Yea, I get it.  It’s been a while since I’ve posted.  I’ve been lazy I guess.  There are some new developments.  I am a year older, the Saints are ridiculous, I’m no longer going to Katz after a night downtown (I think), and I’ve taken to mergers and acquisitions (I’ve acquired a boyfriend, and have begun merging the contents of my closet onto his bedroom floor).  Luckily, I am still alive, and although my liver has walked out of my body in protest, I am still fully functioning. 

But let me digress for a moment while I have your attention. 

It’s the holiday season, and I’m totally full of cheer and junk.  However, there is one tiny little nuisance of Christmas that really gets under my skin.  And that little nuisance would be Mistletoe.  I really don’t like it.  In fact, some might say that I hate it.  I especially hate it when someone sticks it over the keg, because that’s definitely cheating, and it’s a sure-fire way to ensure my sobriety for the night.  Want me to be the DD?  Put the mistletoe over the bar.  I won’t go over there. 

I guess I hate it because it makes me feel awkward.  I’m not really a fan of smooching in public, and I assure you no one wants to see it anyway.  I doubt it looks pleasant.  Plus, there always seems to be some creepy person slowly lingering around that despicable plant.  Or, some smooching hussy who gets drunk and tries to smooch everyone’s boyfriends by luring them that direction (ZING!). 

But enough about mistletoe…

So my 25th birthday just passed.  I have no qualms about admitting that.  I feel like 25 is a pretty cool number, and if someone asked me how old I was in rounded numbers, I’d not get to say 30, which is also pretty cool.  You might think that I went a bit crazy for this occasion… but you would be wrong.  The Saints were playing the Patriots that day, so I had my priorities.  In a show of solidarity and birthday support, everyone came to the Tap Room for some Monday Night Football.  Even better, the friends all cheered for the Saints, and one lucky Pats fan cheered for the Saints for one night only.  We had cupcakes with trick candles which almost set the building on fire when Nataliya put the lit candles in a cardboard box because they wouldn’t go out.  I swooped in for the win, poured my water on them, and saved the day.  Yes, I went to college…

So, most of the following weeks passed anticlimactically.  There was a great scene at Katz, that I may or may not have been present for (I’m getting conflicting reports as to whether or not I was there… but I think that I wasn’t).  Apparently, Thumper, Not Crazy Jenn, and Brosa were hungry but didn’t want Katz.  So they went to Ropollo’s and ordered pizza, that they then brought into Katz Deli.  Despite the hostess’s protests, the girls proceeded to seat themselves in a corner booth and eat their pizza.  The waiter came out to kick them out… but they stood defiant and ate their pizza.  Thumper finally had enough of the Katz staff bossing her around and played the “Do you know who I am?” card.  The waiter was defeated and went to get the manager.  The manager came out and Thumper once again turned on the attitude while Brosa and NCJenn merrily ate their pizza.  In the end, the three slices of pizza and part of the paper plate was consumed, Thumper was victorious, and Mark Katz’s political career was threatened.  I can proudly say that although I was not there to cause a spectacle, I am incredibly grateful that my girlfriends are so willing to carry the torch. 
I have no idea where I was at this point in the night, but based on the soreness of my muscles, I suspect I may have been somewhere with music dancing gaily and casting my locks to and fro. 

On a final note, Frenchy and his ferocious mustache hosted a Rooftop Christmas party and Guz’s Going Away Party.  It was complete with a prom photo-op area, and a Santa pinata.  There was mistletoe… but I’m not about to start that rant again.  We had a white elephant gift exchange, and I won a Spanish English dictionary.  Lots of good stuff happened, but the best part may have been the piñata beat down.  It was stuffed with condoms and nails.  I gotta say, my friends are a clever bunch. 

So that’s it for now… It’s only Monday, so I’m sure I’ll get more reports on the weekend Shenanigans.  Also, Brosa is saying goodbye to Austin and moving to Houston (BOOOOOO!), so we’re having a lovely going away celebration… I guess we know what that means.

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.

So, I went to Dallas on Sunday to meet up with my family and visit my dad.  Nearly every weekend I go, and give him a recap of how my week has been.  I’m relatively certain that the summation of my weekly shenanigans scares the piss out of him, but he laughs nonetheless, and continues on his weekly rant to convince me to write it out as a sitcom screenplay.  I laugh at this thought, he gets frustrated, and my brothers discuss what I could do with the inevitable billions of dollars I could make from said sitcom. 

