Tag Archive: alcohol


Since I started blogging, almost a whole year ago, there as not been one day that I have missed.  Every Tuesday, Thursday and Sunday, like clockwork, I have showed up and put something out there for someone, anyone, to read.

Yesterday, for the first time in almost a year, I went AWOL.

I just didn’t show up.

So, for you who were waiting with bated breath, I apologize. Similarly, if you were worried I had died or had been sucked up by my chest (please reference Dane Cook) by aliens, I’m glad to inform you I am just fine.

What happened is that I actually just got swept up in the long, holiday weekend and forgot it was Sunday.

In fact, this weekend is a whirlwind of activity.

I showed up to my dad’s house ready for a weekend of drunken debauchery with friends and family by the pool in his backyard. But what actually happened was that I arrived at the restaurant for dinner like an hour later than I had originally told everyone I would be in town. Only, after I arrived, I promptly informed my dad that I felt like I was going to throw up and then I peace’d out.  I went back to the house where I found a bathroom just in time to puke my guts out. After throwing up nothing but water and bile (and oh yeah, those two or three Advil I took on an empty stomach- I’m an idiot), I ate exactly two and a half saltine crackers and fell asleep for an hour. When I woke up, everyone was arriving back home, with the food I had ordered in hand.

After that, Seneca and I went to bed early and watched some Forensic Files.

Saturday was even more of a blur.  The day lasted for-fucking-ever.

In a nutshell, the rest of the weekend happened as follows: I probably caught cancer from this shady-as-fuck restaurant called Hibachi Sushi Buffet (it was not my choice), hit my face against the bottom of the pool,  actually won a couple rounds of flip-cup, my computer died/broke, we ate our weight in pulled pork sandwiches, Megan accidentally dumped her almost-entirely-full drink in my lap at the bar we went to, Drew and I got into a physical altercation, Megan walked out at 2am with no word to Seneca or myself, both Seneca and I ended up in tears at some point, made weird references to Hilary Duff for no reason, saw Hangover II, and when we were alerted of bad weather we played a rousing game of Life where I pretended I found out I’m barren and will never bear children(LOL), we also watched a fuck-ton of Lifetime (yeah, including William & Kate, the movie), I quoted William Shakespeare to Seneca in a normal conversation, and I fell in the lake again tonight while trying to get in the kayak.

WINS ALL AROUND.

I promise things will go back to normal.

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On Monday morning, one of my coworkers alerted me that the world was predicted to be ending this coming Friday, as in Tomorrow. She said she heard on the radio that we could forget about coming into work on Saturday because the world was ending Friday night. I don’t know if this was a national prediction or if it was just one that was spread through West Michigan, but either way, I guess people were pretty serious about it on Monday morning.

Obviously, she was sharing this news with us to mock the crazy people who 1.) predicted this, and 2.) called into the radio station to discuss their plans for the week to prepare for the world ending on Friday night.  In fact, the seven minutes following her divulgence of this information, those of us in the office mocked the general public and made sarcastic comments about not being “saved” and how we’d be left on earth to face Hell (except I was serious about experiencing hell- because let’s get real, I’m definitely on God’s shit list).

Seriously, if I’m going to believe anyone about the world ending, I’m going to believe the Mayans or Aztecs or whoever the fuck came up with that calendar that ends in 2012. (I’m clearly well-versed in end-of-the-world conspiracy theories.) I just feel like that’s probably legit.  At least, more legit than some rando hyper-religious alcoholic/meth-head cult leader sitting in a lazyboy in the middle of a corn field during his four day bender shouting at his cows that the world is going to end. I mean, that profile may not be accurate, but it’s probably pretty close.

If the world does end tomorrow night, though, I’m gonna be pretty pissed.  I did not live this week as if it was my last.  I mean, I did get drunk on a Monday night and I did get to color code my planner up to the first week of July, but that is just not enough.  I mean, just today I spent my free time this evening finding a new ringtone, doodling in my econ notebook because I didn’t feel like thinking, poking around on facebook, twitter and tumblr, making dinner and taking care of Chiefy, who, incidentally, is experiencing some health issues.

