At the time I'm writing this, I am 26 years old. I grew up in a variety of small towns, went to college in a small town, dropped out of college, and found myself in the heart of Chicago. I work at a bar. I probably drink too much. This is the world through my eyes.
My laptop is a piece of shit. I’ve been meaning to save up for a new one to no avail, but I now have a new found motivation.
my own computer is crappy, I no longer do my important Facebook status
updates at my desk in my room. Instead, I use the house computer, which
is located in the living room.
far as I can tell, I live with seven or eight people. It depends on the
day. Sometimes I wake up to find a strange man walking out of the
bathroom, causing me to scream, “Why are you here? What are you doing
in my house?!”, thus making him feel like a rapist. However, for the
most part, I’m pretty sure my real roommates are Derek Dziak and
never had a problem with Derek sitting down at the house computer where
I had absently left myself logged in to Facebook and proceeding to post
ridiculous status updates encouraging people to come to my place of
business to scratch my butt. Derek has a nice computer in his room and
only comes out of his cave to grab another beer.
doesn’t have a computer in her room. Even if she did, I think she
enjoys human contact and waking up before 5pm to venture into the
mutual living spaces.
said, far be it for me to think I could leave for work without logging
myself out of every imaginable social networking account, lest they be
to my blackberry blowing up on the waitress table at Cleos on Chicago
Ave., notifying me that seven people have commented on my latest
update, “If i could bang Trev from season 8 of Hells Kitchen, my vagina
could die happy.”
it is funny, so I understand the plethora of “likes” and comments--but
come on. I’d never want to bang Trev from season 8 of Hell’s Kitchen!
He has angry eyebrows, a mysteriously red nose, and always looks like
he’s about to cry.
do find a lot of the status pollution Colleen has been spouting as me
to be humorous, so perhaps they don’t bother me that much. But then
there’s the “poking.” I have left the room for two minutes to use the
bathroom and returned to find that I had “poked” six people.
a result, I imagine that my Facebook behavior can seem confusing and a
bit schizophrenic. Here is a list of clues that indicate my account has
been hijacked by Colleen:
Status says anything complimentary about Colleen Moore, followed by a
comment from Colleen Moore thanking me for the compliment.
2) We haven’t spoken in ten years and you were poked by me.
3) ANYONE was poked by me, because I just don’t DO that.
4) Status does not have capital letters where warranted.
5) Exclamation points.
6) Status is followed by exorbitant amounts of comments from IamTheBeef.
7) At least three different statuses have been posted within one hour.
8) Status has a comment from me in all caps, demanding Colleen get off my Facebook.
would like to say if the main subject of the status is farts, pooping,
or butts, that it means Colleen wrote it, but those are also some of my
favorite subjects. You’ll just have to use these eight indicators to
figure it out.
Today marks the first day I realized I was hearing Christmas music in a store.
Yes. It’s that time of year. Ready... Set... Depression!
I admit I’m a bit of a Scrooge, and I dare anyone to give me shit about it. I’ve been earning this status my entire life.
birthday is on Christmas. Now, I know what you’re going to say. You’re
going to say, “Christmas Day?” To which I will respond with, “Yes.”
Then you’ll say, “In December?” And, again, I’ll say, “Yes.” Then, in
an exercise of absolute futility, as though you assume that I’m
confused as to which day Christmas lands on or that I’m not really
clear on my own birth date, you’ll ask, “The 25th?”
I throw whatever random objects happen to be in my pocket at your head,
because you don’t deserve the obvious answer, because you’re wasting my
a youngster, everyone thinks having your birthday on Christmas is the
coolest thing, because you get twice the presents. Then you get a
little older, a little wiser, and realize you get the same amount of
presents everyone else gets in a year span, just all in one day.
I’m not so materialistic that my beef with Christmas has to do with
presents. It’s the lack of recognition. You know that girl at the bar
wearing a tiara, cheering with her friends and announcing to any idiot
in her general vicinity, “It’s my birthday!”
