Okay, so I know I've been slacking on this blog and while there is never an excuse for slacking I would just like to say that my reasons are as follows:
1.) Some jealous chick who apparently has nothing better to do with her time than stalk me on the internet and try to ruin my life by telling my non-boyfriend that I am cheating on him and spreading my blog links around the office got a hold of not only this blog but my personal one as well. I'm not really upset her reading and subjecting everybody else to reading the content of my personal blog but what I'm more upset about is the name of the blog. I really hate the name of that blog. It was really lame and I'm slightly embarrassed by it.
So the whole point is, that I left this blog open to "invitees" only and thats really no fun, thus I had no motivation to update. But alas, I digress and wonder why I pretended to give a shit when in theory, I don't give a shit about much nor do I have anything to hide. However; I think I did offend one of the readers of this blog and while she was not meant to read it, it was not my intent to offend anybody and I apologize in advance if I do. Please, if you find yourself referenced with a nickname, Don't.Get.Offended. I honestly mean no harm. The nicknames are good fun-loving humorous nicknames which may or may not play on peoples' flaws. The fact of the matter is, we all have flaws and they are funny. For example, I have one huge ear and it is not rolled in on the edges...you know what I mean how normal ears kind of curl in, yea mine doesn't do that. I also have a point on the tip of my nose and despite doing hundreds of sit-ups every other day, my belly still jiggles. I also have an excessive drinking problem. Please feel free to come up with creative nicknames.
2.) I believe I am beginning to run out of stories (gasp). I mean, there definitely has not been a lack of alcohol consumption in combination with idiotic decisions I decide to make. I guess the real problem is that when excessive alcohol consumption becomes a way of life, one (such as myself) might start to get confused as to whether their behavior is actually funny or if it has crossed the line into common (and thus unfunny) everyday behavior. For example:
A couple of weeks ago I was out with my Chicas from Alexendria. Chicas doesn't mean they are Hispanic, just a general term I was using for "girls", but that's neither here nor there. Anyway, I drank about 1/4 bottle of vodka with a splash of cranberry on my back porch while eaves dropping and trying to get a good glance at the boys next door before I left. I like to think that pre-gaming saves me money but in actuality, it just gets me more drunk.
So I meet them in Clarendon and we have a pretty eventless night. Fun, but eventless. I mean, the drama for the night was that we got followed around by a group of degenerate boys and were forced to leave the bar because they had crossed that line between stage 10 creepers and straight out stalkers. I think they rufied our drinks too. After that is when my memory gets a little foggy. I know this because I have pictures that I don't remember taking to prove it...honestly, no recollection of the photo in my camera of my 2 friends with some boys that apparently were friends of one of my friends. Man I'm an asshole. What I do remember though, and where I must have 'come to' (if you will) is gracefully tripping out of the metro train and vomiting on the platform. This has become somewhat of a tradition for me if you've read this blog from the beginning. I believe I was at the Smithsonian Metro Stop when this happened, because I remember thinking, "Thank God I'm close to home and way to chrissen our nations capital with your barf...stay classy A, stay classy."
After demonstrating my fascinating upchuck reflex to any lucky winner who happened to be standing on the platform at that moment, I got on the next train and apparently passed out. I vaguely remember trying to keep my eyes open and noticing a homely looking older couple gazing at me in disgust. I hate to break it to you Pops, but your daughter is out doing the same thing right now...well, maybe not.
The next thing I remember, I'm waking up. I can't recall if I just woke up on my own or if the metro police or whatever they are had to wake me up because:
A.) We were at the end of the orange line (I couldn't remember which line I was on until days later my friend solved the mystery by reminding me that only the orange line runs through Clarendon. Thank-you Cornwad) or
B.) It was 3:00 in the morning and the metro had stopped running.
I believe it was the latter but probably a combination of both. So, I stumble off the metro and I remember being extremely offended that the metro police helped some fat black lady but didn't help me. I couldn't figure this out but it COULD have been that I reeked of vodka and cranberry scented puke. Well luckily, there was a cab waiting outside of the metro who offered to take me home but he immediately demanded $20 when I slopped myself into the cab. This was the first time in my life that I was so drunk that I had to put my cab ride on layaway. Let me tell you that a $25 cab ride is the longest cab ride in the world. My head felt so heavy that I'm shocked it didn't fall off my neck. But alas, I got home and apparently paid the cabbie, took whatever cash I had left (about $20), put it in my purse and left my wallet including everything in it the cab. This would include my credit cards, I.D., military I.D., Insurance Card and checkbook. It really sucked losing all that stuff but what really got me was the postage stamps in there. I had at least a half a book left. Man I hate buying those things.
