General Larry 11:39 AM

For those of you who haven't already seen this awesomeness, I give you, "Pants on the Ground."*




*Sorry, Tempe.

When all else fails, DRINK. 5:53 PM

This barmaid has not had the best of holiday weekends. Suffice it to say, BOYS SUCK.  When this happens, where does your barmaid turn for help?  The [wine] bottle and the other barmaids, naturally.

As of approximately 5:15pm EST the following call for help was transmitted via text messaging to barmaids and other special friends of this barmaid (paraphrasing b/c too drunk to remember exact words):

"VERY IMPORTANT QUESTION - Can you drink a glass of red wine that has been sitting out all night? Does your answer change if this is the last glass of wine in the house?"

Live blogging the responses.  So far:

Red: It will probably be gross. Make sure no flies. Go buy new wine.
Niki: Yeah. Not an option. Alread d runk.
Red: You are awesome.
Niki: Also, just realized cannot buy alcohol on Sunday in Bible Belt!!

6:34pm, 5/24/09
Temp: I don't think wine can go bad, per se. It may taste like crap, but alcohol content is unchanged, I think.

6:48pm, 5/24/09
Pen: What will you do when said glass is consumed? Perhaps better to acquire backup bottle first.
Niki: Is Sunday. Cannot acquire in [state]
Pen: Is it no liquor on Sunday or do you just have to wait til past noon?
Niki: Oooh. You have given me hope!

9:41pm 5/24/09
Andi: Hell yeah - the alcohol will kill it!
Moments later Andi called and immediately said: "What the hell has [he] done this time?" LOVE. IT.

Captain's Log Deleted Scenes 1:41 PM

These quotes either didn't make the first cut or hadn't been said yet:

"Let's get white. She'll kill us. We'll see her nipples." - Niki, discussing shirt for Ruby, followed shortly thereafter by Andi, "Yeah! We'll get her wet!"  As a 50ish man walked by and turned beet red. 

"I'm laughing on the pot." - Um, I'll let this be anonymous unless the barmaid wants to fess up

"Look at Tempe with a knife for my wine and food injuries." - Andi, we have no idea wtf she's talking about, and that kind of makes it my favorite quote of the weekend.

"What's with your back door?" asks Andi. "My back door is personal business," Ruby retorts.

"I like that one, it looks like softcore porn." - Niki

"I'm saving myself for Bojangles." - Tempe

Don't ya'll love it when I come home for lunch and hop on the blog? 

Sometimes Stealing is OK. Just Sayin'. 8:28 PM

Tonight I went to the store for beer and snacks.  I went into the beer room last because a) it's cold in there and I was dreading it, and b) I didn't want to carry the damn beer all over the store.  I selected Corona Light and headed out to get a lime before checking out.

Well, the stupid display of caramel popcorn distracted me, and I ended up making an impulse buy after choosing caramel & nut over plain caramel.  Of course, I didn't realize until I had already paid and nearly out the door that caramel popcorn had completely messed up my game and caused me to forget the lime!

Honestly, thank goodness I had only had one beer before going to the store, because for a split-second, as I made my way out the door, I *almost* popped over to the produce and snagged a lime.  Fortunately I snapped out of it before actually theiving the fruit, but you know what, I kind of feel like it should be ok to do that. Because clearly I'm not going to go back through the line for the lime; it's just a lime.  But also, I really do sort of need the lime.  Ok, I'm just going to say it: since I bought Corona, I feel entitled to the damn lime and I think they should let me have it if the caramel popcorn impulse buy prevents me from getting it. Don't you agree?

It's Too Late to Apologize 10:17 PM

DearEveryone I Know (esp boyfriends),

I have been given an assignment for my blog in which I compose some sort of thing called "apology" while drinking.  Heretofore, I have consumed approximately one-half bottle of wine.*  Check that part off the list.

The thing is, I've been thinking about what to "apologize" for, and honestly there's just not that much.  Then I had a light-bulb moment and realized that that's it, that's the thing!

I'm terrilby sorry for being right all the time.  For me, it's really not a big deal, but I've come to realize that dealing with a person who is never wrong can be quite frustrating.  I imagine all kinds of envy and jealously.  Must be pretty painful dealing with your own inadequacies like that.

Since I've never been wrong in my entire life, not sure what comes after the "I'm sorry" part. Do I give you mnoye? A present? Sex?  That's what happens in the movies, and themovies are where I learned basically all there is to know about life.  Hmmm.

You.

Complete.

Me.

How was that? Am I forgiven? 

What if I post a gratuitous Youtube video? 