I hate that girl. Because I can never be that girl.
the momentous 21st birthday. Many people end up with stories of
incredible intoxication, dancing, falling, making mistakes. My 21st
birthday? While at my parents house during my winter break from
college, I returned from midnight mass on Christmas Eve, and had a
glass of wine with my parents. A--one--glass. That’s lame on so many
levels, not to mention that I don’t even like wine. Plus, I felt like I
had to pretend I had no idea what non-Communion wine tasted like (even
though I had been quite familiar for at least eight years).
do have one fond memory. My 17th birthday. That year, not only did one
group of friends decorate my locker on the last day of school before
winter break, but another group of my friends threw me a surprise
party! Wow! That was more birthday action than I’d seen in years.
made me happy. It really did. But that bubble was popped by the
pathetic pin when I found out that my parents, aware of my disdain for
my birthday, had--wait for it--put my friends up to it.
next big milestone will be in two years: The big 30. How will I
celebrate? I’ll probably take a couple of days off from my job working
in a restaurant and go to my grandma’s in the Poconos--read: In the
middle of the woods in Pennsylvania, secluded from civilization, cooped
up with my immediate family, pretending I don’t need to drink whiskey
to sleep, wondering how my life ended up this way, and not fucking
love my parents, but they should have just given in and told me that
all stereotypes are pretty much true (Read: Asians Love Onion Rings).
This would have saved me for years of feeling bad when a table of
African Americans asks me what kind of fountain drinks we serve, and I
skip the typical sodas and go straight to, “We have lemonade.”
My latest encounter with blatant stereotyping is courtesy of Hennessy.
Last night, I spotted a billboard for Hennessy’s most recent release: Hennessy Black.
That’s really enough said, right? NOPE! I did some research. Thank you, internet.
of all, Hennessy Black’s slogan is “Done different.” Newsflash,
marketers--black is how Hennessy has pretty much been done for at least
the last two decades. And my liberal, bleeding-heart can say that
because it’s just true. Ask Snoop Dogg, Afroman, Kanye West, Jay-Z, Dr.
Dre, 50 Cent, Ja Rule, Coolio, Eminem--whoops. Well, there’s always
promotions for the new cognac involved Hennessy teaming up with DJs,
holding events at dance clubs and an official YouTube music video to a
song called “When I Step in the Club” by Swizz Beatz.
unlike other cognacs which are typically expensive, can age for decades
and consumed neat (no mixers); Hennessy Black is $39.99 a bottle, ages
for 2.5 years and is “made to be mixed.” You can have it with your Red
Bull and fruity, sweet things, without the bartender looking at you
least they know their consumers. Like Joe Camel for kids and chocolate
flavored laxatives for bulimics. The only thing baffling is that this
is the company’s first new release since 1961. What took you so long to
figure this out?
while I was reading up on Hennessy, I learned that there was once a
Hennessy Pure White. But get this: It’s no longer available. (Actually,
you can find bottles on ebay and such, but it’s still a rare
Oh, when liquor imitates life. Now whatchoo got, Remy Martin?
*I thought this articlewas funny because it consistently refers to Hennessy Black as, simply, Black.
I’m sure most of you have seen the Megatouch games in bars. They’re those touch screen games, usually placed on the corner of the bar for barflies to absently spot the minor differences between two nearly identical photos or answer trivia questions, all while avoiding conversation with other people.
What more could you ask for? I’ll tell you what you could ask for. A high score list for each game! Guess what. Megatouch has that covered.
So, one evening, I sat at the corner of one of my favorite bars and proceeded to land high score marks. Multiple ones. And the best part was, I got to put my name on the high score list!
Clearly, I used this opportunity to show the bar world that people named “BOOB”, “FART”, and “CHODE” are the best at playing QShot.
By the time I’d earned my fifth high score, these juvenile antics just weren’t enough entertainment for me. I had to take it up a notch.
What to do?
I stared at the blank “Enter Your Name” field, and slowly starting choosing my letters.
K... I… K… E…
Now, deep down, I’m not a racist person, but the idea that maybe a racial slur could be the name of a top scorer in a public domain blew my mind.
But I paused. Oh, I paused, thinking, This could potentially be awesome and horrible, at the same time.
I took a deep breath and reluctantly hit “ENTER”.
“BAD NAME,” said Megatouch.
My head nearly exploded. But, of course, I had to see just how many racial slurs this computer was aware of.
At that point, I start to realize that somebody actually had the job of making some program to keep hate speech off this machine. That person had to research, make a list, and spend time entering each name into the database.
