Let’s take a moment to talk about something. If you send me a friend request, and I don’t accept, do NOT send me a message that says, “Hey! Are you going to accept my friend request or not?” Clearly, by not accepting the friend request, I am implying that I am NOT going to accept your friendship. Why is this? Because you could be some sort of corporate spy for a job I applied for. OR… I don’t want our friendship to be official (yes, it’s only official once we confirm it on facebook). So, suck it up… dry up those tears, and accept the fact… Oh, and suck it.
Moving on. Thursday night was one hell of a night. It started off as a low key night that was designed to show off our uber-dance skills and impress the masses with our homeless attire. It ended with us eating half of the menu at Katz Deli and our waiter wishing we would throw ourselves off a cliff. You know, a typical Thursday night.
Your Mom, Schma, Annal, and I wobbled our little selves downtown in a fiery storm of fun. My douchebag magnet status was witnessed by all, and was epically confirmed when the most Jersey looking db in Texas made a pass. Honestly, I can’t even do this story justice via blogging without pictures… so I’m just going to move on.
We ended at Katz Deli where we proceeded to be loud, obnoxious, and insult everyone within a thirty foot radius. There were at least 35 people in our part of the deli (not including us), and every single one of them were on Man-Dates. This astounding phenomenon was not lost on us, and we proceeded to have a very loud (and what I imagine to be slightly insulting) conversation about this epidemic. But really, it’s 3 am on a Thursday night at a deli… what could they possibly expect? The spectacle was one-upped when Your Mom decided to make a public service announcement:
“Excuse me! Attention Katz Deli People!! Dallas Cowboys. Ever heard of them?! We have, at our table, the lovely lady who took Tony Romo’s V-card!”
She then proceeded to point at me with enthusiasm. I buried my hands in my face, and realized this inside joke had just become a public spectacle. In the interest of not getting a phone call from Romo’s legal, I would like to publicly declare via this blog that I have not had sexual relations with Tony Romo. Ever. Although this blog will probably reach far less people than the announcement at Katz Deli, I would still like the record to reflect that I have not deflowered that man.
Continuing on, this announcement was the second great insult to one of the patrons and fellow Man-Daters. He was already quite insulted by our proclamation of his lonely situation, and was subsequently upset that I may or may not have taken Romo’s innocence. Before he left he came to our table and demanded to know my name. I, of course, refused to divulge him in such information. He claimed to know him and said he was going to call him. I called his bluff, and made a vulgar statement which my mother (who reads this blog) would not be proud of. A picture was snapped, and away they went. I have been trolling several blogs since then to make sure I didn’t show up… I have not. Yet. I proceeded to get high5s as the rest of the patrons left the deli that night. For 5 whole minutes, I felt almost famous.
So Friday was also meant to be low-key. I went to Your Mom’s and Annal’s for game night, and then met up with Brosa and Thumper downtown for “just one drink.” Clearly, that did not happen. I ended up crashing at my friend’s place downtown, and woke up in a fury as Boyda decided to make the world’s loudest glass of water. Noticing that I am “awake,” and ignoring the scowl on my face, he took this opportunity to blast techno and other obnoxious variations in the apartment. This did not please me, so I unplugged the speakers. It took them quite a while to figure out what I had done. In the meantime, we all began texting Frenchy, and begging for breakfast tacos. Four of us, simultaneously texting poor sleepy Frenchy at 9 on a Saturday morning. It was a text-battle that we were destined to win. We did not. Frenchy is really good at text-battling. Nonetheless, he decided to drive to where we were and join us for tacos…. Yes, I realize he could have just picked up some tacos on his way to us, but stubbornness supersedes efficiency any day of the week. There were 5 of us, and two of us looked like we were doing the walk of shame. I was definitely WAY overdressed for breakfast tacos, but it’s the price you pay for this delicious culinary endeavor.
After tacos, I run home, stare at my homework, complete nothing, take a shower, and get dressed for tailgating. I meet at Your Mom’s and vow that I am “not drinking today.” The tenants of the apartment laugh at this. I proclaim the seriousness of the situation as we leave for the liquor store.
