"I'M LOOKIN' FOR CHANGE, TOO!"

The thing about practically living in the bar scene is that it's entirely possible to be friends with people for five or more years and to have never seen them in daylight ever.  Or sober.  Ever.  Rachel and Matt's wedding destroyed this.  Now don't get me wrong--their wedding was beautiful and was a TON of fun.  But it started out WEIRD.  When the ceremony was over, we all stood around outside just looking at each other awkwardly.  This is because most of us didn't recognize each other in the harsh light of day.

We needed booze.  All of us together, fully clothed, able to walk and speak correctly--WHAT THE HELL WAS GOING ON???!!!  We raced to the reception venue and promptly attacked the bar.  

Those poor bartenders probably thought they were being accosted by a pack of rabid alcoholic zombies or something.  Perhaps they didn't understand that most of us don't function past 7 pm without liquor.  At any rate, fifteen minutes or so later, we were all good, the bride and groom had arrived, and things were back to normal.  Well, if you define "normal" as a room full of people who slur, stumble, swear a lot, and smoke like chimneys.  The smokers congregated outside to destroy their lung tissue and take goofy pictures.  This is where things get interesting even for our less than well-behaved entourage.  Vincent was DRUUUUUNK.  No, that's certainly not the unusual part.  Vincent had a metal detector.  At a wedding.  

Not exactly a common sight, but if anyone were going to bring a metal detector to a wedding, it made perfectly logical sense to all of us that it would be Vincent.  Things were fine for a while.  Vincent happily showed off his new toy, and he even let a few others try it out.  Then all hell broke loose.

Note: do not feel sorry for this woman.  Usually, she's evil.

Anyway, everyone else went in to repeat this story to anyone who would listen.  I stayed outside because Vincent was still conscious, so this meant there was potential for more entertainment.  He sits there for a while, still fuming that some beggar would have the nerve to ask him for spare change.  Who did she think she was?  OBVIOUSLY his metal detector was there with him to help him find change!  If you can't collect money from drunkards dropping it at a wedding reception, HOW ELSE DO YOU BUY YOUR GRAND MARNIER!?!?  She was obviously stupid.  Obviously.  Then Vincent does the most out of character thing I've ever seen him do ever.

The moment didn't last long, however...

He grinned proudly.  Noting that he'd put the emPHAsis on the wrong syLABble, I asked him how much Spanish he spoke.  "That's about all I got," he grinned.  Then he face planted onto the sidewalk.  At this point, Ric had come back outside, ostensibly to laugh at Vincent some more, and fortunately, just in time to help him get back in his chair.  Completely unfazed by the whole thing, Vincent looks at Ric for a moment, realizes that his metal detector has a feature he has yet to flaunt, and makes a public service announcement that I personally believe was audible in Bangladesh.

"Vincent..."  I was afraid he was going to attempt to yell at me like he did the homeless lady and wind up face planting on the sidewalk again, so I proceeded with caution.  "We're on concrete."

"I KNOW THAT, YA KOOKABURRA!  ...I'm gonna go find cool shit."  And with that, Vincent and his metal detector disappeared into the moonlight.  

Why Smoke Detectors Are Dangerous.

NOT how I wanted to wake up.  I tried for a while to tune it out.  I tried to invent some interesting story to go along with all the infernal bleeping and blooping in the hope that perhaps I'd fall back asleep and the noise would just work itself into my dream.  It wasn't happenin'.  No, the beeping of a smoke detector is a special kind of beeping.  It seeps into your very bone marrow and crawls up your spine.  It rattles your teeth.  It  eats your soul.  There was only one thing to do.  I had to destroy the smoke detector.

I stumbled into the hallway to destroy the smoke detector.  Then it occurred to me that I could just remove the battery and go back to bed.  Seemed reasonable.

In my not yet awake haze, I actually stood there for a minute trying to figure out how the hell the damned thing was beeping with no battery.  Then there it was again.  The fucking beeping.

I literally looked everywhere I could think of, but to no avail.  My failure to pay attention when our landlord told us we had two smoke detectors had turned into Marco Fucking Polo, and FYI, that's a cruel game when you have hearing issues and can't ever determine where a sound is coming from.  After, no joke, half an hour of looking for the second smoke detector, I decided to try a new tactic.  So I headed to the kitchen to start drinking large quantities of rum with the intention of getting so drunk that I could no longer hear.  And there it was.