I want that job.
On a later date, I brought a friend along to show him how Megatouch won’t allow ethnic slurs as high score names. He was equally entertained, and we proceeded to try and dupe the machine.
Well, let’s just say there’s now a bar in Chicago’s UkrainianVillage with a Megatouch machine that has a high score belonging to “COON”.
Sorry about that.
And at the end of the day, if we’ve learned anything from this, it’s that Megatouch machines are better human beings than me.
I like weddings. I may be jaded and single, but how can I not love an event that includes music, dancing, and open bars? Especially the open bar part—and believe me, I make sure to take complete advantage of that situation.
Yes, I get drunk at weddings. I know. You’re shocked. I’m just full of surprises.
So, coming out of any wedding I attend, there’s always a fun Maggie story—usually involving who I made out with and where. But one Maggie Wedding Story is the Maggie Wedding Story to end all Maggie Wedding Stories. And it happened, of all places, in the cute little town of St. Joseph, MI.
I work at a small, neighborhood bar. What that means is that we have a lot of “regulars”—people who are there almost every day. We know them by name. We know what they want to drink before they even get to the bar. We know way more about their lives than we probably care to.
A few years ago, our favorite young couple, Jason and Sarah, came in to announce that they were engaged. Glasses were raised, Kirins were consumed, and the Jameson flowed. The catch? They wanted the bartender, Stephen, to bartend their reception, and for me to assist him. We graciously obliged.
The plan:Archie, the door man, would drive Stephen and me to their wedding in St. Joseph, MI. Jason booked a room for the three of us to share. We would attend the wedding, pour the drinks at the reception, go to sleep, leave the next day.
Simple enough. However, nobody considered the fact that Stephen* and I are raging drunks. So this is, more or less, what actually happened:
-We all meet at Cleos on Armitage and have brunch—brunch which included alcoholic beverages (save Archie, our driver).
-We hit the road.
1:20pm-Stephen and I crack open a couple of beers in the car.
1:45pm-Stephen and I have another round in the car.
2:00pm-Stephen starts telling the lady voice of Archie’s GPS dirty things he wants to do to her.
-We’re in St. Joseph, and having some navigational trouble, causing Stephen to name-call the lady voice of Archie’s GPS, such things as “Bitch” and “Twat”.
-We find the hotel, and get ready to check in. The lady at the desk thinks I’m Stephen’s wife.
2:50pm-Check in was a long process, but we have our keys and get ready to settle in. I grab one of the hotel business cards, in case I need help finding it, later.
-We’re in our room, and Stephen and I celebrate this feat by having another beer.
4:00pm-After milling around the room and waiting for me, the GIRL, to finish getting ready, we arrive at the wedding just in time to say hi to the receiving line and take pictures.
4:15pm-Stephen and I head to the reception hall to set up our bar.
-We find the reception hall and the beer kegs. To celebrate this feat, Stephen and I have a beer.
4:32pm-I realize that Stephen’s planning to, more or less, just drink and hang out, so I start taking charge.
-By now the reception is under way, and so is Stephen’s intoxication. I try to stay focused.
-We’ve run out of Sprite, so Stephen wanders out into St. Joseph to find some.
-Stephen’s lost, and texted Archie to find him. In his travels, he asked prostitutes for directions, and took pictures of himself making out with a scarecrow.
8:00pm-Archie found Stephen and returned him to the reception hall. Stephen’s now pretty much worthless as a bartender, so he just keeps drinking.
8:30pm-Stephen, a Cubs fan, decides to take the microphone from the DJ and lead the reception in a rousing rendition of “Take Me Out to the Ballgame”.
9:00pm-Archie brings Stephen back to the hotel and I run the show. Stephen falls asleep, pantsless, on the couch in our room. At some point, he wakes up with a hankering for “crisps”—he’s British, so what he wants are potato chips, folks. He and Archie get in a fight with the broken vending machine, and the machine won. So Archie goes to the store and brings back at least five different varieties of chips.
-I’d been keeping things under control at the reception while the boys ate potato chips, and reward myself with a shot of whiskey.
And that said, I can no longer provide you with a timetable. My last memory is of me talking to a few tall figures, which makes me inclined to say they were the groomsmen.
