Welcome to Atlanta

Where the traffic sucks a fattie.

Cheeplestase

Day drinking is always a fun time; driving two hours to a horse race in the middle of nowhere, while wearing dresses and fancy hats, now that is a KICK-ASS fun time. The photographic evidence of our frou-frou outfits will be enough to make all our northern friends/family stomachs’ churn. I consider it our baptism to the south; first is the slip of a “ya’ll”, then less and less people call you “Yankee”, and then you wear a fancy hat to a horse race and you’re officially a southerner. I digress, back to Steeplechase.

So last weekend Kris and I caravanned with some of my “work friends” up to Steeplechase. This was a pretty random group to begin with, which was only to become more random after meeting-up with the “work friend’s” friends – we were quite the motley crew of age groups. Our presence wasn’t necessarily desired by the 40+, divorcee, single women. They only warmed up to us after we provided them some fresh 26 year-old male-meat to flirt with (Thank you, Quincy and Peter). Apparently, Steeplechase is high season for aging women to find their next prospect(s). This is taken very seriously. Women Whores scour the surrounding area for men, like buzzards on garbage the day after Thanksgiving. Within minutes the DSWs (Divorced Single Women) were pissing a ring around the men in the group.

The day progressed quite nicely. A lot of alcohol and bean dip were consumed. One of the group’s bookies took a liking to Kris, so we were hooked-up with free betting tickets all day. We pocketed $18 – buoya! The bookie obviously could not hold Kris’ attention, because she passed the F out in the middle of the day. Distraught that their time together was being wasted, the bookie pulled-out his very best pre-pubescent tactics to wake her. I saw him waving a brownie under her nose at one point - so maybe the scent would wake her (?). I don’t know. He was odd.

The funny thing about day drinking is that nobody seems to realize (or admit) just how drunk they’ve become. At least three times that day, Kris would proclaim how not drunk she was and then say something so apparently drunkard, such as “cheeplestase”.

We stayed way after the races were over. Only us and one other car were there. Ironically, it was a car filled with girls whom the DSWs had a confrontation with earlier in the day. As the enemy car was pulling away, one of the girls actually shot a spitball at our group. Paralyzed from shock, we all sat there in amazement. I would be more enraged with this happening if I wasn’t such a firm believer in Karma. And in this particular situation, Karma is a very good friend of mine. The spitball slut just interviewed with Kristen’s law firm. Wonder if she’ll get the job? Waa-ha-ha.

Overall, a fabulous day…can’t wait for next year already. I’m sure there are a whole bunch of stories I’m forgetting…but if you remember them, you really haven’t done your job, have you?

Things I fear...

Only being able to converse about topics such as diapers, yard work, what I’m cooking for dinner, a great sale a target…Okay, let’s cut to the chase, I fear domestication.

Heights…I hate heights. Kris thinks it’s hilarious to exploit this as much as possible. It’s NOT funny to dangle off a 50th floor railing, just as it’s NOT funny to pull the bungee rope after I BEG you not to.

Anything related to the medical profession: needles, antibiotics, waiting rooms, throat cultures, even the damn tissue paper they wrap around their reclining deathbeds. I. Hate. It. All.

Karaoke. I loathe it to the point of fearing it. It’s fine to spectate - ya know - if you enjoy the sensation of your ears bleeding. 1 out of 20 karaoke participants can actually sing. Those odds suck.

Ladybugs. I know it’s irrational to fear this insect …actually, I can’t say I really “fear” them, I don’t think they’re going to kill me. I just think they’re grotesque; like little droplets of blood. Mwwmwkjfskjfdwj (FYI – that’s a vomit noise)

nostalgic

Remember when 420 was treated like a national holiday? Albeit an illegal national holiday, but just the same, a time to celebrate (read: skip class and hang with your favorite donor).

Shan had to remind me what day it is. I'm ashamed. You can officially revoke my cool-card.

Prank calling taken to a new level

I am warning you...this may offend some of you. It's not nice, it's certainly not mature, but it made me laugh so hard I think I peed a little. If you recall from earlier posts, I talked about my fam. I have 2 younger brothers, one of which is about to start his 5th year in college. He and I are very similar people...we look alike, laugh alike, and have almost the exact same sense of humor. So I obviously adore him. Here is where this prank call comes in. I am driving home from work on Friday...let me set the scene...it is 6:00 p.m. I am only as far as Buckhead at this point (Buckhead is approx. 20 miles from my work, 10 miles from my home. It took me an hour to reach that point on Friday afternoon). I am in a mood of sorts, when a call comes in on my cell piece. It is a 216 area code, so I answer, as this is an area code from Cleveland, where I am from. Here is a bit of dialogue:
Caller: Hi this is....from the relay center, number.....have you ever done a relay call before?
Me: Uhhh.....