His tone became much more serious when I gave a great character story about a drunken exchange between Brosa and Thumper.  As I have expressed before, Thumper is a hypochondriac.  Recently, her anxiety has been put to the ultimate test as she has been feeling ill, and undergoing a multitude of medical assessments to determine the underlying cause.  But this story is NOT about whether or not she is actually ill.  Rather, it is a delightful story about why I love my friends, and how I should never leave them alone when they have been drinking…

So, Brosa and I had a brief conversation once about Thumper’s medical anxiety.  I contended that her hypochondria is merely anxiety that is manifesting itself in that form.  Brosa believes it is something deeper and that Thumper is afraid of dying.  She continues to discuss this for a bit, but I’m not terribly sure what all was said because I had changed conversations in my head, and was already thinking about where to get chicken tacos.  I mutter, “Hmmph,” and continue my search for food. 

The next day, I leave town and return to find a delightful story about the weekend.  You see, Brosa and Thumper proceeded to drink themselves into an emotional stupor with a few of our friends.  Your Mom (YM) is at the bar, and overhears drunken Thumper getting worked up about a medical result.  She turns to order a drink and turns back around to see Thumper in tears talking to Brosa.  YM doesn’t really know what to do.  We haven’t known her very long, but I believe our brief friendship is already making a memorable impression.  Please make a mental image as I go through the dialogue.  Thumper is drunk and in tears.  Brosa is drunk, with her arm around her, and trying to be supportive… aaaaaand go:

Thumper:  I don’t want cancer!
Brosa:  Thumper, you can’t be afraid of dying!  It’s going to happen.
Thumper sobs harder:  AHHHH!!
Brosa:  Everyone dies.  If it’s your time, it’s your time.  God will take you and there’s nothing you can do about it!  You can’t be afraid, Thumper!  You can’t!
Thumper then goes into hysterics… at the bar.

YM is incredibly perplexed at this exchange, and has no idea what to do.  She tells Brosa that she may be making it worse, to which Brosa exclaims, “She has to confront her fears!” 

God help us.  Why do I EVER leave town?  It’s probably for the best though.  I am an asshole when I’m drinking and when I heard the story, all I could think about was standing next to both of them and telling Thumper to go towards the light.  It may not have helped, but it definitely would have been funny.

I call Brosa the next day, and ask her what the hell she was thinking.  In hindsight, I believe she realizes that was neither the time nor the place for that conversation. 

But back to my previous point, my dad hears this story, and becomes frustrated with me that I don’t believe I could write a successful sitcom.  He asks for more, so I proceed with a delightful tale about the weekend:

On Friday, a massive concerted effort was made to embarrass another friend of ours, Boyda.  He plays hockey for a local social club, and is Canadian (I don’t really think that last part was necessary for the story, but the sentence sounded like it needed a conjunction, and who am I to argue with that?).  So about 15-20 of us travel to North Austin to watch his game.  Now, this isn’t your typical run-of-the-mill show of support.  No no.  It definitely was not.

The group shows up with giant signs, crowns, Boyda faces on a stick, and beer.  There were signs that said, “We Pucking Love you Boyda”, “Boy-DUH!!”, “D-Fence”, and “D-Bag.”  There was also a large sign with a bunch of cutouts of Boyda’s face placed into the shape of the #9.  Then, there were a multitude of pictures of Boyda’s face cut out and placed on sticks for the crowd.  There was a captain Boyda, and even Boyda crowns.  I know… it was excessive, but that was the beauty of it. 

Poor guy.  Every time he came onto the ice, touched the puck, or looked our direction, we went nuts.  And when he had to sit in the penalty box, the crowd booed like we had never booed before and chastised the ref and other players.  Not only were we fans, but we were bad fans at that (often making football references instead of hockey, and booing other players).  It was about an hour of pure Boyda-mayhem.  Luckily, he’s a good sport, and stuck around for the autograph signing session after the game.

As you can expect, we went downtown after the game.  Everyone proceeds to drink heaps, and the show goes on.  Anna becomes a drunken floozy (sorry, Anna… it’s too funny not to talk about!), Your Mom hits on every man over 6 feet, and I do the robot. 

