Start spreading the news.......

new york city. h-o-l-y s-h-i-t. i spent the weekend there with my 2 best friends from high school and a sorority sister from college and a shit ton of random people i've never met before. it was my first time. i know, i know, no one can believe that i'm 25 and never been to new york before. it's a good thing i haven't. i came back broke as the homeless and hungover as a college student on their first real bender. serious. but i must say that i indoubtedly had the best weekend of my entire life and have now made the decision that i will be moving there someday. soon. well 1 or 2 years soon, but nonetheless, soon. let me give you a brief (who am i kidding) recap. well what i can remember anyways.

i fly into newark on friday night. newark, you ask? yes, newark. one of my best friends lives there. again, newark, you ask? yup. when people refer to jersey as the armpit of america, they are hands down discussing newark. i think an actual armpit is better. these people in newark are unreal. i went to the only bar/restaurant/dance club (yes it was all three) that is suitable for white suburbia, and i am lucky that i survived. here's why. i am seated at the bar next to a large brazilian man. 80% of the population in newark is brazilian. nothing against brazilians, just stating the obvious. i ask him for his lighter to light my cigarette. it's a zippo. zippo's are prized possesions in newark. he gets up to go to the bathroom. when he comes back, his zippo is missing. he taps me on the shoulder, asking if i know who "stole" his coveted zippo. i say no, and turn the other way. next thing i know i get elbowed in the face by this man when he gets into a heated argument with the patron sitting next to him who is the one who in fact "stole" the zippo. this patron turns out to be a friend of the large brazilian and he "stole" the lighter as a joke. i guess he learned his lesson. as i did mine. stay the f out of newark. forever.

saturday moning, this trip has a LOT to do to redeem itself from the night before. i have the worst taste in my mouth about this place. we board the path to nyc (yeah baby), and walk off 45 minutes later onto 6th and 27th. Gramercy Park. ooh la la. already i was in love. but enough about my torrid love affair with this city, we'll get to that later. well, probably not. just rememeber: i love new york.

anyways, we spent the rest of the day/night doing typical new york things: eating, drinking, shopping, central park, battery park, luna park, eating, drinking, shopping. you get the pic. now comes sunday. the best day ever. we wake up in a haze from the night before. we got in as the sun was coming up. did i mention i love this place? we go to brunch where it is $17.95 all the mimosas and bloody's that one can drink. holy. shit. bring it on. there are 6 of us there. sorority sister brought along her gay best friend rob (alter ego bobby), and now he is my best friend as well, seeing as how every time the waitress would think we were leaving, he would order another round. brunch ended at 6. brunch started at 1. you understand. we continue on the bender that was our day, and go to another outdoor drinking hole. we manage to stay there until 9 or so, and remember that we have forgotten to check into out hotel. nice. we gather ourselves a bit and check into the facey hotel. when i say everyone knew we had arrived, please believe me. 3 drunk girls, facey hotel, hot bellboys? you do the math. our hot bellboy carted our 9 bags (yes, 9. for 3 nights. 3 girls.) to the 16th floor. so we get to our room. tipped the bellboy. and by tipping i mean made out with. brittan (best friend, NOT the one from newark) bet me i wouldn't do it. i am not one to turn down a bet. ever. try me. so i made out with the bellboy. hey, i never said i was classy.

the night continues. you all should appreciate this. remember the boy i talked about in the ritz carlton post? remember he lives in new york? yes, you all remember. anyways, he calls. he's at the jersey shore, and won't be returning until monday. the day i am leaving. he has now asked me to stay in new york an additional 2 days and HE will pay for my flight change. on sunday night this is obviously what i am going to do. monday morning i was thinking a bit clearer. then he calls. and asks me to do stay. AGAIN. what do i do? spontanaity (sp?) is not my thing. i am nervous. long story short, i end up not staying, much to his protests. but then i got thinking...i was genuinely upset when it didn't work out. i might actually like this guy. awesome. i live in atlanta. he lives in new york. i'm flying to see him next month. i'll let everyone know. i'm sure you'll be sitting on the end of your seats until then.

and that was new york for me. i f'ing love this city. bag pedlers and all. new york, here i come.