The world just can’t end tomorrow. I haven’t had a chance to wear out my new ringtone. I haven’t had a chance to see Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows Part 2. I haven’t gone on my Study Abroad trip yet! I still have Taylor Swift’s concert to look forward to in July. My driver’s license doesn’t expire until 2013! I have food in the fridge that is still good after tomorrow.

Even if the world ends tomorrow and a bunch of people get to be saved by Jesus, I hope I’m left here.  With all the other ruffians and rejects. It’ll probably be more fun anyway because the only people left will be those with a sick sense of humor and a moral compass that doesn’t point due north, like myself. We’ll have a blast. And that way, I can still use my non-expired driver’s license and enjoy all the food still in the fridge. And all of Hollywood will still be here (because they’re fucked), so I can still see HP7.2 in July when I get home from Europe. Basically, my life will be no different.

So, I guess, here’s what I have to say about the end of the world, should it come tomorrow night: bring it. I’m ready.

I guess this might see unrelated, but maybe I'll do this sexy hair shake in preparation for the world ending.

Well. I’ve been sitting here for 51 minutes trying to think of something to say.

I finally came up with this:

This picture is pretty much an excellent way to sum up a night that Megan and I will never forget, and a night that Rob will never remember. Because he was blackout drunk and crawled through East Lansing trying to get home after we decided it was totally fine for him to leave by himself while we hung out with the complete strangers we found.

And by found, I mean that I flagged down some random Escalade, jumped inside and told Rob and Megan it was totally fine and to get the fuck in the car, and GO GO GO!!

Yeah. Really safe.

A complete blur. And shady as fuck.

We had been drunk for a while and looking for something to do in East Lansing after the MSU vs OSU game. (Can I just tell you how much I love game day?! SO MUCH!)  We were hanging out near Harpers when we decided that we should go to my friend’s apartment because she was having people over. We would hang out for a little bit and go to the bars later, because oh, yeah, it was still light out and too early to be as drunk as we were.

The only thing was that we needed a way to get to my friend’s apartment, which was hella far away.  Instead of calling a cab or even trying to call a friend who could drive, I just decided to flag some vehicle down. Like I’m in NYC or something, trying to hail a taxi. Who am I?

So, yeah, I flag down this white Escalade, which is filled with three or four (I can’t remember) guys.  They stopped and, for some reason, let me hop in.  For some reason, Rob and Megan followed after me and away we went to my friend’s apartment.

Talk about poor life choice. And awkward city.

Shenanigans.

Anyway, I can’t remember what happened, like the exact events of the evening. I do remember Rob, Megan and I going into my friend’s bathroom and all three of us peeing in there. At the same time. Not okay.

I also remember one of the boys changing his pants in a parking lot.

And I remember drunk-dialing my dad.

We also went to one of the bars in East Lansing for a while and danced our faces off. That was when we let Rob walk himself home despite the fact that he couldn’t see.

There’s also a memory of Megan peeing outside, in public. Twice.

We also walked all the way back to my apartment and kept Erica up until, like, 7am.  I made two of the boys watch High School Musical because I didn’t want to have sex with either of them.

The best part was that after all of the shenanigans and staying up until 8am with a strange man I had met just by jumping in his vehicle, I had to go to a staff meeting at work.  I showed up, all disheveled and loopy from a lack of sleep and super hungover.

Megan and I always reminisce on the shitshow that night turned out to be.  Generally, I just consider myself on the up and up as long as I’m not hopping in vehicles filled with strange men I don’t know.  And when I’m not pounding 100 proof shots of Captain Morgan.

We also try to embrace the whole no man left behind mentality.

Unless it’s Seneca- we usually let her go wherever she wants.

Or Leah- but that was one time, and had I been aware enough to be a part of the decision, I never would have let her wander East Lansing by herself during St. Patrick’s Day weekend. That was not my fault. And things worked out… kinda. She found her way home eventually.

Dude.

I’m supremely hungover.

I slept until 4 pm today.

Actually, that is kind of a lie.