Caller: I have a caller on the other line that is hearing impaired. They will type what they want to say, I will relay it to you, and type your answer back to them. Sound good?

Me: Thinking to myself, I don't know any deaf people. I choose to accept the call anyway. Maybe a friend of my parents, who knows at this point. You can only imagine the things running through my head.

Needless to say, I figured out it was my brother by the first thing he had the relay guy say to me, and I died. Literally laughed so hard I almost caused a wreck. My brother used a relay center FOR DEAF PEOPLE to prank call people.

Now I am sorry if this offended you, but this is honestly one of the most genius things I have ever been witness to. The kid may not graduate from college until 2008, but he sure does have an imagination.

Super DUPER Nanny

I’ve contemplated writing a how-to book on raising kids. The fact I don’t have children makes me all the more qualified. You see, somewhere between conception and birth, breeders lose a large degree of coolness and logic; all of a sudden it’s all about morals and good parenting. They’re so emotionally attached they’re unable to conjure up techniques that would actually have a traumatic significant affect on their offspring’s behavior. The following is a collection of expressions I’ve created/heard along the way - feel free to utilize any you see fit.

1. Don’t touch the walls, they’re poisonous.
2. For being such a good boy/girl, here is a yummy cookie (hand child a saltine – positive reinforcement AND good eating habits).
3. Crying gives you cancer.
4. AND/OR, mommy drinks because you cry.
5. Every time you hit your sister/brother, you kill a reindeer.
6. If you sit too close to the TV, one day you’ll have to get your eyeballs slit open and lasers shot into them (unlike its “you’ll go blind” predecessor, this has way more shock value and it’s the truth).
7. Fine, don’t make your bed…you’ll just give the boogey man easier access.
8. If you don’t get an education you’ll end up barefoot in a restroom, pregnant and married to a back-up dancer.

Doubtful

What exactly is a “Holler Back Girl”? Should I be concerned that I am one? Is Gwen Stefani intentionally trying to make me hate her? …just a few questions I’m pondering this morning.

I’ve always been a fan of No Doubt, especially their matriarch; I supported Gwen’s decision to lose the pink hair, I completely understood why marrying Gavin Rosdale required two weddings, I didn’t bitch when she decided she was a fashion designer (and charged mucho bucks for her black/white/red scribbling), AND I barely made fun of the acronym LAMB. BUT her last two singles are unforgivable…someone call Gwen’s pharmacist and get her off the hallucinogenics.

Let’s give her the benefit of the doubt, and say “Rich Girl” was bold and original. I mean who would have thought a musical score about a poor Jewish milkman, plus Eve would equal a huge hit that would be played relentlessly on the radio? Gwen, that’s who.

Following her “Rich Girl” success, she decided to see how far she could push her listeners with, “Holler Back Girl.” Regardless of whether I know what this Ebonics-based term means, I still despise this song. It makes me feel like I’m going crazy.

So all I have to say is (in her words) Gwennie has officially gone “bananas, ba-na-nas.”

Milestone

This weekend was one of my roommates’ bachelorette party AND bridal shower…it also marked my first crack at organizing pre-wedding festivities. Lindsay (da bride) is the first of my/our friends to attempt this whole marriage thing; unfortunately, this makes her the guinea pig for 3 girls that know more about Neuroanatomy than wedding etiquette.

Luckily, Lindsay has maintained friendships with girls that are more suited for this type-thing…because you see no matter how hard I try, I’m just never going to be capable of making goodie bags filled with blue gummie bears, with the tag line, “celebrating our beary special friend, Lindsay.” I don’t have it in me. That type of cheese is only found in girls who have extensive collections of proper pearls, and matching cardigan sets - Not that there’s anything wrong with that. If it were up to me, the invitations would have been evites and the party favors, airplane shots (how uncouth!).

The shower seemed to be status quo – brunch at Einstein’s Grille, chitchat, presents…actually, we decided to open presents at home during the bachelorette party. My best friend Emily, who is one of the girls responsible for making this a respectable event, had us all play “Present Bingo.” How I wish I possessed the genetic make-up that allowed everyone else to love this concept, but I don’t. Instead I relished in the fact that I had access to an entire 1/2g of vodka, and let Shannon draw tattoos on my leg for entertainment.

Once Bingo was over, we could get serious about the whole “party” aspect…or so I thought. First, a female powwow was required. Picture this: 15+ drunken girls standing in a circle, around the dining room table, bawling their eyes out, talking about Lindsay and Adam’s relationship. If I haven’t said it before, girls are whack. Eventually, everyone came to their senses and realized there was a PARTY to be had. Two groups of girls took off in two cabs, while the third group (which included me and the bride-to-be) hitched a ride with two hoodlums driving a Mercedes SUV – undoubtedly, it was stolen, but it got us to where we needed to be.