Funny? Or another "typical life in the day of..."? I just don't know.
Wednesday, August 5, 2009
Sunday, January 25, 2009
Another Bathroom Story.
One city that I have always wanted to go to for some unknown reason, was Chicago. Actually, I’m pretty sure my desire to go there stemmed from a book I read called “Devil in the White City”, about a serial killer going after females during the World Fair in Chicago in 1893. Well, last March, I had the chance to do that. My friend Zog was going on a business trip and offered to extend his hotel room through the weekend so that I could come and stay in Chicago with him. I booked the flight about a month a head of time and all I had to do was keep myself happy and out of trouble until that time came. Fortunately, I like to sabotage all relationships and every possible positive situation in my life, if this were not the case, well, I wouldn’t have all of these stories to tell.
The trip was doomed from the beginning due to a bad snowboarding weekend I had with the Zog. Granted, this was not really his fault, but it was definitely not ALL my fault. The only fault of mine that I claim in the situation is inviting him to come on the trip in the first place. What I really need to do is to stop fooling myself into thinking I can get along with people, and just travel alone. I do not play well with others, but alas, I am who I am.
So the Zog and I were not on the best terms when it was time for this trip but we were cordial and I was still super excited to finally get the chance to explore Chicago. The trip was in March so the weather conditions were definitely not ideal. I believe the temperature was somewhere in the 20s and while I’m not all in touch with how fast the winds were blowing, let me assure you, it was freaking windy, making the wind chill…cold as balls.
I left for the airport on a late Friday afternoon, wearing jeans, high heals, a ¾” length black t-shirt, some jewelry and a long, very expensive wool coat from Ann Klein. The flight went well and I was waiting for my luggage when I realized there were tons of delays and people sitting around the airport due to cancelled flights from a snowstorm, somewhere in…lets say the Mid-West (I honestly don’t remember). So there I was waiting…and waiting, and waiting. Eventually, I came to terms with the fact that my luggage was definitely not in that airport…damnit. GODdamnit. At the same moment, the Zog had called and we realized he had gone to the wrong airport to pick me up, on the other side of Chicago. So now I am waiting for my luggage and my ride. I have nothing on me except my purse containing my wallet, some lipgloss, a twisted Chuck Paliunuk book and my house keys. I am tired and irritated, and I don’t know how to tell Zog how to get to the damn airport and he is asking me directions…funny thing is, how am I supposed to know because I’ve never been to Chicago before!
Low and behold, Zog finally gets to the airport and I was being rather quiet because I wasn’t in the best of moods…and then the doting starts. Yes, the Zog likes to dote on me. Now, not sure how many readers know me personally but I DO NOT like to be doted. I’m pretty sure it irritates me more than anything in the entire world. Yes, I am fine. No, I don’t need anything or I’d get it myself. Again, Yes I am fine. Nope, there is nothing else anybody can do. Please shut the fuck up or I may stick my head under the front wheel of this tire so that I don’t have to answer your meaningless questions anymore.
Obviously at this point, the trip is already slightly a debacle. But we get to the hockey game and I’m starting to calm down a little bit. We have a few beers and after not eating all day long I start to get a little tipsy. Zog is still doting because that is what he does, so about ¾ of the way through the game I “go to the bathroom” for a bit so that I can slightly lose him, moreso that I don’t kick him in the eyeball. As I’m walking around, this group of guys start talking to me. Most of them are older but there are a couple around my age and they are damn hot. It turns out, the one guy is a recruiter for the competitor of the company I was working for at the time. Needless to say, we get into conversation and I end up hanging out the rest of the game with them. When it is over, we exchange business cards and I go on my merry way, happy to talk to somebody other than the Zog and airport security searching for my luggage. Throughout the entirety of the game, I believe I had about 6-7 beers, which is a lot for a person my size so I think it is safe to say that I was pretty wasted.