Fuck.  I had located the enemy, but I was at least a foot too short to reach the bastard.  I would have to get creative.

Fail.

Fail.

Fail.  And a headache.

This wasn't working out so well.  I needed equipment.  I decided to build a highly advanced, technologically brilliant piece of machinery to assist me in reaching the smoke detector.

Unfortunately, my highly advanced, technologically brilliant piece of machinery didn't have opposable thumbs, so while I got the smoke detector open, I couldn't pluck the battery from the casing.  I proceeded to do what any logical builder of a highly advanced, technologically brilliant piece of machinery would do.

Exhausted and defeated, I slumped into a chair at the kitchen table.  Wait.  Chair.  Standing on a chair would make me taller.  WHY DIDN'T I THINK OF THAT?!  Actually self, you just did.  Oh.  Yes, the smoke detector had driven me to arguing with myself.  But back to the chair.  When we bought our dining set, I wanted chairs tall enough that we could also use them to sit at the kitchen counter.  Even though we never do that.  Ever.  Now I was faced with a new problem--how to get my short shit self standing on the chair.

Fail.

Fail.  And I broke a fingernail.

Once again, I would need to build a highly advanced, technologically brilliant piece of machinery.

WIN!!!!!!!  I grabbed that battery, snatched it out of the smoke detector, and threw my arms in the air and cheered my victory.  Probably should've gotten down first, though.

Next time, I'll gloat on the ground.

How I Got Free Waffle House On New Year's Day

You may have noticed the absence of a post about my birthday.  Or you may not have a clue when my birthday even is.  At any rate, I had one, and it was EPIC.  I won't be blogging it, however, because it ended with poo, and as it turns out, I can't draw poo.  Seriously.  It either looks like a pile of meatballs or like soft-serve ice cream, and I really don't want to ruin my good feelings toward either, so there you have it.  But you can't have a birthday without cake, so BAM!

Moving right along...I started the New Year off right.  Waffle House right.  I firmly believe that one must always begin a new year with WaHo.  This is partially to absorb all the booze and partially just because it's awesome.  The only thing that makes WaHo MORE awesome is when it's free and with great friends.  And mine was.  How did I accomplish such an amazing feat?!?  Well, there's a story...

As any good drinker knows, and as is customary in my social circle, we started off the New Year in the required fashion for all major high BAC holidays (and for those of you wondering, that would be New Year's Eve, St. Patrick's Day, Mardi Gras, and whenever I feel like it).

So yeah, car bombs it was.  Pre-gaming thus accomplished, Ric, Katie, and I  went downtown, which involved sitting in the car on Broadway for-stinking-ever waiting on traffic to move.  It also involved Ric locking the windows to contain our shenanigans to the interior of the vehicle.

Did I say "OUR" shenanigans?  I meant Katie.  So after for-stinking-ever, we make it to Picasso to hang out with Mork and Mindy.  And Ethan.  What, did I forget to mention he's officially home for good?  Yes, he's back.  He spent most of the night trying to pick up chicks.  Some things never change.  Clay and Steph came in a bit later, and Katie gave all of us a lesson in why it's bad to wear clothes with zippers around drunk people.

Steph didn't seem to mind, though, and I guess all good evenings must start with a flashing, so we were off to a proper start.  Oh, and no, her tattoos aren't actually "TATTOOS" AND "MO' TATTOOS."  I just respect the art of a tattoo artist enough to not butcher it on my blog.  But back to NYE.  I *think* Slacker was there, too.  I say *think* because sometimes I wonder if I hallucinated the Slacker.  He has the Waldo gift.  What the fuck is that?  Well, he comes in, he greets everyone, grabs a drink, then...

And nobody ever knows.  He just vanishes into thin air.  I think he's a secret spy or something.  He's a nice guy though, so he's kind enough to not take all the Guinness with him.  Or he could just be perpetually drunk enough that he forgets to take it with him.  Either way, we continued drinking.  After a while, we decided to head next door to ring in the New Year at the Tap.  Twice, might I add, because the DJ wasn't on the same time as the TV, so rather than wait on the TV to count down the official year, we just decided to cheer, kiss, and imbibe twice.  Heather the Silly String Satan managed to douse me in enough Silly String that my drink tasted like aerosol.