The next day:
7:00am-I wake up in bed, in my underwear. My first panic is that, in my blackout, I stripped out of my dress to go to bed in front of Archie and Stephen. I sheepishly start peering over my sheets to survey the room, and realize that Stephen and Archie aren’t there.
7:-I realize I’m not in the room that we had checked into.
7:-I look next to me and am relieved that not only am I alone, but the other side of the bed is completely untouched.
7:05am-I see my dress and shoes laying right in front of the door, and conclude that I had probably, more or less, walked right out of my clothes and into bed.
7:-I go to put my dress on, and find a receipt for the room, in my name, on the floor with my clothes.
7:-I call Archie, and get his voicemail. I tell him I guess I had paid for my own room at a different hotel, and have to lean out to window to see the name of it so I can tell him where I am.
-I go back to sleep.
9:00am-Archie calls and is coming to get me.
9:15am-I’m in the lobby, in my dress, makeup smeared on my face, having coffee. I recognize one of the groomsmen, also in the lobby, and we chat. He tells me he was going to try to go back to Chicago to work that day, but that didn’t work out. I tell him I’m not even in the hotel I was supposed to be in. That in my blackout, apparently, I booked myself my own room and have no idea where I am.
9:30am-Archie arrives and I say goodbye to the groomsman. He tells me it was nice to meet me, and that he has my number and we’ll hang out sometime. I think, “Of course you have my number. Why would you not have my number after last night?”—but instead of saying that, I decide to say, “Oh sure… what’s your name again?”
Everything else I’m about to pen is information I’ve gathered from other people on what happened that night:
The groomsman I talked to in the hotel lobby asked me to dance, and I went on the dance floor with him, and proceeded made out with him. Of course.
I insisted the bride take the crumpled pile of tips Stephen and I had earned.
I went to a bar with a couple of people. When I was ready to leave, I simply walked out into St. Joseph and wandered. Archie received a voicemail from this part of my evening:
“Archie. *click click click* (my heels on the concrete) I don’t know where I am. *click click click* Come find me. *click click* I’ll call you later.”
Apparently, at that point, Archie informs everyone that I’m lost and wandering around St. Joseph, and he gets into his car and tries to find me. Obviously, to no avail.
And you can imagine how pissed off I was when, in the car on the way back to Chicago, I found that business card from the hotel I was supposed to be in—which I had foresight to grab in order to avoid the exact situation in which I had ended up.
*Stephen is now sober and has been for months, maybe even almost a year.
***Note: I wrote this two or three years ago, so it's not quite current. But worth it.***
It was a Saturday afternoon. I had the entire day-off and not much on my schedule for the following day. This was a rare occurrence, so I had reason to celebrate.
I started by having bloody maries and brunch at my favorite neighborhood bar. After managing to hang out and drink there for four or five hours, I took myself home and promptly passed out.
When I awoke, it was only 11:30pm. I knew if I tried to stay home, I’d never fall back asleep, so I had to go out. At least, that was my logic. It’s amazing how easily a Chicagoan can convince herself that she simply has to drink more. I guess that’s just a testament to Chicago being the number one binge drinking city in America.
I took some time to regroup and redress, but where to go? It was about midnight, so I decided the logical thing to do would be to go to my favorite 4am (5am on Saturdays) bar, the Continental. Seeing as how midnight is early for a four am-er, my guess was that it wouldn’t be too busy, and I can just hang out at the end of the bar and watch the drunk hipsters roll in and make asses of themselves.
It was the perfect plan, and I was executing it brilliantly. As I sipped my bottle of Miller High Life, I observed the drunk guys trying to work on the drunk girls, the over-served and slobbering drunks, and the few intoxicated chicks vying for attention. I hate to say it, but that’s one of the reasons I love that place. It’s always a spectacle.
Eventually a douche bag in a polo shirt (nothing against polo shirts, that’s just what he was wearing) decides to play the “come on, why don’t you smile?” game with me, as if the fact that he’s talking to me should brighten my entire night. I flash him a purposefully fake one, and he neglects to notice the purposefully fake part.
A few minutes later, he’s slithered up next to me and buys my next beer.