The Zog and I then go to “Howl at the Moon” which is a dueling piano’s bar/club. It was a blast when I went to the one in Orlando, so between the promise of an awesome bar and my drunkenness, I was feeling pretty good at this point. However, we get there and Zog won’t get up and dance, he won’t partake in the festivities that the band is engaging the crowd in and he won’t talk to the slightly overweight but still attractive girl that is blatantly hitting on him. So basically, I’ve had enough of this shit. I start scouering the crowd looking for anybody decent to talk to when I hear my name being called. “Dreeeee!” I know there is no rapper in here so I’m looking and looking and wouldn’t you know, my friends from the hockey game were there. Next thing you know, shots are being thrown back, beer is being chugged and my 110 lb body is again, being flooded with alcohol. I actually lose moments of the night at this point, so forgive me if the rest of the story is slightly choppy.
Somehow in the midst of alcohol overload, I find myself up on stage attempting to teach the band how to play piano. Yep, the same guys who played Piano Man flawlessly only moments before. I am Andrea, goddess of Piano suddenly. Why they allowed such a drunken slob such as myself on stage is completely beyond me…entertainment purposes perhaps? Apparently, somebody found it cute because when I got off stage, I was swarmed by a group of British men trying to dance/talk (ha) to me. I would love to have had a video or some type of reminder of the conversation at this point, unfortunately I am left relying on my memory which at that point had taken the night off and was probably throwing up brain cells in a trash can somewhere in my Temporal Lobe. The next thing I remember, I am walking outside to another club with said British Men and I do believe Zog was still with us at this point. We got to the club, had another drink and I am dancing/sexing with one of the British Men. I believe this is the point that Zog is fed up and left, however, I had no knowledge of this until the next morning when he told me he left, slightly perturbed.
So now this is where the night gets REALLY sketchy. I had taken my coat off when we got to the club, and for some reason we moved…perhaps to another floor? Initially, I believe we brought the coat with me. The place was HUGE so god knows where or why we were wandering around. The honest-to-god next thing I remember, I am in the ladies bathroom, smashed up against the back of a yellow stall, with my pants around my ankles. Yep, that’s what I said, pants around the ankles. British man was doing god knows what, but his pants WERE on at that point, thank god. He was groping me? Going down on me? Just checking to see what color panties I was wearing? I have NO idea. But there was definitely making out and other things going on in this stall that were not meant to be going on in a ladies bathroom stall. At that moment, a big muscular bouncer kicks the stall door open and I imagine…shock silence? I don’t know. “Out. Get out.” Funny because I wasn’t even embarrassed, I’m pretty sure I justified the moment by thinking, “Ohhh shit…hahaha, this stuff must happen all the time”. At that point, we clearly decided to leave and this is when I realized I didn’t have my coat. I think we looked for it for a bit and then I just pretty much said fuck it, I will find it tomorrow. BUT, being the smart one that I am, and in my drunken stupor, I never found out the club name or even the exact location. So we hopped in a cab in 20 degree weather without a coat and went back to the hotel with 3 of the 5 British men…not sure where the other ones were at that point. After the chaos in the bathroom stall and the freezing cold air stinging my face, I begin to sober up some at this point. We went back to my hotel and the British man that I had a very short one-night stand with in the ladies bathroom and I were talking on the couch in the hotel lobby when he reveals some very interesting information to me including that he is a farmer in a town somewhere outside of London, that he has a beautiful wife at home and 2 lovely children. Perfect. Juuuuust perfect. I now am an accomplice in committing adultery, with a British man who has children, in a Bathroom stall, in a club of which I am still not sure the name in downtown Chicago. Clearly, I am goddess of all good things in this world. At the same time while married British man and I were having our pleasant conversation on the couch, apparently his friend was violently puking in the men’s bathroom in the hotel lobby. I am not quite sure what happened to the other one because I know there was a third one with us in the cab. It was the concierge at that moment who informed “whomever is not paying to stay in the hotel” must leave and take their “ill friend” with them or the cops would be there immediately to “escort them out of the building”. And that was the end of that night. I never got any of their names.