25 going on 18

The blogmosphere certainly doesn’t need more dribble about the trials and tribulations of a twenty-something (hate, HATE that term), but GEEZUS it’s an odd time of life.

I’m constantly being catapulted from maturity to adolescence...and I feel like I’m faking one of the two, but I’m not sure which one. Do I enjoy laid-back evenings discussing heavy issues, or would I rather be *wasted* dancing on a stage? Is my mature behavior a societal obligation I’m conforming to, or has stage-dancing lost its luster and I’m just holding on to the threads of a fading youth? Deep.

The only way someone can survive this age bracket is to be one helluva actor. One second you’re in a board room presenting this fiscal year’s marketing budget, and the next you’re roadtripin-it to Destin, without a hotel room, planning to sleep in a Honda.

Maybe I’ll find the answers to my questions this weekend. NOT!!!!!!!!!!!! Destin or bust!

Ha.

I am a desperate housewife.....

well, not really. but i do consider myself to be a housewife these days. actually, i am pretty desperate too. but i'm not. well i am. well.....i've now gone on too long.

for those of you confused, i have quit my job. i've left the huge assholes behind to actually start doing work on their own. lazy mother-fuckers. i have a new job, but currently no office. therefore, i work from home. henceforth, i'm a housewife who is not a wife. i wake up and make the girls breakfast every morning, clean the house, do the laundry, and tuck the girls in at night. sometimes i read them a bedtime story. its really helping kris get a good night sleep for her new job.

for those of you who believe the above paragraph, why in the hell are you reading this blog? you don't belong.

Poop Wars

No, this isn’t a jab or commentary on the upcoming Star Wars movie. To be honest with you, I’ve never even seen a Star Wars movie, and don’t plan on it. I know the bare minimum to get through society without having to face the shame of never viewing “the best movies EVER”: Darth Vader is Luke’s father, George Lucas decided to make the movies completely out of sequence, and if someone calls you Chewbacca, it’s not a good thing. I digress, as usual…

(I’m warning you now. If you’re the type of guy that doesn’t believe girls poop, and you’d like to continue having me as the lead role in all your fantasies [because I know I am] I would refrain from reading right now)

What I’m really talking about is a maddening (female) bathroom ritual. I can’t speak for the men, but I imagine they’re rather uninhibited about their bowel movements, so they probably can’t relate to what I’m about to detail. In keeping with irrational womanly principles, it is unacceptable to let anything pass through your asshole within 25 feet of another human being (there are exceptions, about 75% of my best girlfriends are exceptions [TRUST me], but I’m talking in general). This makes for some uncomfortable situations in public restrooms.

First of all, an attempting-female-pooper will choose the most discreet stall, most likely the last stall – also known as the handicap stall – what a sensitive humanitarian you are, shithead. When I walk into a public restroom (specifically the one at my office) and all the stalls leading to the last one are empty, I know I’m in for a battle. Immediate silence combined with awkwardness radiates throughout the facility. My opponent is at a disadvantage; I know her thoughts, and I know her pain…and FYI, I can’t smell so there is no chance of gassing me out. Sometimes I’m a nice gal and piss/wipe in under 20 seconds…even skipping the hand wash in order to give privacy. But most of the time I don’t have the best disposition at work, and I’m going to make somebody suffer.

I begin by slooooowly walking to the stall directly next to the pooper. I then wrap the entire seat in toilet paper, de-pant and sit - doing all excruciatingly slow. I then challenge myself to release the piss at the rate of an 80 year-old woman with a urinary track infection. A little painful for me, but worth the cause and it’s probably good for the kegel. I wait for a while by looking at each one of my fingernails, wipe, re-pant and flush. At this point, it’s been about two minutes, and I can spend another 2-3 washing my hands and checking myself out in the mirror.