Naturally, I drank the rest of it anyway.  There's sober children in Africa.  It was the right thing to do.  Then back to Picasso because my heels were starting to fight back, so the need to sit was getting crucial.  For me, anyway.  I sat.  Katie took advantage of the pole that holds up the patio ceiling.

This is how we made the vital discovery that the only way I know how to get my camera to stop video-recording is to turn the power off.  Katie having sufficiently amused us for the time, we decided to go to 85 to find Clay and Steph, which required that Katie and I trade shoes in the road.  Luckily for us, we stumbled upon Clay and Steph (again, in the road) before walking all the way to 85, so we went back to the Tap.  Clay pulled Ric to the side to tell him some Jerry Maguire, I love you man, you're the wind beneath my wings kind of stuff, and Steph and I talked about marzipan until a good gust of wind came along.

Perhaps it was such a fun night because there were multiple flashings of assorted parts that night.  I think Ric managed to be the only one of us to not flash anything.  I might be onto something...so yeah, after the bromance returned, they danced, we laughed because they're both morons...

I told you.  Sometimes, a real picture is just worth a lot more than a badly drawn cartoon, ya know?  Anyway, we came to the conclusion that it was time to take it to the house for the free booze.  This involved trading shoes with someone again, but by this point, Katie had wised up enough to know that she really didn't want to wear my pink heels again, cute though they were, so Steph traded with me instead.  You know your heels are killing you when you'll put on someone's earlier-vomited-in boot just to get out of your heels!  Well worth it, though, as Steph couldn't stand up in them.  At all.

She just wobbled and matrixed in place.  I, on the other hand, was in comfy shoe heaven.  My new mission is to buy a pair of those boots because they're friggin' awesome.  Anyway, while we were waiting, Katie also decided that the ladies had flashed enough on this particular occasion, so she took the opportunity to find out whether Clay was wearing anything under his kilt, and that marks the final flashing of the evening.  Ric pulled up the car, honked at all of us to get in, and then...a miracle occurred.

Yes, that's right.  The previously unable to stand in my heels Stephanie takes off in a full sprint into the road.  Forget that she was going in the complete WRONG direction.  Or that the woman can somehow run without the top part of her body moving at all.  She was hauling ass in four inch heels, and she was unstoppable.  Well, at least until we got in the car.  So we make it back to the house uneventfully (unless you count Katie talking to a box on the way home as must-know info).  If we had brains, we would've decided that all of us were good for the night and no more drinking needed to take place.  But if we had brains, I wouldn't ever have anything to blog about, so be glad that we're all idiots because we all had another car bomb as soon as we got in.  Naturally, the only thing that can possibly complete the wonder and magic of a night of car bombs is spaghetti.  Have I ever mentioned how much I love drunk people who will cook for drunk people?  Utter contentment.  It was like a happy little plastered dysfunctional family, the five of us.

We all inhaled our spaghetti, completely oblivious to our glazed over eyes and disheveled appearances.  I thought things had mellowed after that.  Clay and Steph went to bed, Ric went upstairs to tinker with the computer, and Katie and I hung out for a bit before I decided to crash, too.  As soon as I walked into the bedroom and saw Ric's face, I knew something was amiss.  Rickety was NOT happy.  I just raised a brow at him quizzically.  "Clay's throwing up."  "Okay...."  I wasn't really sure yet why this was particularly detrimental to my plan to go to bed.  ""Right there."  Ric points into our master bathroom.

Sure enough, my darling idiot friend had stumbled out of bed, out of the bedroom we put him in which had a perfectly good bathroom attached to it, into our room, and was throwing up spaghetti.  Not rainbows.  In the sink.  Without a colander.  Thanks to this episode, I have decided to outfit all our sinks with colanders for future drunk nights.  This is to prevent having to scoop noodles out of the drain with my hands as they WILL NOT go down on their own.  Needless to say, even demon seed Clay knows to feel bad when someone is elbows deep in recycled pasta.  This is how I coerced him into buying breakfast for everyone the next morning.  I heart you, Waffle House, and HAPPY NEW YEAR!