What really happened was I woke up at 8:30 this morning to pee.  I am fairly certain I was still drunk at this point, as I could not figure out how to execute the tasks of finding the light switch and turning on the bathroom light.  In all fairness, I was in a hotel (so my surroundings were less than familiar) and the light switches were on the wall outside of the bathroom.  I washed my hands in the bathtub (because I thought the sink was still full of ice and all of our liquor- it wasn’t.) and that’s when I found Seneca’s red thong hanging out on the ledge of the bathtub.

I remember thinking that was a little odd.

I crawled back into bed next to Seneca and went back to sleep until about 10 o’clock, when I heard Megan walking around our hotel room and starting to clean stuff up.  It was probably an hour later that we all actually woke up and pulled ourselves together enough to get in the car and go home.

When the girls dropped me off at home, I dropped my crap on my bed, grabbed a sweatshirt and headed back upstairs to plop myself down on the couch, where I had every intention of staying all day long.  I was too hungover to get up and grab a blanket so I used my hooded sweatshirt as a blanket and used a pillow on the couch to cover my feet.  I wished more than anything that I could just use the power of my mind to turn on the fireplace, but that didn’t really work out.  Instead, I watched The Office on DVD and froze my ass off.

I woke up around 2pm when I heard Grandma arrive.  I was drifting in and out of consciousness so I really have no idea what she was talking about, but it was too loud for my taste so I quickly turned the DVD player off, switched the tv to the channel that was playing some basketball, and went to crawl into my mom’s bed.

At about 3pm, I woke again.  Grandma had started vacuuming. I tell you, the woman cannot just sit and do nothing.  Even though my mom constantly tells Grandma not to use our vacuum (because she breaks them????), Grandma doesn’t listen and insists on vacuuming our house. I wanted to knife her, but not that badly because I didn’t expend any energy at all to ask her to stop.

It was about 4pm when I started feeling like I needed to stop procrastinating and do my homework. Only, it felt like death to not be horizontal.

I started my homework at about 7pm, and that shows.  I’m only slightly embarrassed to hand in my case study and I won’t be that mad when I don’t get 100%. I won’t be that mad because last night was fun enough to be worth less than 100% on the piece of shit case study I handed in this evening.

I am, however, a little disappointed in myself because, dude, I cannot drink like I used to.  Not like I could in college.  Growing up sucks.

There is no other day that I wish more than anything that I was still in college than on St. Patrick’s Day.

I mean, most days I wish I was still in college, and I think it’s retarded that we were all dying to graduate when we were already in the part of our lives that truly is the best part. Even more retarded is that I didn’t drag out my time in college longer than the four years I was already there.

I mean, where else is it completely acceptable to literally drink all day?  I don’t just mean day drinking, tailgate style.  I mean waking up and pounding a jello shot or two and head to work only to get out at noon and immediately start drinking to catch up to where everyone else is.

A household divided: pepsi vs coke. What’s your pref??

One very important concept I learned in college is playing catch-up. Don’t do it.  Poor. Life. Choice.

Luckily, I had really good friends who reminded me to slow the fuck down and pace myself. A good friend and roommate who looked out for me and made me pb&j sandwiches (on more occasions than one) so I would have consumed something other than caffeine and alcohol when we started drinking.

Lunch of champions/functioning alcoholics!

It’s not appropriate for me to spend the entire day wasted, take a nap at 6pm and wake up an hour later to continue consuming more alcohol than is recommended by the government.  It’s not appropriate to continually lose misplace my ID and debit card only to find it in a different pair of jeans because I had forgotten I had changed pants at the last minute (I would). It’s not appropriate to drunkenly sext frat boys. Nor is it appropriate to try to steal some poor man’s golden retriever (Erica! Okay, it was mostly me.).

Oh, Mandy…!

It’s not appropriate to disappear for extended periods of time with said frat boy under the guise of “washing my hands.” It didn’t matter that Erica knew I wasn’t washing my hands.  No one washes their hands that often, or for more than 20 seconds. Or for, like, 40 minutes at a time.

