- I feel so cracked out. So, so incredibly cracked out. I had a major ~*MyStErY iLLnEsS!!*~ relapse late Sunday morning that I decided to deal with by going to sleep until about, oh, an hour ago. On Monday night. 'Ehhhh...I feel so creepy. You know when you wake up from a nap and you're all nap hungover and out of it and and groggy and don't really know what time it is or where your pants are? Well multiply that by a solid day. 24 hours; one whole day on the Christian calendar. Spent sleeping. Well, truthfully that's not entirely true. I woke up a few times to check Twitter and make sure I wasn't missing out on anything in the world. Apparently the city is bracing for Glenn Beck's upcoming "Restoring Honor" rally, which I wouldn't touch with a 10-foot burning cross, unless it's to find two people to go down to the mall with me and perform "Supercalifragilistic-expialawacky" from MST3K for tips and spare change. I think "Government Gridlock" would be a big hit. Just putting it out there...
- Check out the number of emails in my personal account's inbox:
Bahahaha...ha. Awesome. I once spent an entire day at work trying to maintain 69% as my customer registry number. I can honestly say I've never worked so hard to convince people to sign up as when it dipped below 65%. Likewise, if I went over, I'd just blatantly stop asking people for their information until it was back in the 65-69% range. Then once I'd hit 69, I'd call over a co-worker and be like, "Check out my customer registry total. "...Why?" "Just check it, check it! [Uncontrollably giggles to self]." So, I say screw conventual sales incentives—just hire people with a 6th grade sense of humor and little or no work ethic and you'll build yourself an impressive customer database in weeks. (I should note that ever since The Unpleasantness, I'd normally never write about slacking at work, but my shift supervisor was the one who challenged me to take it a step further and hit and maintain 69.69%, so, you know, fair game.)
- I was just staring at that screen shot and thought, "when did I add a Google Imagine to my favorites toolbar? And/or what the hell could it be?" So I clicked. And it's this:
...Well played, self.
(- OK. I know I already have an obscure Simpsons reference tattooed on my person...but that would be a pretty sweet one too, right? Just the text and maybe the Scales of Justice? Black and red? Right? What? I don't know. I can't tell if I'm awake and this is real or not.)
- 'Eh...I'm currently writing this on my roof and my computer is going to die in 8 minutes, but I left the power cord back in my apartment. How much would I have to pay you to go get it for me?
- Christ. A bunch of obnoxiously flamboyant gay men just came up and started "horsing around" by the pool. Which is irritating. BECAUSE HOW DARE YOU DISTURB ME WHEN I'M TRYING TO CONCENTRATE ON MY CRAFT?? (69 jokes and kvetching...) HOW. DARE. YOU.
- OK. 2 minutes of power left. What do I do? Exert the extra energy to go downstairs, get my power cord and come back up, OR take the lazy road and stay in my apartment, but risk the temptation to fall back asleep and not get any work done? Damnit...My mom was right; I do need a mentor.
- 1 minute.
- OH GOD. YOU GUYS. So much just happened. (Keep in mind, "so much" might be subjective, considering I spent the better part of the last two days asleep.) After my computer died, I kind of just sat there feeling sorry for myself and/or waiting for a helper monkey to swing in, hand me a power cord and immediately swing out because monkeys are obviously disgusting, but then the obnoxious gay guys left, so I decided it would be worth it to make the trek down to my apartment and come back up. I mean, if Passover taught me anything growing up, it's that if the Jews could wander the desert for 40 years, I can wander 7 floors via elevator, right? (Right.) So I went down, got my power cord, came back up, and couldn't find a power outlet to save my life. Which was frustrating because I know we had twinkle lights at College Roommate Danielle's engagement party, so there had to be an outlet, but I think Laura was the one who plugged them in? Ultimately, I decided I like Laura too much to call her up at midnight to be like, "HEY-OHHH! Where did you plug something in on my roof a year ago?"
After a little hard work and lot of persistence, I found an outlet, set up shop and hunkered down for the night. Unfortunately, said outlet was located directly behind the grill and after five minutes, the smell of hamburger became overpowering in a surprisingly not delicious way, so I had to find another outlet. Which I did—directly next to the boiler room. I bailed after a few minutes though because it was loud and dark and surrounded by shrubbery and felt like Freddy Krueger was going to jump out at any mintute and I don't know....I just feel like on a night with this much sleep drama, throwing a boiler room into the mix would probably be a poor decision.
I decided to screw it and go back to my apartment, but not before I had to wait for the elevator and take the elevator down for an uncomfortably long amount of time with a couple in my building who I had some awkwardness with last weekend.