“Are you people watching?” he asked. “Yup,” I replied, my eyes still focused forward on the crowd in front of me. “Sociology?” Well, he almost got me. “Behavioral Psychology.” I made sure not to look his way, or the change the expression on my face. “That explains it,” he said, snapping me out of my cold demeanor. “What’s that supposed to mean?” I asked as I turned to him. “Oh, you just seem like the typical cynical girl hanging at the end of the bar.” I didn’t realize there was a typology for people like me. “Ah. Welp, guess you got me,” I said sarcastically. Again, he didn’t notice the sarcastic part.
The douche bag tells me to cheer up as he moves on to another project. I’m sure his tactics will invoke peace on earth, someday.
Maybe I was a little too harsh, but The Continental is the kind of place where one really needs to keep one’s guard up. It’s a total pick up and hook up bar and everyone is just incredibly drunk.
With that said, I proceeded to drink a few more beers and throw back a few more shots. The last time I looked at the clock, it was just after 3am. I had a cloudy memory of a guy coming up and talking to me, and I didn’t give him grief. In fact, I’m inclined to say I talked a lot. I talked a lot and I thought he was absolutely adorable. Even though if you were to put together a line up of dudes and tell me to pick out which one he was, I wouldn’t be able to tell you, I know I thought he was absolutely adorable because I stated that exact phrase repeatedly as we made out on the sidewalk.
The next morning I was alone (thank God) and incredibly hung over. When I went into my kitchen, I found a phone number scribbled on a small piece of paper with the name “Richi” on it. I guessed the name and number belonged to the absolutely adorable guy. At least I had a name, not that it mattered as there was no way I was going to call that guy. I can just imagine it:
“Hi. This is the very drunk girl you made out with the other night. You probably don’t remember me very much, either, but let’s go out sometime.”
No. You just don’t do that. But it was a fun night, anyway.
A week or two goes by. I was sitting in my living room, when I received a text message from my coworker, saying “Nice picture in TimeOut.” TimeOut: Chicago is a local magazine that contains a couple of interesting articles, but mostly reviews of local shows, stores, restaurants and night life. My natural reaction to this text was that they must have done a feature of prostitutes or strippers or something of the like, and he was joking that I was in it.
Text message ignored.
The next day, the same co-worker repeated that there was a picture of me in TimeOut.
“For what?” I asked, thinking maybe it was from when I was bartending or something. “You’re kissing some guy in an article called ’Get hammered, nailed.’ No joke!” “You’re kidding.” “Nope.” (Pause) “I’m awesome.”
Naturally, I needed to see this with my own eyes. I assumed the whole thing would be online, so I head out a few blocks to my favorite wifi coffee shop. The barista greeted me with familiarity as I approached the counter for my coffee. I saw that she had some TimeOut: Chicago magazines behind the counter, so I asked for one. As she poured my beverage, I thumbed through and found the article. There I was, on page 26, in all of my drunken glory for the whole city to see, locking lips with a complete stranger.
I started to giggle, of course. The barista startled me when she asked what kind of cream I wanted in my coffee.
“I’m sorry, what?” I asked, still laughing. “What are you laughing at?” she asked. I placed the magazine on the counter, turned it to face her, and silently pointed at my picture. “Oh my God! You look so cute!” she said. “Yeah, thanks!” “Who’s that guy?” “I dunno. I think his name’s Richi.” “He’s cute!” “Yeah… but I didn’t take him home.” “Why not?”
That made me laugh, and feel much better about the somewhat embarrassing situation.
“Oh, a few too many of those nights under my belt,” I replied as I headed to my table.
I sat and examined the photo further, and I noticed my beer was in front of me on the bar. I looked closer, and saw that even during this blacked out make out session, my hand was still clutching the bottle.
I’m not a city girl. I’m not even a suburban girl. I grew up in a variety of borderline rural towns. I mean, I had cows for neighbors. That said, I had few interactions with people who weren’t straight up Caucasian, although I knew from the television and Chris Rock that certain stereotypes exist.
For instance, I knew that, apparently, black people really dig fried chicken and watermelons. That’s what the TV said. I knew that Mexicans were, apparently, lazy. That’s what the TV said. Then I moved out to the metropolis of Chicago, and—while working in restaurants—started to see some of these stereotypes come true (other than the lazy Mexican thing. I still don’t know how that got started). But one stereotype was never mentioned out it the fields and farms of my childhood.