Whatever.  I never said I was a good liar.

None of that is appropriate.  Anymore.

Because I’m not in college. Anymore.

Because I’m old.

I hope everyone had a safe and very happy St. Patrick’s Day!

I spent mine lunching with a member of the tripod, shopping for new makeup, hitting up the library, doing homework and now I’m going to a Sugarland Concert!

Not too shabby! 🙂

So, I went out on the town with a couple girlfriends last weekend. It was the first time I did something social on the weekend in a month. I’m not kidding.

Oh, except for the weekend before, when the two other legs of the tripod came to my house and we stayed in and watched movies in our jammies.

Anyway.

For this night out, I made jello shots. It was the first time since junior year of college that I had anything to do with jello shots. I think a few years apart did some good. I wasn’t as irresponsible this time as I was when I was 20 years old. Well, irresponsible in the sense that I didn’t black out and throw up for two days.  There was no blacking out nor was there vomit this time. Just other… less-than-wise decisions were made.

I’m putting last Saturday night in the win column.

It seems that the only things I can successfully create in the kitchen are alcohol-related.

Without further ado…

ZOMG Yum!

  • 6 ounces of Jello (the big box!)
  • 16 ounces boiling water
  • 6 ounces cold water
  • 10 ounces alcohol

I used Bacardi Razz, obviously, to go with my raspberry jello but you can use whatever flavor jello and kind of alcohol you like!

The first thing I did was boil some water. I didn’t watch the pot the whole time, though, because we all know a watched pot never boils. (hahaha)

Then I poured the boiling water into a big measuring cup.

Next, I dissolved the jello dust into the boiling water.

Once the jello was completely dissolved, I poured in the cold water and my alcohol of choice.

PRETTY!!!

While the water was boiling, I set up the little cups the mixture was going to be going into.

I used the smallest little Dixie cups I could find. I put them in a cake pan type thingy to keep them all in one place and to cut down on the mess I was inevitably going to make.

I filled each cup a little less than half-full.

Told you I’m a mess-maker.

It was after this that I realized that using a ladle would be way easier.

This proved to be much easier. And less messy.

Once all of this alcoholic liquid was poured (or ladled) into the tiny cups, I was done! It was time to refrigerate those little babies.

pretty!!!!

I didn’t remember to get (attractive) pictures of them when we were consuming them. I did, however, manage to snipe a pic of Chiefy for you. He has a weird thing happening with his eyes, so we can pretend that it’s because he’s drunk/hungover even though it was mostly that I woke him up from a little catnap because he looked too cute for words all curled up on his blankie.

how cute is he!?!? Crazy eyes and all!

Two weeks ago, I asked someone to show me how to use my financial calculator.

I bought (and when I say “I,” I mean my mom bought me) said financial calculator four years ago. For my accounting class. Which I bombed.

Maybe if I would have known how to use my calculator I wouldn’t have sucked so hard at Accounting 201 at Michigan State. Or, maybe if I went to class when I wasn’t hungover and counting down the minutes until I got to leave I would have done marginally well. Or, maybe if I wouldn’t have taken those two pulls (I have a very low tolerance for alcohol, read: I’m what one would call a “lightweight”) from a bottle of Bacardi before the final I would have passed. There were probably many factors contributing to my lack of success.

Anyway, I finally know how to use a few of the functions on this financial calculator. Good news, considering I’m taking a finance class right now.

This boy (man?) who taught me how to use my calculator was someone who has been in at least two of my other classes but to whom I have never spoken. Tonight, we conversed even more. And not about how to use my calculator.

We talked about Jersey Shore.

It just brings people together.

I kind of love that about that show. It’s appalling and terrible for society. Every time I watch it, I always just wonder, is this real life?! And it never ceases to amaze me that those people are real. Despite knowing it adds no real value to society and probably makes me dumber when I watch it, I can’t stop. I am in it. It’s like I know better but keep making poor life choices. I’m like those idiot drug addicts on Intervention who keep doing dumb shit that is bad for them. The show cracks my shit up. I laugh out loud every single time I see an episode.