Last Saturday, Alex, Laura and Dan come over to have a few drinks on the roof and this older couple who live in my building kept coming up to smoke cigarettes every hour on the hour. They were very generous with their cigarettes, so realizing we were sitting there surrounded by a metric ton of beer, I was like, "Hey do you guys want a beer?" To which the guy said, "Oh, no thanks. We're on the wagon."
...Absolutely none of us could figure out how to respond to that statement. My immediate reaction was to make a joke like, "Haha, that sucks" or "Your loss" or something, but that would have obviously been rude and unsupportive. My next thought was to congratulate them, but is that something you congratulate people on? Plus, I'd feel so condescending saying it with a giant beer in my hand to people 20 years my senior. So instead all four of us just kind of stared at him with blank expressions on our faces until I finally said, "...Oh."
O-H. Oh. I think it came out like I was sort of weirded out by his sobriety, but honestly it was just because we, as a team, were collectively too awkward to figure out what was socially appropriate to say back.
But of course that's not where the awkwardness ended. Later that night, we all decided to strip down to our skivvies and jump in the pool for a little drunk night swimmin'. (Truly the best kind of swimmin' of them all.) Now, there are two older gay men in my building who own dogs: one is the guy who crashed our Halloween party last year, got drunk, fell in love with Becca and told her he'd make me a copy of his psychiatrist's note saying he could have a dog because "everyone should have a dog"; and the other is a complete asshole. Of course the night we decide to go night swimming in our underwear is the night that Asshole Dog Owner decides to take his extended family visiting from out of town (complete with two small, wholesome looking children) on a tour of the building, including the roof. I can only imagine how that conversation must have gone. "So this is the roof garden. It has beautiful views of Dupont and Georgetown; a grill; and a pool. A pool...that's...riddled with empty PBR bottles...and half-nude twenty-somethings."
"Mommy, why do they look so broken?"
"Look away, Tayleur!"
I haven't seen that guy around the apartment since. I wonder if when I do it will be different now? Now that I've seen his neice and he's seen my areolas. Like catching a magician emptying his pockets after a show...
- Despite not posting, I did write a blog post last Thursday night for Friday. I just...oh, how do I say this delicately?...I, had one too many glasses of Robert Mandovi and passsed out about 20 minutes into the writing process. My plan was to go back and write a less aggressive, more coherent intro and recap over the weekend, but, you know, ~*MyStErY iLLnEsS!!*~ and all. But you know what? You've made it with me this far. Things can't really get that more cracked out, right? Thus, I present to you the completely unedited version of last week's Recrap Friday. Enjoy. And don't judge me.
OHHHHH, Drunk Blogging. You are about as attractive as a crisp, new pair of jean shorts. OK. So I should fully disclose that at the moment, I'm not "drunk", per se, but I have been more sober in my life. I went out to dinner with my parents tonight and had a very awkward encounter with our delightfully jaunty gay waiter. My dad and I both started with a glass of wine, but when my dad moved on to a half-carafe on the second round, I was like, "PSHHH! SaMsIeS!!!!~, but make it Pinot Grigio," and the waiter just stared awkwardly at me for a few seconds. I thought this was a repeat of the time we went to out for Indian and I ordered a Taj Mahal for myself and the waiter was basically like, "ma'am, your drinking problem has effected me in the following ways:", so I got slightly defensive about it because I don't appreciate it when waiters insinuate that I can't drink like a grown-ass man. It turns out he was just trying to remember if they offered Pinot Grigio in that size and was not calling me an alcoholic. That's my bad. Anyway, I got kind of tipsy with my parents and then returned to my apartment only to drink another bottle of wine with Laura and Andrew for Thursday Night Trash TV Night. The moral of the story is you're going to have to bear down and bear with.
BUT THE BLOG MUST GO ON. Lord knows being drunk has never stopped me from blogging before, so first here we go: Happy T.G.I. Hagman!
OK. Jesus. WOW. Time to break the fourth wall. So: 1.) I'm currently holding a glass of red wine betwixt my breasts so I can type without having to lean forward to grab my glass of wine when I want it. I say that I don't want a breast reduction because I'm scared of the pain, but really, these bad boys are just helpful.