Three beers and several swigs of Rumplemintz later, I am ready to sell my game day ticket so I can continue to hang out with the gang. A very good-looking Kansas law student (all of these facts are important) is interested in purchasing my ticket. I am pleased. Unfortunately, he needs 2 tickets and I only have 1. So, I give him some advice on how to sneak his friend in. He asks if it will actually work, and I said that I wasn’t sure, but I’m willing to give him my number, and if it doesn’t work, we can meet up, and he can punch me in the face (whoa… talk about a run-on sentence). He says he would never punch me in the face… I said, “Yea, but at least this way I can give you my number and not sound cheesy.” He buys my ticket. He only has $60 but the face value is $80, so we decide that for the extra $20, I can slap him in the face. Hard. Uhhhh… best ticket sell EVER!
Post-slap, the lovely Kansas man declares, “Wow… I think I love you. Most girls would have been nice and just given me a little tap. You ACTUALLY slapped the crap out of me.” And that is how I met my future husband.
The rest of the night proceeded pretty normally. We danced… I’m sure I don’t really need to say that a Stanky Legg was involved. The night ended with me eating EVERYTHING within Austin city limits. Seriously… I woke up and my belly looked like Octomom. It was like I had a planet inside my stomach. I reached into my pocket for the ritualistic checking of the texts and realized that Drunk-Me is a jerk.
Yea, Drunk-Me thought it would be funny to play a prank on Sober-Me and completely cleared my inbox and outbox. What an ass. Funny thing is, I vaguely remember thinking, “Oh, this is going to be hilarious… Sober-Me is going to be SUPER pissed.” Apparently, Drunk-Me is smarter than I give her credit for.
I would like to take this opportunity to apologize to my mom, dad, and grandparents. You have absolutely raised a respectable young lady with a slight flair for disorderly conduct. I would like to call this chapter of my life the “Character Building” chapter, and cite the old adage, “You have to be young and dumb before you can be old and wise.” I plan on being the wisest person ever.

Who smooched the model?
Well a few weeks ago, some of Brosa’s friends from Houston come down for the Colorado game. They scored us some sweet seats, so we were glad to see them. I will completely skip over Friday night because that needs to be forgotten. It was certainly a… ummm… well, a spectacle.
So, Saturday morning, we hopped out of bed (turned our swag on) and went to Hula Hut. We recapped the night pretty well and had lots of laughs at my expense. I made quite the favorable (maybe?) impression on David when he walked into the apartment after meeting me and found me biding my time on Urban Dictionary. He asked what I was doing, and I told him I was looking up “stuntin.” He asked why. I said, “Well, I know it’s a habit.” Thus, all weekend long we had urban vocabulary quizzes to test my knowledge. I was definitely up-to-date. Some might even say I have “street cred” when it comes to things like that.
Nonetheless, we’re sitting at Hula Hut and the rest of the group joins us. With them, is a guy wearing Ed Hardy. Seriously, it’s nearly 2010. Did he not get the memo? Or is he just a douchebag? It turns out, his douchebag status was confirmed the next weekend (a story for a different blog). At any rate, he sat next to me, which was kind of embarrassing. I am a d-bag magnet. I have been my WHOLE life. If there is a d-bag within a thirty mile radius, he will find me, sit next to me, and make inappropriate comments. Maybe it’s my perfume or maybe it’s my sassy haircut, but d-bags LOVE me.
Douche Bag ended up being very useful when our waiter showed up. Turns out, the waiter was the most beautiful man alive. Honestly. He brought our chips and even the douchebag says, “He’s hot.” I concurred. Then, the beautiful man made a mistake. He spoke to me. It was terrible. He asked if I wanted a drink, and I could not form an articulate sentence to save my life. My face turned red and Brosa ordered me a Corona Light FTW. The guys, noticing this continuously awkward exchange between the beautiful man and myself, decided to do me a favor and put the ball on the tee for me. After lunch, they invited him to the Colorado game and gave him a free ticket. That might sound like a win… but it wasn’t… and let me tell you why…
In true H-town style, we rode to the game in Adam’s fresh Cadillac with underground blasting on the speakers. I haven’t rode like a G since high school, so Brosa and I scooted down in our seats so we wouldn’t be seen. Adam, DoucheBag, and David give me vocabulary quizzes on rap vernacular, and I passed with flying colors.
So we’re tailgating and waiting for the Beautiful Man to show up. Brosa has a belly full of quesadillas and rum, and I’m steadily feeding her the remainder of my drink. Let’s just say, she was done. About half an hour before the game, the Beautiful Man rocks up dressed like he’s ready for a gay disco. Deal breaker. Despite my panicked glances at the rest of the crew, they thought it would be equally hilarious to make me sit next to him at the game. This does not please me. I know exactly what’s going to happen… and it does.