It sucked me in and won’t let me go!

Another thing that sucked me in? Pretty Little Liars on ABC Family.

What the fuck is that show? Seriously.

I read the first four books and then bailed because I decided I’m not a slutty 14-year-old, and the show had already started and I figured that was good enough. But then I stopped watching the show because I was always doing something else when it was on and it was just too much work to have to keep up online.

Here’s the thing though, I watched the season premiere this January and decided I would commit myself to it. Idiot. Because now I’m still doing something else when it comes on and that means I have to catch up online, which is exactly what happened last time! So today, I thought to myself, Self, it’s okay to not catch up on Pretty Little Liars. It’s okay to bail again. Just give it up. Let it go. It’s okay.

I felt good about this decision.

Until right now, when I saw a preview for next week’s Pretty Little Liars. It made me wanna watch it real bad. So I guess that’s that. I’m gonna make that effort to watch it.

Gosh, my life is so rough.

Ps. Betcha didn’t see Pretty Little Liars coming from the talk about my financial calculator. Yeah, that’s just how my brain works.

For Christmas, I gave Nikki a gift card to a salon/spa with the intent that we would get pedicures together. Well, as fate would have it, as a birthday activity, Nikki and I went to get pedicures yesterday afternoon. For an hour and a half, we sat in cushy, black recliners while we soaked our feet in warm water and got to have our toes painted.

I happen to be very, very ticklish, a fact I always seem to forget until someone is touching my feet.

Anyway, yes, for an hour and a half my feet were very well taken care of. And then I put my socks back on and shoved my feet into my boots and we ventured back out into the Michigan snow.

Later that night, I slipped my stocking-covered feet into some black ballet flats while me and my gal pals terrorized East Lansing once again as we tried to “re-do” new year’s eve.

My toes were perfect. Not a chip or a smudge.

When I went to put on some fuzzy socks I noticed that something is not quite right with my toes. I think it has something to do with the fact that the three toesies in the middle on my left foot also kind of hurt.

I’m sure you’re wondering why that might be.

Don’t worry, I’ll tell you.

This morning, after I woke up and told Megan that I had yet another dream where I was about to die, and after I asked her if she wanted me to give her a wet-willy, we decided we’d venture downstairs to reunite with the last leg of our Tripod. Megan left the room and headed down the stairs before me because I turned back thinking I would bring my fleece love-knot blanket and LP down with me. Then, because I realized that my hands were already full with a three-quarter of the way full plastic cup of water and my crackberry, I decided I could live without LP and good ole fleecey.  At least for the time being.

I had taken maybe two steps when I turned my head to say, “I’ll come back for you!” in a whisper to LP when all hell broke loose.

Before I knew it, I was in a crumpled heap at the bottom of the stairs with nothing but an empty cup in my hand.

I’d just like to point out that Megan’s stairway is very, very steep and it’s probably a safety hazard. I’m not just an idiot who doesn’t know how to do steps.

Megan came back from wherever she had been and then started laughing when she saw that I wasn’t actually hurt. Apparently, all she heard was a big thuddddd and a “whoa” and knew she needed to check on me.

After I picked myself up off the floor, I went to go tell Seneca that I had just bit it down the stairs but my first question was if she was even awake. The response I got? Something along the lines of “how could I not be?!”  While she didn’t hear the “whoa” punctuating my fall, she did hear me whine, “Ohhh, now I’m all wet!”

I’m pretty sure I’m not telling this right because I was laughing my ass off as the three of us regaled the hilarity it was to know that I took a tumble down the stairs.

My point is, now one of my toenails is a tiny bit chipped and there’s some degree of rug burn on my three middle toes on just my one foot.

If we could have filmed me busting my ass like that, I totally could have won some money on America’s Funniest Home Videos.

I pretty much just need my own camera crew, a few corporate sponsors and a reality show/development deal with a major TV network. I’m pretty sure I’ve got my life all mapped out.