"Don't call it a stupid face! What's WRONG with you?!"

Meet Jeem.  Say hi, Jeem.

Okay, fine.  Perfect example of our relationship:  I babble, and he just looks at me like I need a helmet.  See, there's something you have to understand about me and the Jeem.  We're going to kill each other.  It's inevitable.  He gets on a roll with something, starts fussing, and the next thing you know,

He's the only person in the world who can make me that mad that quickly, and I finally figured out that it's because I just love his punk ass that much more.  I have a lot of really fantastic friends, but there's just something about Jeem that's in a different category.  He's family.  Blood.  I'd do absolutely anything for him.  So naturally we fight like siblings because we know that five minutes later, we'll both be over it and I'll still love him.  I'll even let him think he won the argument so he can go back to his normal self.

Stop judging Jeem.  You'd dance around in a tutu, too, if you only drank margaritas the *right* way.  What?  You don't know what the right way to drink a margarita is?  You didn't even know there WAS a "right way" to drink a margarita?!  My GAWD, you have so much to learn from the Jeem!  Observe.

Whew.  Glad we cleared that up.  Always remember, there's sober children in Africa, so it's our responsibility to do it right.  It's GO TIME!

Yeah, that covers the basics.  In order to understand last night's antics, you must know that I love Jeem to pieces, we drink silly amounts of shaquila, and he's going to be a pretty princess.  And he's leaving, which makes me really really really really really really really really really really really really really sad.  Okay, actually, knowing all that in no way can explain how the night ended like this:

But it does sort of help explain something else.  The truth is that every now and then, you meet someone who changes you not because they make you a different person but because they remind you who you are, where you've been and where you've yet to go, someone who keeps you true to yourself by being true to you, too.  It's rare to find a friend like that, and it makes about as much sense as a table covered in mayonnaise, but every once in a while, you get lucky.  Jeem, thanks for being one of those rare, exceptional people, I love you, and I'm very proud of you.

Take care of yourself, my friend, and don't forget that I've got a tiara and a tutu waiting for you when you get home!

For Mayleenda and Matty

Melinda has had the distinct displeasure of having been stuck with me since we were eight years old.  For anyone thinking, "Aw, that's so cute,"  you might want to hold that thought.  The story goes like this.  Once upon a time in the third grade, Melinda and I were at a kids' church function coloring a banner that said, "Jesus Loves Me," and in typical Melinda fashion, she was in her own little artsy crafty world...which basically means she was hogging the markers and didn't really care how badly I needed the blue one.  So, in typical Maggi fashion, I took my necklace, a large plastic heart charm filled with glitter and water, and I said, "If you don't give me that marker, I'm going to turn you into a frog.  Don't MAKE me say the magic word!"  Needless to say, I got the blue marker.  But what I got that day extends far beyond the realm of Crayola because, that day, I also got a best friend who has stuck by me through thick and thin, loved me despite my many flaws and frog threats (and don't think that doesn't STILL come up from time to time), someone who has laughed with me, laughed AT me, cried with me, gotten into LOTS of trouble with me, forgiven me when I probably didn't deserve it, given it to me straight when I did deserve it (and always followed with, "Hey, I'm just sayin'...), someone who has always been there when I needed her, and who I know always will be.  Matty, you're a very lucky guy because I know she'll always be there for you, too--that's just who Melinda is.  She'll probably never get around to sharing her markers though, so these are for you.

I love you both long time, and I wish you guys a lifetime of happiness.  To Matt and Melinda!  Cheers!

The Science of the JBFCs

I've embraced the fact that I am currently of an age where the months of August through November each year are totally dedicated to wedding crazies. And I love it. I love all the parties, throwing showers and making tons of food and decorations and going overboard, getting to see everyone, getting all dressed up, the whole nine yards. Ric, on the other hand, thinks I've lost my mind and would just as soon not speak to me until December for fear of, "What's for dinner?" being answered with, "Did I tell you I'm going to host 12 bridal showers, a birthday party, and a bat mitzvah for my friend's Jewish dog?" I just thrive on the chaos of it all.