He became the most obnoxious football watcher ever. He didn’t know the game, and he wouldn’t stop talking. He wanted to talk about California… his ex-girlfriend… his modeling career… the TV show he was on… and he was asking me relationship questions. I swear that happened. I typically wouldn’t mind a unique conversation about someone’s modeling career or the various reality shows for which they have competed and won, but I do not want to talk about it during the game. I hate to be harsh (just playin), but he became the epitome of “Looks aren’t everything.” So, at some point, I switch spots with drunk Brosa and make her sit next to him. In her altered state, she doesn’t understand that I don’t want to sit next to him, and thinks that she intruded on the love connection. For the remainder of the game, she tried to sneakily sit on the other side of me so I can sit next to the model.
The guys, continuing on their streak of doing things just to annoy me, invited him downtown that night. I decided to stay in. The story goes… everyone drank too much that night, he gave one of my friends a lap dance, and they made out. We make fun of her nearly daily for that.
I am really late for work right now... but I'll give 10 points to whoever can guess which of my friends smooched the model.
Yea. It’s been a while. I would like to say that I’ve been busy changing the world, or traveling, or doing wonderful things with my life. But mostly, I’ve just been hanging out, drinking beer, and having a good time. It’s almost like I’m a frat-bro or something (except for the whole degradation of women bit).
So now, I’m at my computer for the first time in about a month with no impending homework deadlines and a full cup of coffee. Where to begin…
Well, in honor of Breast Cancer Awareness Month, my body decided to create a creepy little lump in ole Righty. Thank goodness it wasn’t in Lefty, because she’s my favorite. Nonetheless, I spent all Friday getting groped by a bunch of men who call themselves “doctors.” My favorite line of the day comes in during my sonogram when I bring out Righty, and my doctor says, “My! You have a lot of breast tissue!” I asked if that was clinical for, “You are very busty.” He said, “Well, you ARE 25 and have enough estrogen running in you to jump start a semi.” We continued our uncomfortable banter for a while, and I began to fall in love with my fondling doctor when he called me skinny and said he could see my rib on the sonogram. True love at last.
All of this is to say, I absolutely LOVE going to male doctors for my female-parts maintenance. They don’t talk to you about anything, and I HATE talking about my lady crap. They don’t try and have awkward conversations or make you feel more comfortable by talking about your dating life or the most recent episode of Desperate Housewives… They just go down there, and it’s business as usual. I’m in and out of the office in 15 minutes. My doctor is like the fast food chain of gynecology, and I love it.
Of course, having these speedy male doctors also has some disadvantages. For example, any commentary about my parts that are not spoken clinically, just come across as creepy. The first time I ever went to my doctor (about a year ago), he takes a look at my love-vault and proclaims, “OH! Very nice!” It threw me off at first, but then I realized that I’m not really in the business of rejecting compliments, so I just threw out a “Thanks” and let it go. Anyone that would like to tout the glories of my dusty old womb is ok in my book.
Enough flower talk…
I have also been watching A LOT of football (I bet you didn’t see THAT one coming! Boom). I’ve also notice a lot of Saints bandwagon fans. I feel a little torn about this. I have already expressed my disinterest in t-shirt fans and bandwagon fans are equally annoying. However, I would like to publicly proclaim that any Lions’ fans are more than welcome to bandwagon. Being a lifetime Saints’ fan, I fully empathize with your situation, and welcome you with open arms.
So what else? Well, I have taken procrastination to another freaking level. I am still making great grades; I’m just doing it in very shady ways. Last week, I had a five page paper due, and I decided to go out EVERY SINGLE NIGHT of the week instead. It’s terrible really. Nonetheless, my deadline was impending and I was still sitting at a bar with a beer in my hand. I get home and open my computer with about 20 minutes to spare. There is NO way I am going to write a decent 5-page paper in 20 minutes.
Desperate times call for desperate measures, dude.
I opened a Word document, typed in a couple of lines of WingDing font, skipped down five pages, and submitted it to my professor to buy some time. As expected, my professor sent me an email the next afternoon saying there was some sort of compatibility problem with my document, the text had come across blank and nonsense, and asked me to resave and resubmit the work. I finished my paper that night, turned it in, and got a 98. Victory is mine.
