museum in Nashville