Damn. I'm gonna have to go with a blowjob, aren't I?

Love and hugs,
Nik

*No seariously. I have. Maybe more by now. Sorry. 

Just for Fun 8:58 PM

This video is pretty funny anyway, but the added bonus for me is that the dog, from what I can tell, is the spitting image of my dog, which I find hilarious. Just had to share.

Taking shots and sending emails 2:44 PM

(We're taking shots and writing apologies this week, a combination that generally doesn't turn out well. But don't let that stop us.)


Dear Tammy the Trailer House,

(I never did call you that, but if I had, I would have)

I was soooo sad to leave you way back over there in Kansas. OMG, it was soooo cold that day. And you were good to us, Tammy, I really, really, really liked you a lot. I Mean, A LOT. Even though you had ppaper walls and let a gajillion babillion mice in, we had some goode times! Over five whole years of good times, Tammy! I loved you A LOT I swear.

But I've got a secret and we're good enough friends that I tell you without you getting mad, right?

I like our new house better.

Don't cry please, are you mad? Oh damn, you're mad, I can tell. I'm so sorry Tammy, for naming you Tammy after I left and never even calling you that to your face and for being with our new house for only two months but liking it better than you already.

It's just that the new house is soooo big and I know you can't help your single wide ass status, but this place is soooo big! Did I tell you that I have a walk throught pantry? A WALK THROUGH PANTRY FROM THE KITCHIEN TO THE DINNING ROOM, TAMMY!

I'm sooo sorry to replace you so fasty, Tams. I hope you understand the lure of my panty?

Did I just say the lure of my panty? AHAHAHAHAHAHA! Did you just... hearme... ?! mY PANTIES ARE LURING EVERYBODY! LURING! hahjahaha! You don't care about my panties anymore though huh do you Tammy? Noooo sirree you do not. SORRY.

Dont forget the good timeses,

Ruby Dooby Doo

PSA: TV/Movie Drinking Games 1:45 PM

For the Weekly Special, I was going to offer a drinking game for some popular TV show that I love to watch and/or mock, such as America’s Next Top Model or Grey’s Anatomy. However, turns out that there already exists an entire Drinking Games database for TV shows and movies. They have a little work to do, clearly, since I don’t see such easy targets as Survivor or Project Runway on there, but it’s a good start. I sort of love that Blue’s Clues is on there especially. Now there’s a good way to inject some life into that damn snooze-fest!

With that to offer for now, I’ll have to think a little longer on my own drinking game contribution.

PSA: Sweet Tea Vodka 11:10 PM

Ladies, are you aware of Firefly’s existence? Distilled in South Carolina, it’s vodka that tastes like SWEET TEA. I’m drinking it presently, and it’s q.u.i.t.e tasty. The bottle says to serve it 1:1, water to Firefly, but I’ll go ahead and say more like 4:1… unless you’re interested in sprouting chest hair. If you go 4:1, it looks and tastes pretty well like sweet tea. Except with a mighty fine buzz to go along with the innocuous flavor.

Here’s to a headache-free Sunday morning, I hope!

 

 

Oh, it sure ain’t easy. 9:30 PM

Once upon a time, in a town called Chi, a fair and somewhat naive lass named Penelope lived in a tall tower on the corner of Madison and State streets, on a year-long quest to earn something like a writing degree. It was an election year. Two Presidential elections ago, to be exact, and the grand majority of Chi-town peeps felt GREEN about the outcome. They pondered packing up and moving to Canada, and a long series of other idle, empty threats. Ultimately, instead, they decided to throw a party. A GREEN party, it was called, and it was hosted by mine and m’s lovely, laid-back, funny-and-epitomizing-awesomeness teacher. The GREEN party invitation was printed on GREEN paper and explained that since (some people) were so GREEN about politics that we should all wear GREEN clothing and gather at our teacher’s home to eat GREEN food and drink GREEN drinks. And so we did. I wore a GREEN shirt from Old Navy, along with some GREEN socks, hopped on the train and maybe a bus? out to the fabulous apartment of our teacher, where the dining room chairs were all artfully mismatched, the living room walls painted orange like Kool-Aid, the hardwood floors edged with twinkle lights and the walls showcasing dresses from another time. We ate fried GREEN tomatoes and catfish (not GREEN? or was it) and some horrible GREEN Jell-o mold thing that involved horseradish. I tell no lies. And some other GREEN things, I’m sure. And I don’t believe my drink was GREEN, but I can tell you that the bottle sure was GREEN, and this glass of mine magically refilled with not-expensive champagne every time I turned my head. I looked back, and there it was, full again. Sparkles. Something about drinking the stars. M, I believe, drank some horrible gin and tonic thing that she likes, and at some terrible, fateful point, our teacher mixed us up some margaritas on the rocks. I drank. We all danced. And somewhere in the middle of this dance, I’m now losing track, I stumbled out to the freezing cold November porch and slumped in a chair, passed out and vomited all over myself.