One of my favorite parts of going out with the girls is rehashing the night’s events. I particularly enjoy the stupid conversations we have and the outrageous one-liners that make repeated appearances the morning after. For example, I have provided you with a snapshot of what the conversation was like upon our arrival to Megan’s house last night after we got home from the bar and the one-liner that never seems to get old:

Just before asking Megan to help me get her DVD player to play the Sex and The City movie, I told her to “S my D” and, to borrow from Forgetting Sarah Marshall, I told her I was going to “B my L on her T’s.”

This conversation only started the hour-long laugh-fest.

It’s not okay to talk like that. Totally inappropriate.

We only continued to speak in solitary letters, communicating pretty obscene and obscure messages.  It got pretty crazy when we had to explain to Seneca what we were saying. Her guesses were not at all correct.

“B my L on her T’s” quickly became “buzz my labia on her toes” which is obviously not at all what that means.

The laughter wouldn’t have been an issue if we hadn’t been snaking on some Doritos at 3 AM. The laughter led me to say that I needed to stop to breathe because I was “choking on some D’s” which obviously was misconstrued.

I meant Doritos, for the record.

Rather than offering friendly advice, such as DRINK SOME WATER, or refraining from speaking altogether to prevent further laughter, Seneca simply yelled at me to “Lock it up!”

To which I made the only appropriate response, mid-choke, “YOU LOCK IT UP!”

Then, for some reason, we all then pretty much passed out.

This morning, at approximately 8:30 AM, we were all awake.  When Megan came downstairs, her usually put-together ponytail was completely out of control. She looked disheveled.

I don’t think I even got in a “good morning, sunshine!” before she headed to the bathroom to fix her hair and I yelled “You look like Kid Rock” at her.

There’s rarely a morning after a night out when someone doesn’t get told they resemble Kid Rock. I’m not sure why he’s the go-to disheveled-looking name to drop nor am I sure why I think it’s so funny to tell people. For whatever reason, it gets me every time.

I understand if you don’t find these interactions as funny as I do, but today, every time  I have thought of what a crazy night last night was, I laugh.

I laugh when I think about how we danced with Willy the Can Man (kind of against our will). How Megan shouted “Embrace your inner Whale” as we ran around East Lansing with no coats on in the snow. How Leah repeatedly still tries to get me to “get on the ride” despite the fact I decline every time to hop on her back for a piggyback ride. How Ashley ripped a large, decorative candy cane off the wall and danced on the stage with it.

I do not care for Toby Keith, but he’s right about one thing: There’s not a lot I regret, Night’s I can’t remember, Friend’s I’ll never forget…

I don’t understand why people drink on planes.

Right now, at this juncture, I’m not sure why anyone drinks (to excess) in the first place. But that’s just because I’m experiencing the unfortunate after effects of a condition called Too-Much-Tequila.

I just feel like you see people drink a lot on planes, like it’s a good idea.

I don’t understand it.

There are pressure changes and recycled air. Tiny bathrooms. Too-small seats. Not enough leg room.  Too many people, strangers.

Not to mention that obviously if the flight is long enough to allow for the on-set of the hangover, you’re basically fucked. That would be terrible.

The only thing I want to do on a plane is sleep in hopes that when I wake up it’s over and I can gtfo. When I find my seat, I shove my shit under the seat in front of me, grab LP and lean against the window. I shut my eyes and hope sleep finds me. Luckily, it always does because I can pretty much sleep anywhere anytime.

While I don’t usually sleep the entire flight uninterrupted, I wake up long enough to turn my ipod on once the “fasten seatbelt” light has been turned off then zonk back out.  Next, I wake up just in time to tell the flight attendant that I would not like anything to drink.

See? I pass on all liquid on planes. How do people decide to hit the hard stuff while cruising at 30,000 feet in the air? What is the appeal?

Perhaps I’m looking at this the wrong way. Maybe I would enjoy flying if I got tanked? Just not too tanked before take-off or they won’t let me on the plane. That’s a rule, right? I’ve seen that in movies too.

Oh, in case you noticed, this isn’t a list. It is however another random musing. My lists of late have been stupid. And Drew complained to me about it. So I’m changing things up.

‘Cause it’s my party and I can cry if I want to.