I remember several things about that night: 1) I spent a significant portion of time trying to convince some people that I took Tony Romo’s V-Card, 2) I offered a thug on the street $500 billion to “beat the crap” out of my guy friend.  Luckily, he didn’t take me up on my offer.  I mean, I didn’t have $500 billion to actually give him, and I doubt very seriously he would have taken a credit card.  That would have been sweet if he did though…

At any rate, I stayed in bed the next day until 5 in the afternoon.  Yes.  You heard that correctly.  I stayed in bed till 5.  The rest of the day proceeded as normally as humanly possible.  I took a shower, and went for dinner and a movie.  End of story. 

I woke up Sunday around 4 in the morning to head to Dallas to meet up with my family.  I really love seeing my brothers.  For the past 17 years, every time I have seen them, they always look like they need a nap.  Mom says I do too, but I contest that.  Actually, she saw all of us yesterday and said she was embarrassed of our appearance because we all “look like a bunch of damn orphans I picked up off the street.”  Anyway, Anthony rolls out of the car with his eyes half closed and a grumpy look.  Robert stumbles out with his head tucked into his hoodie and needing the restroom.  Grumpy Anthony looks down at his feet and stares for a bit before asking, “Dude… is this right?”  Robert peeks out of the hoodie, “Yea man.  You’re cool.”  I then realized that my 17-year old brother had just asked my other 17-year old brother if his shoes were on the correct feet.  Not only was he unsure of which foot goes where, but he was also needed to ask another person if his foot assessment was correct.  Like I said, I love my brothers. 

So us three children are sitting around waiting and bored, which makes for a TERRIBLE combination in my household (I should probably repost the old story about when my brothers set a tree on fire in my grandma’s backyard).  Thus, we begin the tradition of calling out douchebags (Basically, we chant “Doooooouchebag” when someone walks by, and state one reason why.).  This one always makes mom mad because she thinks someone’s going to hear us, but to be honest, it’s one of the lesser damaging things we do when we’re bored.  I remember one time when there was nothing to do, I decided to give Robert a haircut.  He had pretty long shaggy hair, and I asked if I could chop it off.  He said, “I don’t see why not.”  So we went out back and I stuck my fingers through his hair and cut off all the hair that stuck out over my fingers.  We came back into the house about half an hour later and Dad was not happy.  To say that he was “pissed,” would be an understatement.  He tried to ground me.  Literally, he tried to send me to my room.  I am 24 years old… the days of grounding me are over.  Sucker.

And duh, the haircut looked pretty damn sweet, if you ask me. 

Anyway… it’s been a good weekend, and it’s now time for me to end this and become a productive member of society.  In closing, I leave you with a picture of my grandmother after my brothers and I gave her a fart-flavored jelly bean.  I hope it makes your day as good as it made mine.  Toodles.

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.

Dear Diary,

It’s been a loooong week and a half.  Weddings, going out, working, not working out, and Canadian Thanksgivings have taken their toll on me.  I am ready for a giant nap.  And a shower.  But mostly just a nap. 

Last weekend was a little crazy.  We went out on Friday (like you didn’t know that was coming), and had an after party at the 404.  It was a big night.  We made a lot of friends and a couple of enemies.  Brosa’s ex came out and decided he would hit on her friends just to be an ass.  What an amateur.  Funnily enough, we all cited girl-code as we dismissed his advances (we found out that we had all actually proclaimed, "Girl-code dude," the next day when we were discussing his douchebaggery and our responses).  He was left perplexed and asked for this girl-code manual that details appropriate and inappropriate courting rituals.  I think we did a little damage to his ego, especially when I overheard Brosa telling him that it wasn’t because he was ugly that we weren’t interested, but because he had a lousy hat. 

I’ve been trying my hand at the Stanky Legg a lot lately.  In fact, I think I may have thrown my hip out that night.  Now, every time I try to get down, my hip locks up and I look like a weird robot.  It’s interesting really… When I’m sober, I am fully aware that I am a terrible dancer.  I know this for a fact.  I am awful.  However, give me a couple of drinks and it’s, “HOLY CRAP!  I’M THE GREATEST DANCER IN THE WOOOOOORLD!!!”  I start stanky legging and busting out the Ricky Bobby… Dad says dancing always got me in trouble.  Now, it's actually injured me.

But like I said, we went to the 404 after downtown.  A lot of good stuff happened there.  I made eggs.  It turns out, they were expired from March, but that’s ok.  Only a couple of people ate them, and I think they may have gotten sick.  I didn’t eat the eggs… that’s a gross drunk food.  Not Crazy Jenn got into an argument with her ex-boyfriend, Brosa grabbed a cab and a pizza and booked it, and Thumper couldn’t sleep because the couple on the couch were… erm… gross. 