Asians love onion rings.
Seriously. They do. They’re like locusts with that shit. I’m not trying to be mean, here. Hear me out:
I was working in a bar that was located close to the University of Illinois at Chicago (UIC). As it turns out, this school does have a particularly large Asian American population, and because of that, I often found myself waiting on these UIC Asian Americans. I would say that 80 per cent of the time, they would order onion rings. And the thicker the accent, the more the Asian American struggled with the English language, the more onion rings he or she would want.
I remember one table, in particular, was a family. Possibly parents visiting their Asian American UIC student. It appeared that the parents didn’t even speak English, and the son—thick-accented and all—did the ordering for the table. He asked for two orders of onion rings. They got them. Ate them. Then he asked me for two MORE orders of onion rings.
I’m telling you. Asians love onion rings.
I had just experienced this revelation when I went to visit a college friend. I told him Asians love onion rings. He told me I was racist. When I got back to Chicago and back to work, my very first shift back, one of my tables was a nice young Asian couple. The male in the outfit did the ordering—with a thick accent, mind you. Guess what they wanted for an appetizer?
You got it. Onion rings. Because Asians love onion rings.
So I immediately texted my friend to inform him that I’m not racist. It’s actual, empirical data. Asians love onion rings. If you wanted, I could probably draw you a graph based on what I’ve seen. Just observing and reporting, like we learned in Behavioral Psychology—you don’t say anything about WHY the rat is hitting the lever in the Skinner Box, just explain what you did to it before the experiment, and report how many times it hits the lever.
I don’t know what happened to these Asians before or why they order what they do, all I know is that they keep hitting that onion ring lever.
So there it is. Now everyone knows that Asians are good at math and love onion rings.
Since this past March (’09), I’ve been living with one of my best friends, Derek Dziak (star of the independent gore/comedy flick "The Landlord". He made me write that). Since then, there’s been lots of drinking at inappropriate hours, heart to hearts, Youtube video sharing, farts, and dick drawings.
On a typical morning, and a typical morning for our place is anywhere between and , Derek will tumble out of his room in nothing but boxers with a lit cigarette in hand. A lot of the time he’ll be singing Bon Jovi—or the like—at the top of his lungs, followed by staring at me while rubbing his nipples.
Yes, I see you. Good morning, Derek.
On one such occasion, he fell out of his room to find me sitting on the couch with a beer.
“Little early to be drinking, isn’t it?”
“It’s 5pm. It’s a little late to just be waking up.”
I should correct myself. He usually doesn’t walk around in just boxers, anymore. This is because one evening we were chatting. He was sitting in a chair, in just boxers, telling me some story. Part of this story involved his foot, and as he talked, he lifted his leg in order to gesture at his foot.
To this day, I couldn’t tell you what he was talking about, as I was distracted by one of his testicles stepping out for some air, if you will.
After a quick debate in my head as to whether or not I should inform him of this wardrobe malfunction, I decided it’d be best to let him know.
“Derek… your ball’s hanging out.”
After being slightly embarrassed and tucking himself back in, he looked at me and said, “That wasn’t even my good one. But it was smooth as a baby’s butt, huh.”
So I often find myself polluting my Facebook statuses and Twitter feeds with quips of our conversations. After some digging, I’ve decided to share all of them with you, right here on my blarg.
Derek walks into the kitchen to find me drinking beer and cooking.
D: “Smells good.”
M: “I don’t know what I’m making, but I’m gonna put it over noodles and eat it. *swigs beer*”
D: "Why can’t I meet a girl who likes sex and Mystery Science Theater 3000 who isn’t you?”
While watching a video of Queen performing “We Are the Champions”
M: (in reference to Freddy Mercury) “Power stance.”
D: “You think he fucked guys in that position?”
I watch as Derek slabs a ridiculous amount of peanut butter on his toast.
M: “Jesus, Derek.”
D: “What? Peanut butter is good for you.”
M: “Do you know how many calories are in that?”
I reach for the jar. Derek snatches it up and runs to his room, returning moments later, and carefully placing it in the cupboard.
D: “Whatever you do, don’t turn it around.”
Naturally, I slowly turn the jar around to find that he had taken a marker and drawn a huge dick on it.