2.) I just searched "Larry Hagman commercial" on youtube to link the Larry Hagman solar power commercial that's going around because I want the following still tattooed on my back:
But instead, I found this:
It's a 1980's commercial for "BVD" brand underwear, which a.) sounds like an STD that results in extreme vaginal discomfort; b.) the first person to make that sneaky oboe music featured in the commercial into a ringtone for me wins a free "Sorr About the Bag" bag from our merch store, despite still being sold out; and c.) of BVD, Larry Hagman says, "Now, where else would I put my personal assets?" before maniacally cackling. I don't really know what to say right now except I'm 99.9% sure that commercial just impregnated me and 100% sure I'm going to keep it.
OK. Now I'm just going to vent about DC dining experiences because when you're this drunk, transitions and story relevance are the equivalent of literarly queefs and who really gives a fuck? OK, so, last week, Becca, Geoff, my dad and I were out to dinner to celebrate my dad's birthday and we weren't being loud our rowdy in the least, but I will say that we were having a good time. True, the McBlogger family was once wine tasting at a vineyard in Napa with a German family (Christ, we're white..), which resulted in the German family saying to us, "It's a wine tasting; not a frat party." But, knock, knock. [Who's there?] The Holocaust. [The Holocaust, who?] We win.
Anyway, somehow the other night the conversation got around to lesbians and someone brought up Jillian Michaels being gay, and I was like, "JILLIAN MICHALES IS GAY?!" to which my sister said, "UH, like Lillith Fair," and the two girls having dinner at the table next to us, who I will describe as "DC Hot" (read: thin with bleached blonde hair and a face that says, "I ride horses"; a look that will get you further in this city than you'd think) turned around and shot me the dirtiest looks I have ever received in my entire life. And because I get real confrontational when I'm drinking, I turned to them and was like, "Oh, I'M sorry" and wouldn't shut up about how I couldn't believe they shot me a dirty look and in the 21st century, people should feel as free as they want to discuss lesbians at the dinner table.
It kind of reminded me of the time when I had a few too many Bloody Mary's at brunch in Provincetown one summer and made the executive decision to stop in the middle of town square, motion towards Ex Co-Blogger Chris and loudly sing (to the tune of U2's "Beautiful Day,") "HE'S A BEAUTIFUL GAY!!!!" Which is when these two, older housewife types walking by shot me a heinously dirty look, and I did the gangster, "WHAT YOU GONNA DO ABOUT IT?!" motion with my arms stretched out to the sides and my head bobbing and said to them, "WHAT?!!!? HE IS." until they walked away.
And that's when I passed out. Yep. I'm attempting to make a career out of that level of writing. God bless me.
Here's all you need to know about last week's Jersey Shore:
Snooki's boyfriend calls and admits he cheated on her --> J-WOWW picks up when he calls back and threatens to call the cops or take the next flight out and beat his ass if he ever calls again --> Laura asks what Andrew and I would do if we found out that her boyfriend was cheating on her --> I say I'd cut off his balls with a butter knife and present them to her in a glass jar --> Andrew says he would "use his words" --> I reiterate; butter knife --> Either way, Max should watch out --> Mostly for me, less for Andrew and "his words" --> The Jersey Shore kids really like a club called "Klutch" --> Remember in high school when everyone listened to 311 and used "clutch" as an adjective? Like, "Oh, shit! That party was clutch. Yo, give me a jack, I'm all out." Because I do --> Ronnie keeps cheating on Sammi --> Sammi keeps asking everyone if he's cheating on her --> Everyone keeps "hearing the phone" and/or breaking out into spontaneous nut allergies to avoid that conversation --> The girls go get sushi and things get delightfully racist --> Sammi keeps almost finding out that Ronnie is cheating on her in a variety of awkward situations --> J-WOWW and Snooki decide to go to an Internet Cafe, write an anonymous letter (in ALL CAPS, so you know they mean business) telling Sammi that her boyfriend hooks up with other girls when he's out at the clerb, which they print and leave in her drawer later --> That night, Ronnie tells Sammi that he hates her --> She spends the entire night cleaning up his vomit and rubbing his back --> I auction my vagina on ebay out of embarrassment for my gender --> It does not sell --> The next morning Ronnie decides that he still loves Sammi because she's always there for him --> If going with someone to get a tattoo and taking care of them when they puke is indicative of true love, Helena and I have been gay married for years --> The boys are like, YOU CAN'T TELL SAMMI THAT RONNIE CHEATS ON HER! --> The girls are like, WE HAVE TO TELL SAMMI THAT RONNIE CHEATS ON HER! --> BOYS! --> GIRLS! --> BOYS!!! --> GIRLS!!! --> WHOOOOOOOOO!!!!! And then they all break into song and dance.
(Larry Hagman was, and still is, alive. Queer Abby will be back tomorrow.)