Nonetheless, on very little sleep we woke up the next morning and made the four-hour drive to my hometown for a wedding.  Thumper and Brosa were my dates.  I probably have not made this very clear in any of my other postings, but Brosa always takes her time.  It’s mostly because she always has to take a shower, but we are always waiting on her.  Thus, we got on the road TWO hours later than scheduled, and it was raining.  This did not faze me.  In fact, these conditions promote my favorite driving techniques: reckless and with severe time constraints.  It’s the only way I drive, really.

We had a lot of fun on the way to the wedding, and bonded over some racist gummy bears and memories of the previous night.  We ambushed a gas station and brought our luggage in so we could change for the wedding (we didn’t have time to drive to the house and get ready).  We barely made it in time. 

The wedding was beautiful and a lot of fun.  Staci (the bride) wore her cowboy boots with her gown, and put together an amazing reception in a renovated barn.  There were a lot of country touches.  We had barbeque and a keg, for starters.  When we floated the keg, Staci sent the groomsmen on a beer and whisky run.  They returned with enough beer to fuel the night. 

Then, the DJ played my favorite song.  Nothing could have kept me from the dance floor.  I heard Miley on the speakers and went to town.  It was me, a bunch of little girls, and my can of beer.  I’m sure my mother would have been proud. 

I went to take a short potty break when the song ended, and looked out the back door.  I saw what I can only expect to see at a country wedding:  Tailgaters.  Yes, you read that correctly.  Tailgaters at a wedding.  I asked Staci if she was aware of this, and she was.  It was a proper tailgate at that: lawn chairs, pickups, coolers, and barbeque.  Well done, tailgaters.  Well done. 

I came back to the reception and saw the wedding party on the dance floor with their 40s.  Classic move.

By the end of the night, I had reconciled with an old friend of mine (the one who broke girl-code but refuses to acknowledge that I’m angry with her).  She asked if I was dating anyone, and I cattily replied, “No, you took the last one.”  She responded, “OH GOOD!  I’ve got the perfect guy for you then!”  *Sigh*  She then proceeded to suck me into her friendship web, and I suppose we’ve now reconciled our differences.  We began reminiscing on some of Staci’s wilder days, which prompted Staci to yell at us when she overheard some of the stories we were telling Brosa and Thumper (“NOT on my wedding day guys!!”). 

We were done by midnight and headed out.  We were supposed to stay at my house but my brother decided to get the Swine Flu, and that put a damper on those plans.  Luckily, an old friend came through and asked his mother if I could stay with her.  Her house is legendary.  Good ole Wanda.  We used to always go to Wanda’s in high school.  Her son even referred to his house as Wanda’s.  There was always a party at Wanda’s.  So, when word got out that we were staying at Wanda’s, I started receiving a lot of nostalgic texts and facebook messages.  In fact, us staying at Wanda’s was the talk of the wedding, and everyone wanted to come stay the night there for old time’s sake. 

So, Diary, I guess you can tell I’ve had a pretty eventful week and need a nap.  I have a lot more to say about this past weekend, but I’m really tired, and my bed is looking very appealing.  I will write to you soon! 

Love,
Danielle
xoxo

[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

His ass.



Weeks like this make me wish I had a book deal.  The stories are phenomenal, self-deprecating, and highly embarrassing for everyone involved.  As such, I will not blog about it because there’s no amount of anonymity that will actually make the stories feasible, and I will have a LOT of angry amigos.  Yet, the stories should be told nonetheless.  If I had a book, I would totally sell my soul (and yours too) for the literary entertainment.  Since this is not the case, I will write them up, and systematically disperse them at appropriate times and when no one is looking.  *Le Sigh*

On another note, I had a near death experience the other day.  Well, it wasn’t really “near death” so much as I wrongfully thought my life was ending and experienced all of the pre-death thoughts that occur under the auspice of impending doom. 

The girls and I were in a glass elevator at the hotel in Dallas (I’m going to need to set the scene, so you can understand the near-death aspect.  Bear with me.).  The elevator is in the middle of a giant multi-story atrium.  The 3rd floor of the atrium is the bottom and the lobby is below this, so in order to get to the lobby, the elevator needs to go THROUGH the third floor landing.  We were not aware of this, and thought the 3rd floor WAS the lobby.  We were in the elevator chit chatting about the multitude of diseases that are going to be the death of Thumper when we realized that the elevator wasn’t slowing down at what we thought was the lobby floor.  We all grasped the rail, braced our stances, and screamed.  Literally.