We laugh for a good five minutes.
D: “There’s a tall dorky guy on the couch. You should bang him!”
M: “What. Are you, like, leaving me gifts, now?”
M: “How noticeable is this?”
D: “What, that hickey?”
M: “No, my fucking collarbone, you retard. Yes, that hickey.”
I find a Dane Cook CD in his room, and proceed to yell at him.
D: *stares at me, picks up a sharpie and the CD and proceeds to draw on it*
M: “What are you?... DRAWING A DICK ON IT DOESN’T MAKE IT BETTER!”
D: “What, you don’t want to listen to Dane Cook?”
M: “I’d rather listen to ‘Save a Horse, Ride a Cowboy’ and ‘Fuck the Pain Away’ in a loop.”
Derek comes home as his drunken alter ego, “Creation”, bangs on my door and gets me up. I proceed to follow him around the kitchen while he mumbles and falls over a lot. Eventually, he ends up laying on his back in front of the refrigerator, managing to move the refrigerator in the process, then requests of me:
D: “The brain damage… ignore…”
I tell Derek I really like a guy and it’s confusing. He gives his insight.
D: “But you don’t date guys… you use them.”
While discussing whether or not I’m a hipster.
D: “I’ve figured it out! You’re not a hipster girl. You’re a hipster GUY. All you need is an ironic mustache and it’ll be perfect!”
Derek observes me experiencing the heartache of lost love.
D: “This is good. I didn’t know you had a soul.”
M: “I need to get new razors.”
D: “For your vagine?” (Pronounced vah-jeen)
When I get irritable.
M: “You just got up, and how many times have I said ‘Fuck you’?”
D: “I dunno… how many times have I thrust my genitals in your direction?”
Out of nowhere.
D: “Remember that song, Mambo No.5?”
D: “We need to hit that up on the juke box the next time we’re at Cleos.”
To the cat while hanging out with me in my room.
D: “You can’t come in here, cat. This is boys only.”
Derek comes home as “Creation”, again.
D: “We are really slacking… on the butt fucking.”
Derek in the bathroom.
D: *indistinguishable mumbles*
M: “Don’t talk to me while you’re pooping!”
While eating chicken wings together.
M: *chewing* “I had a 29 day cycle, this month.”
D: *drops his wing* “Why do you tell me these things? And while I’m eating chicken wings?”
On my appetite.
M: “I’m just constantly hungry. I had a sandwich, then some noodles, and I’ve been eating jelly beans all day. I don’t even like jelly beans, but I got the good Starburst kind.”
D: *blank stare*
M: “I’m not pregnant.”
D: “Well… I’m out of ideas.”
M: “Hey, Derek. If you got semen in your hair and let it dry, would it just flake off like dandruff?”
D: “Yeah, pretty much.”
M: “Just checking for accuracy.”
D: “Ooohooo. I guess you had a fun night, last night!”
(note: I was checking for a stand up bit. Thanks)
Here we are making brunch. Yes, he's making a vulgar gesture with the tongs.
Anyone else notice that in the past couple of months, Scotland has been showing up in news headlines?
What’s that all about?
I’ve been living on this planet for over two decades, having come from a primarily Scottish family, and even I sometimes forget that the little country exists—because people are never running around just talking about it.
First of all, I would like to voice a complaint that while I’m struggling to get by as a waitress, there are people out there building entire careers by explaining to everyone where their food originated. Do you even need a degree for that? I mean, I’m pretty sure Google and Wikipedia have it covered.
But back to the haggis. At an early age, Scottish children have a pride for their traditions ingrained in them, and haggis is right at the top of the list. And now, England seems to want to take it away from them.
Yes. I just said that England is taking pride away from little Scottish children.
Do you know what haggis consists of? Let me tell you. It’s made from the aptly named sheep “offal” (liver, heart and lungs), minced with onion, oatmeal, fat and spices, and then boiled in an animal’s stomach. Usually a cow’s, I think.
So there. A buncha innards stuffed in more innards and fucking BOILED. Really, England? This is what it’s come down to? We know it’s not about the actual haggis, because, obviously, whey the hell would you want it? You’ve just been America’s bitch for so long, you just had to go out and prove that you can still bully your neighbors.