I was GREEN.

And I can only tell you bits and pieces of moments I’d rather not remember from there. Something about being led to the bathroom to continue my vomiting? Having to change out of my now-nastified GREEN shirt and borrow another from our lovely teacher? Dragged down to the street and into a taxicab with poor m (m, holy crap! we’re still friends?) and our other friend from class to the tower at Madison and State, stumbling up to my room to vomit at least one more time into the kitchen sink and settle in for a night of true misery… and realizing that Who Wants to Be a Millionaire was on, which yes, ladies and gentlemen came on around 8PM—on the East Coast. In the Midwest, it was just after 7. On a Sunday night.

No applause necessary, no applause as I take my bow.

By the way, my lovely teacher did call the fair, undeniably naive, and beyond mortified Penelope up in her tower the next day to apologize (whatever for?! oh, the Margarita of Death—but still), and had her GREEN shirt dry cleaned and promptly returned, although I could never bring myself to wear it ever again.

The End.

my (friend's) embarrassing drunken story 10:21 AM

Prologue

I don’t get drunk, y'all. Really, I don’t. This story is about a friend, okay? So don’t judge me…I am not the star of this story.

Story of My Friend (not me) and her Stoli Problem

My friend, see, has a weakness for Stoli Vanilla vodka and orange juice. Tastes just like a creamsicle, she tells me. And apparently, according to my friend, one drink is great, but six…well, that’s just a par-tay.

Once upon a time, this friend of mine (remember, this is NOT me) went to Atlanta to visit a guy friend of hers. We’ll call him a friend with benefits (FWB) on the verge of becoming a boyfriend.

She goes to dinner with FWB – a real, authentic date. They laugh, they talk, she doesn’t go near those creamsicle-tasting disaster cocktails. They have some wine, and end the night with a sweet kiss. She sleeps in his guest room (that part I can attest to), and she goes on with her weekend the next day.

The next night, however, the Stoli Vanilla and the OJ, well, it flowed freely. At a fundraiser for her boss in Buckhead. She drank toooo much, this friend of mine. And she did what any stupid drunk girl would do after six of these disaster drinks.

She drunk-dialed the boy.

Except boy did not answer. So she drunk dialed him again.

And again…and…well, you get the point.

11:30 pm. My friend hits her ceiling for drinking. But she does not, unfortunately, hit the stopping point for drunk dialing. And no one tried to take her phone away. Which was what this girl really needed…someone to stop her from herself.

But no one did.

So…she hopped in a cab, rode to Brookhaven, moved beyond obsessive drunk dialing, and made a house call. (I believe you’d call this a booty call. But I wouldn’t know, see, because this is a friend, remember??)

My friend knocks on FWB’s door. No answer. She calls FWB for the fifteenth time that evening. (It’s probably morning by now, my friend reasons, so the number of calls are reset to account for the new 24 hour period).

No answer.

So, my friend did what any reasonable girl with a fifth of Stolichnaya in her body would do at 12:15 in the morning.

She asked the security guard (who happened to be approaching her, rather apprehensively) for help.

And, instead of arresting her for trespassing, the security guard does help her. By hoisting her up ten feet to the back balcony of FWB’s apartment, cheerleader-style.

My friend finally gets into the house and scares the living shit out of FWB. And gets no benefits that morning.

And wakes up with the worst hangover of her life the next morning, and enough embarrassment to last her for a good ten years.

Epilogue

Friend and FWB are still friends. They are both married (to other people, that is), and get a chuckle out of this story on a more than annual basis.

I’d like to say that I've sworn off Stoli Vanilla and OJ, but sadly, I haven't.

I mean, hold on...I meant my FRIEND has not sworn them off. Really, I don't get drunk, honest! :)

Beer before liquor, never sicker 8:42 AM

I might have a few sordid drunken tales. . .

*wet t-shirt contest: check. St. Patty's Day at Bennigan's!

*nasty, dirty places: check. Why is it drinking leads you to some of the dirtiest places on the planet?

*compromising positions: check, both my own and multiple others, but they won't be reported here!

*bodily fluids: check, check and check! [almost] getting peed on by an even more drunk guy who just sat up in the bed and started relieving himself off the side. . .while we were sleeping on the floor!!! Then, see compromising positions above and throwing up below for the other two.