This past weekend was a fantastic example of such chaos. I rode up to the ATL with Mandy, so that pretty much speaks for itself. For starters, we were late. In order to fully understand the dynamics working in my group of friends, I'm just going to start putting things into the format of scientific theories I've developed, and believe me, there's method to this. For example, I rode up with Mandy, and we were late. This is called the Maggi/Mandy Uncertainty Principle--basically, when two people, namely Maggi and Mandy, are moving at a certain velocity toward a specific destination, there is no certainty in knowing firstly when we will arrive at said destination or secondly, where the hell we actually are. Our road trips are usually something like this:

So we get to the party...sort of. Actually, we get to the apartment complex, walk to the wrong building, realize we're in the wrong building, walk to the next building, go to the wrong floor, knock on the wrong door, realize we're knocking on the wrong door and haul ass away from said door before we look like idiots to anyone witnessing this spectacle other than The Almighty, who already knows we're idiots, and finally make it to the right door. I'd love to concoct some explanation of this one in science terms, but the truth is that we're just idiots, and there's no accounting for that.

At any rate, we're at the party, and things are going pretty typically for a lingerie shower/bachelorette party--booze, bras, and games, but you know it can't stay that tame the whole night because it's Mel's bachelorette party, and when you combine that woman and her whole entourage of awesomeness, there's bound to be chaos. I'm calling this The Melinda-Entropy Correlation. The First Law of the Melinda-Entropy Correlation states that, when in the company of Melinda, disorder will constantly increase. The party bus shows up, and there goes a herd of drunk women in cocktail dresses and heels (plus Patrick, poor guy) lugging assorted beverages, bottles of booze, cups, ice, penis straws, purses, cigarettes, whips, chains, and band-aids through the parking lot. Not to the bus though. Nope, we can't find the bus, so we roam around, we stand there staring at each other, we do some more traipsing, and finally someone comes to corral the masses in the correct direction.

The whole experience of the bus would've been a blast had we banned stilettos--stumbling people plus heels plus booze equals impaled feet. This is where the Second Law of the Melinda-Entropy Correlation comes in. The Second Law states that, when the forces of Marlene and Melinda collide in a closed system (say, a party bus), someone WILL wind up wearing a beverage or ten, and MANY will accumulate injuries.

Let's just say it shall suffice to conclude that Marlene owes Mandy a foot and Melinda a dry cleaning, but hey, shiz happens. Aside from all of us flailing drunkards wreaking havoc in heels though, I seriously wouldn't have minded just riding around on the bus the whole night because it was a lot of fun!

Onward to the drag show. I have to pee, so I head straight for the bathroom, where I find a completely beer-soaked Melinda fuming about the Second Law of the Melinda-Entropy Correlation. It is of relevance that you know that the door to the women's bathroom at this place didn't close. You need to know this in order to understand the Third Law of the Melinda-Entropy Correlation: there is a direct inverse relationship between Melinda's alcohol consumption and modesty, therefore, the more booze, the less "give a damn" she has about peeing with the stall door AND the bathroom door open to everyone at the bar, so she just does this:

This is also why she didn't seem to care about flashing her goodies to everyone while I tried to detangle the battery pack of her "Bachelorette" sash from her panties. Most importantly, it's usually hilarious and one of many reasons why I adore her.

At this point, mamacita needs a smoke, so I head to the bar, point at a man with my penis straw and tell him mine is bigger than his, which distracts him long enough for me to get in front of him in line, get a rum and coke, then head out back for nicotine and run into Mandy and Denise. Denise had been misdirected to the bathroom, wound up in the mens room, decided even at a gay bar that perhaps she should pee with those who have the same parts as herself, wound up in the upstairs women's bathroom, encountered a delightfully drunk Marlene who proceeded to tell her she's always loved her since the moment she met her because she had her at hello or some Jerry Maguire sentiment like that, and so Denise decided she'd rather just pee in her shoes than deal with estrogen because homey don't play dat, and back down the stairs she came to chill with us until I informed her that there was another bathroom downstairs. Back to the bathroom we go, and we wind up in line behind some frisky groping lesbians. By this point, Denise has to pee, Mandy has to pee, and I have to pee again. Somehow this led to me flashing the lesbians so they'd go faster, and Mandy, Denise, and I went into the stall together to save some time (and give the line behind us something to cheer about).  Mandy took this as an opportunity to torture me while I was helpless and vulnerable...

while Denise tried to find logic in why one can't pee with Mandy accompanying without a mooning taking place. I smack her ass to get it out of my friggin' face (Mandy's not Denise's; Denise isn't evil), the line outside cheers again, and we finally make our way out of the bathroom, light and fluffy, to discover that the drag show has started and Marlene is dancing with a drag queen. This seriously has GOT to be one of the FUNNIEST things I have EVER seen. It's also an anomaly in my research because there's no way in hell I could've ever predicted Marlene would be gettin' down with her bad self grinding with a drag queen!