It’s safe to say, my 17 year old brothers are reaching the inevitable conclusion that their sister has a lot to offer in the art of kicking life’s ass, and are becoming my BFFs. The family caravanned to Dallas this weekend, I had one brother in my car, and my mom had the other. About 2.5 hours into the drive, I ran through my call log to count how many times my mother had called me. Eleven. My mother had called me ELEVEN times. And three of those times were when we were at the McDonald’s drive-thru ordering the world’s most time consuming cup of coffee. Anthony finally kept her on the phone by giving her a play by play so we didn’t have to hear my phone ring anymore. After call number eleven, my brother and I decided to start calling her over and over. I would call and ask a question, then he would call and ask the same question. This happened about six times before she got pissed and turned her phone off. My favorite dialogue was between Anthony and her at call #6:
Mom: What do you want?
Ant: I’m hungry. Do you have any fruit?
Mom: I have an apple. For me.
Ant: Do you have any grapes?
Mom: No. I have an apple. For me.
Ant: Do you have any oranges?
Mom: ONE apple.
Ant: Oh, so you have an apple?
Mom: Yes.
Ant: Can I have it?
Mom: No.
Ant: Do you have any beef jerky?
Mom: No. Your sister does somewhere in her car.
Ant: Yea. But it tastes like Teriyaki. I want your apple.
Mom: No. It’s mine.
Ant: Hey, what number are we?
Mom hangs up the phone, so we call back and see that the phone is off. We decide to call my brother’s phone who is in the car with Mom:
Ant: Hey.
Rob: Hey.
Ant: Put Mom on the phone.
Rob: Ok.
Mom: WHAT?!?!
Ant: Why didn’t you answer?
Mom: Because you’re bothering me.
Ant: But we answered all ELEVEN of your calls!!
Mom: Do you need something?
Ant: I need grapes.
We finally reach our destination and I thought Mom was going to kill us. We were all jacked up on Red Bull and beef jerky at that point, so we didn’t really care. Rob was a little jealous though. Ant and I got out of the car laughing and cutting up, and Rob said that mom talked about fashion for most of the time he was awake.
But now, I’m back in Austin… and getting ready for work… and I am going to post this with a terrible inconclusive ending. I will write more later… hopefully.
Last football season, my roommate and I woke up on a Sunday just like we woke up every Sunday during season: Early and with our game faces. I rummaged through my week-old dirty clothes and dusted off my jersey. We ate some breakfast tacos and headed down to the local sports bar to begin the tradition of sitting around drinking beer and watching pro ball all day.
I am not entirely sure who the Vikings were playing that day, but I was intent. I have no allegiance to any team outside of the Saints and the Packers, but I still have my allegiance to UT. And every time Adrian Peterson touched the ball, I would throw my horns up and scream, “OU SUCKS!” Needless to say, this embarrassed my roommate and caused her to say, “Danielle, college is over. Let the rivalry die.”
Wait… what?!
That was the day I learned the true meaning of “t-shirt fans.”
My hatred of OU began in high school. I was a huge college football fan with no true allegiance to any team. I was still trying to decide where I wanted to apply, and the merits of each. When all of the sudden, an incredibly obnoxious classmate wearing a Sooner jersey marched into the room and proclaimed that Texas sucked. Being in Texas, and knowing that Texas does not suck, I found that statement to be rather comical. At the time, at least 70% of the OU roster was from Texas, and I felt that all of them were traitors. I asked, “Doesn’t the fact that OU represents a shit-hole like Oklahoma negate that argument?” He looked at me puzzled. This made me aware of something that would stick with me for the rest of my life: When discussing football with a Sooner, any argument that appeals to logic, reason, or statistics will be over their heads. “BOOMER SOONER,” was his response.
So the rivalry began.
This disdain for anything Oklahoma was only perpetuated by the fact that everyone I have met who calls Oklahoma “home” tended to suck. I can’t even imagine having pride in a university like that. You can’t do anything with an OU degree except become a carnival worker or a football player. Hell, if you’re not good at football, you better really freaking like cotton candy, or else you’re screwed.
What the hell is a Sooner anyway, and why would they “Boom?” Oh, nevermind. I googled it. Guess what… It sucks.
I suppose a little bit of this dislike for our northerly state comes from the fact that I used to live in north Texas, and every time we would have a northerly wind, our great land would be filled with the smell of old cheese. Oklahoma always smells like cheese. From border to border. I know this because I’ve had to drive through it to get to better states, like Kansas.
God help me if I ever have a beautiful son that decides he wants to go to OU. But you know what? That will never happen because my son would never look at the institution that is OU and decide that its educational merits warrant his time or my money. Plus, I’d disown him because he would suck too.