*throwing up: numerous times I've been the hair holder and the hair holdee. Including once in the stands at a Nascar race. eww, that was bad. Much like fellow barmaid, Ashley, I learned mixing types of alcohol is not a good idea. I'd had my normal liquor, then decided to drink a beer?! (I don't drink beer) AND then, clearly inebriated, tried to smoke a cigarette; something I've done a mere handful of times in my life and the combination was not so good. Especially for the folks sitting around us. Sometimes the bleachers are sort of open and you can kind of wash things down. Not so much in this situation. Not good.

*climbing under a bathroom stall to help a much inebriated friend unlock the door! Who was then carried over Hubby's shoulders back to the car, even passing the bike cop.

*Building up the hype (that they were actually feuding) for a wrestling "cage match" between Hubby and his Best Friend. Drinking always leads to scheming, right? Clever, brilliant schemes, of course.

*driving a friend (acquaintance?) over an hour to meet her parents because she and her boyfriend got in that big of a fight. Which might or might not have started from other girls skinny dipping and handstands in the lake.

*food fight involving turkey against the sliding glass door (Megan might recall; she was none too happy as it was her and Niki's door).

My favorite (? best?) story, however, doesn't directly involve my own drunkenness, but I was a participant in the events, so it's still my story. Hubby's birthday is the week after our anniversary in May. The year we got married, we headed back to Athens to celebrate his birthday with friends. I don't know if he was rebelling against getting hitched or if he was just used to this lifestyle more than I realized (I'd been graduated and working in the "real world" for a year. He'd just graduated in December and continued working at his job from college and was looking for a job up near me for when we married and he moved), but he really celebrated. I finally got him to leave and we were heading back to his Grandaddy's old house where he had lived during college. We had just pulled onto Loop 10, the by-pass, when he starts fumbling for the door/window saying he's going to be sick. So, I start to pull off and he manages to get the door open and rolls, mostly falls out (the car was nearly stopped) and down the hill. And then he's laying in the tall grass on the side of the by-pass, 30 ft below me screaming, "Owwww! Oh, God! It hurts! It hurts! Owwww!" And I'm just sitting in the car, crying, thinking he's dislocated his shoulder and I'm going to have to figure out how to pick up this man that is over a foot taller and a small person heavier and somehow get him back up the hill and into the car. .and possibly even take him to the hospital? He's just carrying on so. Then, I get him to tell me what hurts. And it's his finger! (I'm still laughing right now as I type this out) He'd landed on his ring finger (coincidence? I think not.) and hurt it. It did swell up and I know it hurt, but the way he was yelling, I thought it was much more serious. The next day, we were at his mama's house and he was standing at the sink and she suddenly exclaims, "my word, what did you do to your finger?" And I just couldn't contain myself. The silent giggles were making me shake, so she knew to keep inquiring. We still laugh about it from time to time.

The very next weekend, we found ourselves back in Athens and had one of our lowest, trailer-trashiest moments ever. We got into a big fight on the way back from our favorite dive: the Blind Pig, where you can take your own mugs for cheaper drinks, and as we don't drink beer, those mugs contain Margaritas. On the Rocks. Some low lights include: I back-handed him and bloodied his eye with my new rock. Before we got home, I make him stop and let me out of the car, right near 316 (a busy highway). I wedged myself between a big wooden sign and the chain link fence. There really wasn't enough room, but I just kind of ended up there and stayed for a bit - a vague sober part of my brain realizing it was safer than wandering the side of a busy highway - stewing and hiding out. Then, I came out and thought the car I saw was Hubby looking for me, so I flipped him the finger, but it turned out to be his sister. oops. And his mama was up by this point, too. Not a good moment for us. The next day, he and his mama were trying to figure out what the gooey stuff on the side of my car was and I had to laugh. Embarrassingly so. I'd thrown my honey mustard container from the leftovers I'd had in my lap at the car as he drove away when I'd jumped out. Even tipsy (plastered?), I had good aim, apparently (of course, a small SUV is a large target). We had our big heart to heart about how this was not what I had signed up for and I didn't know what he was rebelling against, but college days were over. We soon moved on to drinking wine like civilized folk and are all good 6 years later. Ok, well, we drink it out of a box, nearly every night, so maybe not fully civilized. But, we've moved up from the trailer. Sorry, Megs, no offense ;)

I Blame Russians. And Potatoes. 6:09 AM

Since I've already divulged the drinking story that ended with me throwing up in the bushes outside of a hole-in-the-wall bar in Nowhere, South Carolina, I'm forced to consider other drinking stories of merit. And I have to say...there really aren't many. Not because I've stayed away from the sauce, but because I tend to get sauced in a controlled environment. And really, I'm actually quite contained when drunk. Just a bit more friendly. A bit more touchy. A bit inclined to talk and sing loudly. And a bit more prone to throw up than the average bear. Like...