It is during this performance that I first realize that Caitlin is shnockered--the realization hits me right about the same time her bootay hits the floor. This brings up the next discovery I made over the weekend, Caitlin's Law of Universal Gravitation. Basically, every particle in Caitlin's being attracts Caitlin to the floor with a force that is directly proportional to the amount of alcohol she has consumed. So by this law, when Caitlin had not had that much yet to drink, she only tripped. At the drag show, the booze was up, so Caitlin was down, but this time with a little more force. By the time we got back on the bus, drank some more, then arrived at Cosmo Lava, Caitlin's boozacy was to a degree strong enough to not only pull her to the ground but to accomplish this:

Yes, that's her hair extension in the background, and no, Caitlin doesn't have a ridiculous Giada DeLaurentiis head or man shoulders in real life.  Stop judging me! Naturally, because Caitlin's a classy chica, her first concern was mortification over having flashed her "sha-nay-nay" to the free world, so I assured her that she fell with dignity, nobody saw her Lindsay Lohan, AND mad props on the wooble guarding. Finally content with this, Caitlin drinks the water the bouncer so kindly brought over for her, declares, "Ah, fuck it" to the hair extension, which Mandy then throws over the balcony, and away we go.

For some odd reason, Mandy thinks we need more drinks and buys a round. This is because she is evil and likes that, for once, everyone is falling except her (just kidding). Somehow, Caitlin manages to knock her drink over on my ass, then decides to embrace the Fundamental Principle of Equal Alcohol Consumption, ie. All drinks are created equal as long as their alcohol content is the same and the drink is within reach.

So yeah, she highjacks my drink, I get it back mostly empty, and I have to laugh because I'm usually the drink thief, so this is just hilarious.

Time to go. On the walk out the door, I command Caitlin to use my elbow for walking because she's no good on her own, somehow she still manages to trip herself, and I get her to sit for a minute, during which Mandy gets the phone number of the bouncer. We walk out to the bus, and en route, what to our wondering eyes should appear?  Take a wild guess...

"Fuck it, I LIKE this hair!" exclaims Caitlin, picking it up--yeah, she can't walk, but she can squat in the street to pick up her extension without so much as wobbling. THAT'S dedication, my friends! She gets on the bus, the very confused driver asks what the hell she has under her arm, and I reply with, "her hairdid," like it's perfectly sensible, and we're off.

Most of the bus ride back is spent with me on my knees on the bus looking for the lid to the rum, which I dropped when the bus hit a bump. This is also when I poured my entire drink all over myself and my cigarette, which I still tried to smoke even though it was out and never coming back. Patrick, being the CHAMP that he is, attempts to help me find the lid, but it's a goner, so I begin trying to drink as much of the rum as possible so as to waste as little of it as possible. Totally explains why I was fine the whole night until we got back, then BLAH. I didn't even remember until the next day that, when we got off the bus, Mandy and I crammed into the doorway of Justin's truck to harass him while Denise danced in the parking lot and made up songs about how all her friends are crazy. At least Justin was warned.

Oh, and for anyone who thought, "hey, where's mention of the rest of the girls in this?" I direct you to the Theory of JBFC Dispersal. This theory addresses JBFC movement away from an existing population, thus affecting population dynamics. Essentially, we scatter, and for this reason, I really have no clue where Missa and Dessi were for the majority of the evening. If one were to apply the Maggi/Mandy Uncertainty Principle to the two of them, chances are that they don't have a clue where they were the majority of the evening either. =D

So yeah, that was my saturday night, and I have to say it was hella fun. Now back to normalcy with the hubs and my other main man...

Oh, the things I do for science...