I went out on a few dates with a guy who went to OU. You know what happened? He sucked. It’s true. I can’t make this up.
So make fun of me and my rivalry if you want. I really don’t mind. For true fans, rivalries never die. Because when Bradford goes pro and gets put on his back by an ex-Texas lineman, I’m going to be the lone soldier at the bar with my horns in the air, proudly proclaiming, “OU SUCKS!”
Hook 'em.
[Note from Danielle Before the Note from Dad: OK… my dad (and mom) has been asking for a while that I post this. Usually the only things I would actually say about myself are self-deprecating and comical, but my dad wanted to use the blog as a forum to solicit a writing job (and from some of the stuff he wrote, he may be trying to take the “If I can’t get her a job, I might as well try to get her married off” route) despite the fact that I often refer to my procrastination, excessive drinking, and flagrant disregard for the law and social norms. I think he did a good job balancing the compliments with humorous counterparts to make me more comfortable though… but I still feel a little weird. In the interest of making my dad smile, and possibly you, I present, in a completely unedited form, “A Plea From My Dad.”]
Hire My Daughter… Please
Caveat: This blog entry is from Danielle’s Dad. It does not necessarily express the views of the owner of GirlvWorld.com and should be an op-ed piece allowed in the interest of freedom of the press, daughterly love, and the proximity to Christmas and the hope of bountiful gifts from the parental units this year.
Hire my daughter… please. For a writing gig.
As this is her umpteenth year of professional studentry, she is obviously well-educated and actually makes very good grades.
Writing from the unique perspective of her father, I am probably better acquainted with her virtues than her vices, although some of the stories from this blog have been eye-openers better left undiscussed. However, for those of you not personally acquainted with the Girl of GirlvWorld.com fame, let me list a few of her pros and cons:
1) Pro- Very smart (when examined from the viewpoint of a parent or potential employer)
2) Con- Very smart (when examined from the viewpoint of a potential suitor. If you’re looking for a dumb blonde, keep looking.)
3) Pro- Very independent and self-sufficient
4) Con- Except for bugs in the house, remembering to fill her gas tank, changing the oil, etc.
5) Pro- Very funny with a well-developed sense of humor.
6) Con- Doesn’t mind using it to devastate those that incur her wrath.
7) Pro- Likes sports. Particularly the New Orleans Saints (Who Dat?)
8) Con- Likes the post-Favre Packers and thinks Aaron Rodgers is the QB of the future.
9) Pro- Realized the excellence of the Saints when they steamrolled the Packers last season.
10) Con- Refused to deliver the message to Aaron Rodgers, “Jason David says hi,” after he was intercepted a zillion times when the Saints steamrolled the Packers last season.
11) Pro- Is not a Cowboys fan despite living in Texas most of her life(and for the record, it’s easy to be a fan of the ‘Boys . Try being a fan of a team that wins one game a year).
12) Pro- Beautiful (from the perspective of a suitor)
13) Con- Beautiful (from the perspective of a dad who is quite certain none of her potential suitors are good enough for her. And yes, I know places to hide a body!).
14) Pro- Excellent writer, humorous, insightful, and a hard-worker.
15) Con- Doesn’t realize she is an excellent writer and hides her “light under a bushel basket” instead of letting it shine.
16) Pro- Loves Waffle House, the people who work there and the people who eat there.
17) Con- Needs a writing job so she can eat there more often.
18) Pro- Well-traveled. How many girls do you know who have surfed the North Shore of Hawaii, starved their way across Europe, been nearly attacked by crocodiles in Australia, all while being scared of the dark? (Once again, Danielle, your grandfather was kidding about monsters in the closet)
19) Pro- Now has biting wit, mad writing skills, and Tina Fey glasses.
20) Con- Still believes UT is the ultimate educational institution.
21) Pro- Can quote extensively from “Back to the Beach”, “Rock n Roll High School”, and “Spinal Tap.”
22) Con- Often has to explain what she means to her peers when she quotes from “Back to the Beach”, “Rock n Roll High School”, and “Spinal Tap.”
23) PRO- (And this is a big one) If she gets a high-paying writing job, she promised to provide for her parents.
For all the reasons above, anyone reading this blog should hire my daughter to write for them.
Sincerely,
Danielle’s Dad
P.S. As long as I have the floor, I should mention to her friends that Danielle’s little brothers are not treated better than her and she was never beaten nor deprived. What she refers to as “neglected” others would call “spoiled rotten.”
Sincerely Again,
Danielle’s Dad