...the time my first year of grad school that I had been dumped (on Christmas Eve, y'all), made a comeback from the depths of the longest, drunkest February ever, and returned to some degree of equilibrium in March until the week-long series of parties that accompanied the readings of many famous writers. A party - every. single. night.

On the very last night, when it seemed that everyone began the night roughly three to four drinks in from the alcohol still coursing through her system from the night before, there was a happy hour before the reading where I drank wine. And then we left the happy hour and went to the reading...where I drank more wine. But then, I decided that instead of drinking white wine by the tumbler-full at the party that I would try something different. Enter the six-pack of Smirnoff Ice.

Perhaps if I'd have had just one, I would've been okay. But in a very short time span, I drank five of them. Five - and I was carrying less poundage to absorb those babies. So by the time we headed from the party to the bar for a last-call night cap, I was swaying dreamily and talking to loud and flirting too much. Which is why I let a boy buy me a Heineken.

I think I finished the beer. I don't know. I can't remember. I do remember that we were in the upstairs of the bar when I told Kim I didn't feel well. And I sort of half remember going down the stairs and standing by the pool table and waiting for...someone? But I do remember stumbling into the ladies' room, bursting through the middle stall - the only one open - and proceeding to empty all 60 oz. of Smirnoff Ice from my body into one overflowing toilet.

God bless Kim. She had the compassion to grab my hair and literally hold me a hairsbreadth from God only knows what. I remember seeing that swirl of toilet paper lapping against the brim and heaving all over again and thinking, This is the grossest moment of my life.

The Key To A Good Time: It Isn't Keg Beer 7:11 AM

Me? Drunk? Never! (Ok, there was this one time back in 1999...)

Friday: Saunter into Ford dealership and purchase my very first vehicle all on my own. A 1994 Explorer Sport fit me perfectly, what with being a 20 year old college student, who happened to live way out in the boonies in the woods, and the soon the be owner of a large breed dog. Perfect!

Saturday evening: Hop into one day old Explorer Sport with my living in sin partner, husband to be, and head way into town to a friend's apartment for a little viewing party of the UGA v. Tennessee game.

Saturday night: Drink copious amounts of beer. Yell at the TV. Drink some more.

Saturday night: During half time, decide to invite all guests at the party to come to the parking lot and see my new ride. Drink more beer. After the game is over, take my beer, and party guests, back out to new ride so that we can all sit in the back and bullshit. Nothing says fun like sitting in the back of a SUV.

Saturday late night: Keep drinking. Keep bullshitting. Finally decide to close up shop, lock up Explorer and head inside for the night.

Sunday semi-morning: Awake with a nasty hangover, just want to go home. Look for keys to new ride. No keys to be found. Vaguely remember going to sit in my brand new to me Explorer and needing to unlock it. Scour ground within a 50 foot radius of new ride, all the while wincing in the holy shit bright as universally possible sunlight.

Sunday noonish: No keys outside, no keys inside. Everyone a touch bit hung over. Beg and plead for friend to drive us way the hell out to our house. Friend agrees. Leave my brand new to me, all washed and Armour Alled, haven't driven more than 50 miles much less made any sort of payment, Explorer in the parking lot of friend's apartment.

Sunday afternoon: Break into house. Feel rather stupid that I didn't ask for a SPARE KEY in my wheeling and dealing with the salesman only hours before. Feel even more stupid for getting nasty drunk and thus even more nasty hung over off of KEG BEER. First introduction to Party A. Vow to never drink keg beer again.

Monday morning: Husband to be gives me a ride to work. Call locksmith. Bum ride to apartment building parking lot from coworker to meet locksmith.

Monday afternoon: Locksmith is waiting. Asks am I SURE that I can't find my keys? Um, yes. Locksmith says ARE YOU SURE YOU'RE SURE? Take one more look, through the clear eyes of a sober, not hung over person and see the keys to my brand new to me, all washed and Armour Alled, haven't driven more than 50 miles much less made any sort of payment, Explorer sitting on the roof, begging for someone to steal it.

Locksmith: That'll be $35.

*So I know this isn't a really juicy GGW type story, but it goes to show that not only can you be really dumb while drunk, you can be equally dumb the morning after. As can be your friends and future husband.*