So, I apparently found my way to my room and wake up the next morning half wasted when I realized I do not have my luggage, I am missing my coat, I did sexual things with a married British man in a club that I do not know the name of, and Zog is so pissed off at me that he can’t even look me in the eye when he tells me how much of an embarrassment I was last night and that is why he left the club. WOW. Just, Wow. I mean, the rest of the trip was spent mostly in the hotel room getting sick. I did run down the street to a very expensive mall without a coat, in which I was informed by everyone on the street that I need to put a coat on, where I bought a fleece so that I had something to wear. I finally got my luggage at around 2 pm that day. Needless to say, the Zog and I did nothing that night and thank god my flight left early afternoon the following day.
Funny though, when I look back at the trip I still tell people that I LOVE Chicago and that I would like to move there one day, and my trip was SUCH a blast. Not sure Zog would say the same, I haven’t really talked to him since then, ha.
The trip was doomed from the beginning due to a bad snowboarding weekend I had with the Zog. Granted, this was not really his fault, but it was definitely not ALL my fault. The only fault of mine that I claim in the situation is inviting him to come on the trip in the first place. What I really need to do is to stop fooling myself into thinking I can get along with people, and just travel alone. I do not play well with others, but alas, I am who I am.
So the Zog and I were not on the best terms when it was time for this trip but we were cordial and I was still super excited to finally get the chance to explore Chicago. The trip was in March so the weather conditions were definitely not ideal. I believe the temperature was somewhere in the 20s and while I’m not all in touch with how fast the winds were blowing, let me assure you, it was freaking windy, making the wind chill…cold as balls.
I left for the airport on a late Friday afternoon, wearing jeans, high heals, a ¾” length black t-shirt, some jewelry and a long, very expensive wool coat from Ann Klein. The flight went well and I was waiting for my luggage when I realized there were tons of delays and people sitting around the airport due to cancelled flights from a snowstorm, somewhere in…lets say the Mid-West (I honestly don’t remember). So there I was waiting…and waiting, and waiting. Eventually, I came to terms with the fact that my luggage was definitely not in that airport…damnit. GODdamnit. At the same moment, the Zog had called and we realized he had gone to the wrong airport to pick me up, on the other side of Chicago. So now I am waiting for my luggage and my ride. I have nothing on me except my purse containing my wallet, some lipgloss, a twisted Chuck Paliunuk book and my house keys. I am tired and irritated, and I don’t know how to tell Zog how to get to the damn airport and he is asking me directions…funny thing is, how am I supposed to know because I’ve never been to Chicago before!
Low and behold, Zog finally gets to the airport and I was being rather quiet because I wasn’t in the best of moods…and then the doting starts. Yes, the Zog likes to dote on me. Now, not sure how many readers know me personally but I DO NOT like to be doted. I’m pretty sure it irritates me more than anything in the entire world. Yes, I am fine. No, I don’t need anything or I’d get it myself. Again, Yes I am fine. Nope, there is nothing else anybody can do. Please shut the fuck up or I may stick my head under the front wheel of this tire so that I don’t have to answer your meaningless questions anymore.
Obviously at this point, the trip is already slightly a debacle. But we get to the hockey game and I’m starting to calm down a little bit. We have a few beers and after not eating all day long I start to get a little tipsy. Zog is still doting because that is what he does, so about ¾ of the way through the game I “go to the bathroom” for a bit so that I can slightly lose him, moreso that I don’t kick him in the eyeball. As I’m walking around, this group of guys start talking to me. Most of them are older but there are a couple around my age and they are damn hot. It turns out, the one guy is a recruiter for the competitor of the company I was working for at the time. Needless to say, we get into conversation and I end up hanging out the rest of the game with them. When it is over, we exchange business cards and I go on my merry way, happy to talk to somebody other than the Zog and airport security searching for my luggage. Throughout the entirety of the game, I believe I had about 6-7 beers, which is a lot for a person my size so I think it is safe to say that I was pretty wasted.
The Zog and I then go to “Howl at the Moon” which is a dueling piano’s bar/club. It was a blast when I went to the one in Orlando, so between the promise of an awesome bar and my drunkenness, I was feeling pretty good at this point. However, we get there and Zog won’t get up and dance, he won’t partake in the festivities that the band is engaging the crowd in and he won’t talk to the slightly overweight but still attractive girl that is blatantly hitting on him. So basically, I’ve had enough of this shit. I start scouering the crowd looking for anybody decent to talk to when I hear my name being called. “Dreeeee!” I know there is no rapper in here so I’m looking and looking and wouldn’t you know, my friends from the hockey game were there. Next thing you know, shots are being thrown back, beer is being chugged and my 110 lb body is again, being flooded with alcohol. I actually lose moments of the night at this point, so forgive me if the rest of the story is slightly choppy.