The panic in everyone’s faces was unparalleled.  All three of us honestly thought we were about to crash.  Thumper screamed first, which sent Brosa and I into the bowels of uncontrolled screaming, much like an amusement park ride except the screaming did not have a fun connotation.  Our stances were similar.  Being athletic individuals, we were aware of how to brace for impact: wide stance, partial squat, body hunched.  To be a fly on that wall…

I had never anticipated Death By Elevator on the list of Things I Do That Are Likely To Kill Me.  Thus, I was a bit unprepared for this unexpected turn of events.  However, the best part of the experience is that I am now aware of what passes through my mind right before I die.  I had always expected it would be something substantial.  Maybe it would be a flash of regret or an apology that was never given.  Maybe I would have an epiphany and realize the meaning of life at a moment when the information is no longer useful.  Or maybe it would be something sweet and emotional, like a pictorial vision of everyone I love or sweet childhood memories of my family.

Nope.  It was none of the things.

I take comfort in knowing that on my final breath, and knocking on Death’s door, all I will be able to think is, “Oh shit… This is going to hurt.”

Well… the drive to Dallas took at least three days.  Luckily, Brosa and Kendra brought their CD collection (you remember CD’s… back before there were ipods).  I rode shotgun because I’m the best at calling it (I always have 50% of my mental capacity on recognizing and calling shotgun at the appropriate moments), which meant I was in charge of music.  It was 3 ½ hours of straight Freestyle Kings and DJ Screw.  Nah, I kid.  We had some Nelly and Lil Wayne in the mix too…

By the time we made it to Dallas, it was time for dinner and dancing.  We went to Blue Goose for tacos and margaritas (plug: it was delicious).  Our waiter gave us a list of places we should hit, and some insider info, saying (and I quote), “This MY hood, girl.”  He touched my heart. 

On we went.

Our first stop was The Loon.  I believe it is notoriously a meat market.  It was quite Frat-Central, and the mixed drinks were ALL double shots.   It was a dangerous mix, but there’s safety in numbers.  Thumper met the only Midwesterners in the bar, and I managed to develop a love-hate relationship with a fella who is debatably named Darren or Dan.  I am a fan of categorical insults, and Dan/Darren is a bit sensitive.  This did not bode well for either one of us. 

Thumper made friends with a guy who looked remarkably like a skinny Seth Rogan.  I don’t really know if he was funny or not because I was too busy talking football and insulting the Big Ten.  Brosa met up with an old friend who took us to the Liar’s Den, which is now my favorite place in Dallas.  If you were there on Friday night, I probably met you, and I probably made you a sandwich.  That’s the kind of night it was. 

I found an entire packaged loaf of bread at the bar, and made some salt and pepper sandwiches for the hungry folks.  A line of drunkards started to form for these “sandwiches.”  I really don’t know if anyone ate them, but they were requested and acquired by quite a few people. 

The moral of the story is I danced a lot that night.  I wore my sky-highs so my feet were wrecked.  I put my best foot forward and danced with everyone on the second floor until about 1:30.  I think I may have met Taylor Swift, but that’s a big leap.  In fact, it probably didn’t happen.  Scratch that. 

We took a $50 cab ride back home (it only took us $15 to get there… so where the other $35 went is an interesting question). 
I woke up the next morning at eight in the morning surrounded by birthday cake and beef jerky.  The room looked like a war zone, and I was craving breakfast tacos.  We gathered our grits and headed to the sports bar around noonish to catch some college ball where we encountered the worst waitress in the history of the service industry.  By 2, we were exhausted, full, and ready for a large nap.  I chose to take mine by the pool.

The evening was filled with shopping and Cheesecake Factory.  The girls went out that night, but I stayed in because I had somewhere to be at six in the morning (despite the implications in my blog postings, I am quite responsible).   Really, there wasn’t much to it.  Just a nice day with the ladies.

I spent all night being the recipient of drunk dials.  True story.  They only ended when I threatened (via text) to strangle the person if they sent me another text.  By the end of the weekend, I had received no less than three morning-after apologies, which are my absolute favorite.  Yea… you know who you are. 

It’s the beginning of the week again, and I’ve got a few things on the weekly agenda.  Most importantly, we’re going to a wedding Saturday (we= Brosa, Thumper, and I).  I anticipate that it will be a blast…