I know in my heart the pooper is infuriated with me, and that there are beads of sweat forming on her forehead. So why does this give me joy? Well, like I said, I’m generally mean at work, but more so, I feel that I’m teaching a lesson. You have two choices, change your diet so you can hold off till you’re in the privacy of your own home, OR be loud, be proud and POOP.

happy birthday to me, happy birthday to.....

well, not me. aubrey. it's her 25th. everyone wish aubrey a happy birthday tomorrow night when you see us passed out somewhere between 1150 and 5th street. long live college drinking binges.

Livin' it up, Ritz Carlton style

I celebrated Cinco de Mayo last week. Not too sure what or why I was celebrating, but I certainly celebrated. Kris and I were on our own...Aub had class, so we had to brave the festivities together. We started off at Smith's Old Bar, not your typical Cinco de Mayo local. We went with a couple friends, and some clients of these said friends. Well, it was open bar. Did we take advantage of this? What do you think? Kristen and I are about 4 coronas deep when we concoct this amazing story about the 2 of us being quarter mexican. Now I won't go into detail, since Kris did in her last post, but let me tell you, it was fucking brilliant. All I am going to say is our only mexican like characteristic is the fact that we both have brown hair. And Kris's is even on the blonde side of brown. Who were we kidding? Whatever, we had a blast amusing ourselves, if no one else.

So anyways, on with the night. We continue to drink many cervezas (as we say in Mexico), many shots (being brought to us by a 50 year old female client of our friend), and just having a grand old time. Then we meet some boys. Well, I meet a boy, Kristen meets a weird dancing dude that she was NOT amused by. Anyways, to make a really long story short, we decide to go to East Andrews, where another Cinco de Mayo party was taking place. We somehow concoct another lie, to get said weird dancing guy away from us. Me, Kris, and my brand new boyfriend Marc go to East Andrews. About an hour into being there, we decide to leave. We put Kris in a cab and are discussing where we will go next. Home, obviosuly. It is 1:00 a.m. and I have to be up in 5 hours to get my ass to a job that I despise. So we head off to the Ritz Carlton...did I forget to mention that my brand new boyfriend Marc lives in New York and his company put him up at the Ritz Carlton for the night? Of course, I did what any Julia Roberts wanna be would do, and I went with him. For anyone who was in the vicinity of the Ritz Carlton on Thursday night, yes, that was me. That drunk girl dancing along, singing her own praises for ending up at the Ritz. Well, let the truth be told, that we went to the bar, had more drinks, and before anything above a PG-13 rating could occur, I passed out in my own stank. That's right, so drunk that as soon as my face hit the pillow I was out. Like a light. Julia Roberts would be proud. Fuck me. No really, would someone?

So that is my tale of our very first Cinco de Mayo as Mexicans. Don't worry Kris, this will be a story to tell for years to come.

On a little side note.....I might be off the blog for the next couple of days....I am trying to get enough balls to quit my job. I am furious with my boss at any given time, want to kill the idiots that I have to deal with on a constant basis, yet the thought of having to quit terrifies me. Please everyone, say a little prayer.....

Uninspired

I want to write. So bad. But to be honest with you, I can’t formulate anything funny or entertaining at the moment. I have so much going on; my brain only has the ability to focus on purely factual, urgent subjects. All creativity has been abandoned. There appears to be a silver lining…a point in which I can foresee my type-A taking a backseat, allowing my carefree, humorous side to take shotty, but until then I apologize for the contents of the blog (or lack thereof).

While we’re on the subject of slack-ass blogging; my co writers apparently have nothing to say either. We’ve all been stressed. I’ll give Kris till next Friday (her finals will be over then). And Shan, you get till Tuesday (because you shouldn’t care about your boss and because I hate Tuesdays and it will cheer me up). Okay? Okay.