Somehow in the midst of alcohol overload, I find myself up on stage attempting to teach the band how to play piano. Yep, the same guys who played Piano Man flawlessly only moments before. I am Andrea, goddess of Piano suddenly. Why they allowed such a drunken slob such as myself on stage is completely beyond me…entertainment purposes perhaps? Apparently, somebody found it cute because when I got off stage, I was swarmed by a group of British men trying to dance/talk (ha) to me. I would love to have had a video or some type of reminder of the conversation at this point, unfortunately I am left relying on my memory which at that point had taken the night off and was probably throwing up brain cells in a trash can somewhere in my Temporal Lobe. The next thing I remember, I am walking outside to another club with said British Men and I do believe Zog was still with us at this point. We got to the club, had another drink and I am dancing/sexing with one of the British Men. I believe this is the point that Zog is fed up and left, however, I had no knowledge of this until the next morning when he told me he left, slightly perturbed.
So now this is where the night gets REALLY sketchy. I had taken my coat off when we got to the club, and for some reason we moved…perhaps to another floor? Initially, I believe we brought the coat with me. The place was HUGE so god knows where or why we were wandering around. The honest-to-god next thing I remember, I am in the ladies bathroom, smashed up against the back of a yellow stall, with my pants around my ankles. Yep, that’s what I said, pants around the ankles. British man was doing god knows what, but his pants WERE on at that point, thank god. He was groping me? Going down on me? Just checking to see what color panties I was wearing? I have NO idea. But there was definitely making out and other things going on in this stall that were not meant to be going on in a ladies bathroom stall. At that moment, a big muscular bouncer kicks the stall door open and I imagine…shock silence? I don’t know. “Out. Get out.” Funny because I wasn’t even embarrassed, I’m pretty sure I justified the moment by thinking, “Ohhh shit…hahaha, this stuff must happen all the time”. At that point, we clearly decided to leave and this is when I realized I didn’t have my coat. I think we looked for it for a bit and then I just pretty much said fuck it, I will find it tomorrow. BUT, being the smart one that I am, and in my drunken stupor, I never found out the club name or even the exact location. So we hopped in a cab in 20 degree weather without a coat and went back to the hotel with 3 of the 5 British men…not sure where the other ones were at that point. After the chaos in the bathroom stall and the freezing cold air stinging my face, I begin to sober up some at this point. We went back to my hotel and the British man that I had a very short one-night stand with in the ladies bathroom and I were talking on the couch in the hotel lobby when he reveals some very interesting information to me including that he is a farmer in a town somewhere outside of London, that he has a beautiful wife at home and 2 lovely children. Perfect. Juuuuust perfect. I now am an accomplice in committing adultery, with a British man who has children, in a Bathroom stall, in a club of which I am still not sure the name in downtown Chicago. Clearly, I am goddess of all good things in this world. At the same time while married British man and I were having our pleasant conversation on the couch, apparently his friend was violently puking in the men’s bathroom in the hotel lobby. I am not quite sure what happened to the other one because I know there was a third one with us in the cab. It was the concierge at that moment who informed “whomever is not paying to stay in the hotel” must leave and take their “ill friend” with them or the cops would be there immediately to “escort them out of the building”. And that was the end of that night. I never got any of their names.
So, I apparently found my way to my room and wake up the next morning half wasted when I realized I do not have my luggage, I am missing my coat, I did sexual things with a married British man in a club that I do not know the name of, and Zog is so pissed off at me that he can’t even look me in the eye when he tells me how much of an embarrassment I was last night and that is why he left the club. WOW. Just, Wow. I mean, the rest of the trip was spent mostly in the hotel room getting sick. I did run down the street to a very expensive mall without a coat, in which I was informed by everyone on the street that I need to put a coat on, where I bought a fleece so that I had something to wear. I finally got my luggage at around 2 pm that day. Needless to say, the Zog and I did nothing that night and thank god my flight left early afternoon the following day.
Funny though, when I look back at the trip I still tell people that I LOVE Chicago and that I would like to move there one day, and my trip was SUCH a blast. Not sure Zog would say the same, I haven’t really talked to him since then, ha.
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