“Sure, Scotland, you can have your own parliament. Oh, by the way, your beloved national dish? Yeah, we started that. Now get over here for your wedgie and give us your lunch money.”
Oh yeah, England. We’re real impressed over here.
The second big headline as of late is a bit more serious. In 1988, Abdelbeset Ali Mohmed al Megrahi bombed Pan Am Flight 103 over the Scottish town of Lockerbie. The bomb killed 270 people. Since then, Al Megrahi had been serving a life sentence in Scotland, but was recently released on "compassionate" grounds—said grounds being that he has prostate cancer and three months to live.
Personally, I don’t have an opinion on the release, either way. The dude’s gonna die real soon. That’s all I can say. But understandably, many people are outraged. So outraged, that there is a call for people to boycott Scottish goods.
Oh no! That means you’ll have to give up… uhm… hold on, let me think… well shit… there’s gotta be something…
Well there’s Scotch whisky, which isn’t really that hot of an item as far as I can tell, anyway. I suppose just the cigar smoking old guys in the stag room at the country club would be the only ones effected by that.
I guess no more Rusty Nails (primary ingredient being the Scottish liqueur, Drambuie, which isn’t carried by many bars, anyway). In fact, the only person I’ve known to drink Rusty Nails is my own mother, and more recently, my own brother. So basically, the Ian side of the Ednie clan might have to rethink their order on the rare occasions they crave a Rusty Nail. Otherwise, I don’t think anyone else cares.
This one’s going to be tough:No singing “500 Miles” by the Scottish group, The Proclaimers, in karaoke. Sorry guys. Though you should ask yourself, why are you going to sing karaoke, anyway?
Oh yeah. Tiger Woods? Every time you swing that club, you’re supporting terrorism, because the Scots invented golf.
But I suppose the worst push is to not visit Scotland. Even that doesn’t do much, as none of us are doing much international travel, right now, since we’re all broke. We can’t all be food historians, you know.
But all boycotting aside, I think my favorite part of this controversy is the commentary. One guy on NPR said, literally, that “Scotland needs to be careful not to further annoy the U.S.”
Further “annoy” the U.S.
So, Scotland does something we disagree with, and instead of, say, bombing them or at least sending Hillary over to talk to them, we’re just irritated. Like, Scotland is just an obnoxious younger sibling, playing the “I’m not touching you. I’m not touching you” game. I can hear it now:
“Seriously, Scotland… cut it out. Cut it OUT! If you don’t quit it, we WILL give you a noogie, swear to God. Yeah, yeah. Cut the haggis crap. We talked to England the other day, and she told us the real story. Now shut up and go practice your bagpipes. But, please, shut the door when you do. Leave it to you guys to embrace an instrument that can only be likened to the sound of cows being slaughtered.” **
**I love bagpipes. The last sentence was just for effect.
While I was researching some facts for this post (I do that, sometimes) I came across this Op-Ed, and it's fantastic.
I used to teach dance to little kids. I mean, really little kids--I'm talking 4-5 year-olds. And the thing about teaching ballet to that age group is that sometimes their mom, dad, or caretaker doesn't stay during the class. And sometimes they need help using the potty. And ALL the time, they're wearing tights and a full torso leotard.
So, while I was totally qualified to teach ballet, I didn't realize how often I would end up in a very small space with a mostly naked 4 year-old, whose sitting on the toilet, yapping away about something her baby brother did, while I'm trying to decide where my eyes should be looking.
Maybe it just weirded me out because it's been so long since I'd been that comfortable taking my clothes off in front of just anybody. I mean, I've been out of college for a good five years, now.
I had one little one who didn't need help. So one day she had to go, and I sent her into the potty. A few minutes later, class is interrupted by a shreik of glee, as she comes bursting out of the bathroom. She had managed to put her legs through the arm holes of her leotard, and was basically naked from the waist up. She proceeded to run around the studio, screaming. I had to physically CATCH this half-naked 4 year-old who didn't belong to me, and the only way to fix her wardrobe was to completely remove her leotard and put it back on. Of course, as soon as I got her out of her leotard, she took off running in just her tights. As I'm standing there, holding her clothes, trying to get her to come back and dress herself, her mom walks in to pick her up.
Luckily, most parents are aware of how crazy their little kids are, and they don't usually press charges.