The night began at Cosmo/Lava, and yes, we were those girls. I know you guys find bachelorette parties to be absolutely obnoxious, but the thing is we don’t give a shit. There’s nothing funnier than to see a guy’s reaction when you ask him if he has a condom; such confusion mixed with excitement, and then complete devastation when he realizes that you’re a member of the 15 giggling girls. Lins was a trooper, she did all we requested – kissed men with mustaches, stood on tables, blow job shots, etc. The party then moved to Twisted Taco...just what we needed, karaoke. Seeing as it was our job to be the loudest most annoying people in Atlanta that night, we all participated in a rendition of “Girls Just Wanna Have Fun.”

From that point on was a climatic drop; everyone was beginning to fade and scatter. Kris and I went to the bathroom, and when we returned everyone was gone. We debated whether or not to continue our night at the Clermont Lounge, but I ended-up getting a guilty conscious and determined we should go home where the rest of the group was.

HOWEVER...before we could leave, Kris made a friend (actually, this might be my fav part of the night). A black girl and her huge black boyfriend were walking by us and overheard Kris complain about her feet hurting. Without missing a beat, the girl grabbed Kris’ foot and demanded that her boyfriend rub it. When he declined, she continued rubbing her foot and said that this is what her boyfriend does for her. Kris then switched on her best urban accent and got in a fabulous exchange with this girl about how “her world is magical.” I laughed so hard I cried. Those were the only tears I cried that day/night…must have been subconsciously over my happiness for Lindsay and Adam.

Wiedersehen

Last week, the boy informed me of some big news…he accepted a job transfer...TO EFFING GERMANY. Our history is not much to speak of. We’ve never been super serious, which makes my reaction all the more concerning – I became an emotional train wreck. I think I held it together for all of 5 minutes. I had hoped this unlikely display of estrogen was of the premenstrual-variety, but the calendar disproved that theory. MEANING I was/am seriously distraught about this person leaving my life.

I never said this guy was the one, but he could have been, and the “could” is what stings. The loss of potential. Potential is a hard thing to come by if you have any standards whatsoever. Most everyone, at some point, realizes the majority of the human population has something severely wrong with them. If you can find a normal one in the bunch, consider yourself lucky. Rarely, do you meet somebody that you can legitimately say, “I could potentially jive with this person till death do us part” (or ya know, for longer than 2 hours).

In efforts to convince myself the boy is notso normal, I’ve created a list of unacceptable behaviors/possessions:

1. He has an exact rotation for everything he wears – including underwear and socks.
2. He has black pleather couches.
3. Until 2 weeks ago, he had a denim comforter.
4. He repeats stories incessantly.
5. He has hundreds of books, of which he’s read barely any.
6. He doesn’t complain about working 16-hour days, for 3 straight months.
7. I’ve never been told where we’re going to dinner/lunch/breakfast. It’s ALWAYS a “surprise.”
8. He has accumulated a collection of McDonald’s toys, and displays them around his condo.
9. He is more emotionally inept than I am (yikes).
10. He likes Germany more than me.

Damn. I thought that would make me feel better.

p.s. sorry about the lame, girly, dribble. Next entry, I’ll write something with entertainment value…funny stuff, like the hilarity of processed meat. Good one, Kris.

Porkie

It is amazing how I can be quite mature and exceedingly immature at the same time. Though I am a succesful law student, horrified by drunken/loud/giggling girls, and prone to dating people about 10 years older than myself, I also (for example) find fart noise imitations rather hilarious.

Shan and I were watching The Bachelor the other night (oh shut up, you know you watch it too). One of the whores mentioned she was Ukranian and liked perogis (sp?). That meant that Shan and I had to run to Kroger to get perogis for dinner that night (and tater tots, yum). For some reason, trips to the grocery store for Shan and I are always a raging good time. We bound about throughout the aisles, loudly make obnoxious comments about whatever weird food we see, and then giggle like school-girls.

So we're off to the meat section since our other roommate, Lindsay, asked us to pick up some bacon for her. We couldn't find the particular bacon brand she requested, so we started to make jokes about all the other things we could bring her as a substitute. We picked up little cocktail weiners and giggled. We picked up "thick-cut bacon" and giggled. We picked up this weird round bacon and giggled. And then, THEN, we saw "Porkies." I've never laughed so hard. In fact, I'm laughing right now as I think of the Porkies. Porkies are apparantly pork rhinds. Porkies are funny. The conversation proceeded as follows:

Me: Should we bring Linny (nickname of previously mentioned roommate) some Porkies instead?

Shan: I don't know. Does she like Porkies?

Me: Hahhhahahha. Linny like Porkie?

Shan: Hhahhahhaha. Linny no like Porkie?

Me: Hahha. Porkie for Linny! Ha.

I don't know why Porkies are so funny to me. Wait, yes I do, they're called "Porkies".