Tag Archive: east lansing


I have been sitting on my ass all day.

It’s a little hard since I have a bruise the size of my palm on my right ass cheek and it hurts really bad.

I’m sure you’re wondering why there’s a giant bruise on my butt. Well, dear readers, today is your lucky day.  I’ll tell you.

Last night, there was a mini-bar crawl kind of thing that went down in EL for Sully’s 21st birthday.  Everything was going well, except there were a couple times when I wished I was wearing different shoes.

The first instance was when Seneca and I went to the bathroom.  There was a part of the tile floor missing, creating a little lake of mysterious liquid.  My basically naked foot ended up in said lake.  That’ll teach me to wear flip flops.

Before I tell you the second time I really wished I was wearing different shoes I need to preface it with this question. Have you ever been walking on a wet surface while wearing flip flops? Have you ever had that moment of panic that comes when you feel your feet slide because the wet surface and the poor traction of the flip flop?

I promise that this injury had nothing to do with the level of intoxication. It has everything to do with the fact that flip flops fail in the face of liquid.

When I jumped down from a ledge that I happened to be standing/dancing on, I bit it.

My flip flops hit the water/beer/liquor/mixed drink wet spot and my feet flew out from under me.  There was nothing I could do.  I slid into my brother’s friend, slammed my ass on the ledge and scraped the hell out of my elbow.

I couldn’t decide what hurt more: my pride or my body.

The verdict: my body.

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.

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!

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…

It was never really a mystery to us why it seemed like our entire floor in the dorms in college hated us.

Sarah and I lived in the room at the very end of the hallway. Our perfect square of a room was the gathering place every Thursday night to watch The OC and later Grey’s Anatomy. Our room was the meeting place of the whole group of us for those three or four nights a week we went out to parties. And later, our sophomore year of college, our room was next door to two of our good friends, whose room would blare with the latest Justin Timberlake song or One Republic’s “Apologize” before it was cool and overplayed on the radio.

We did dumb shit, like dress up like the some cracked out version of the Spice Girls and sing really, really loudly after 2 in the morning. You know, when the whiners on our floor were sleeping, and had been since 11 pm.

As a group, we’re loud. I mean, I scream and screech a lot, I laugh loudly, and I shout when I’m happy or excited. Multiply that by at least four and you’ve got my core group of friends in college. And we were together constantly.

Add in the fact that we lived in an all-girls dorm. In the really, really old dorms. As in, I lived in the same dormitory my grandmother lived in. The same dormitory my mother lived in. It’s old. We also lived in the dorm mostly populated by the college of music kids. They’re all artsy and hipster-y and obviously too smart and better than us to get loud and crazy all the fucking time, like we did. The best part about our dorm is that it was the closet to the street with all the bars on it. And it was relatively close to a lot of the off-campus housing and greek life. (And let’s get real: I loved me some fraternity parties before I was of the legal drinking age.)

I think this photo adequately demonstrates the potential Le Le and I have when it comes to getting crazy. lolz (Ps. Le, does that headband look familiar? bahaha)

My point is, our floor hated us.

We were constantly hushed and asked nicely to be quiet. And when all else failed, we were told on. When we realized that the RA’s were about to come bust us, we’d quickly finish the shot glass full of five o’clock vodka on Leah’s or my desk, turn the music off, grab our coats and fly out the door.

I mean, we didn’t want to get written up. Again. Or have to pour our alcohol down the bathroom sink. Again.

Even when we weren’t drinking (illegally) in the dorms, we were loud. And probably really, really obnoxious. I’ll leave you with this one memory I have, a memory that really reinforced the fact that everyone on our floor just did not get me, or my friends.

You know how in college dorms there are all kinds of random-ass signs for random-ass shit? Like, sign up for ballroom dancing in one of the rooms by the cafeteria, or do you need a tutor for some really hard singing class you’re taking? Well, I can’t remember why we decided to make a sign but one night we did, and we hung it on the walls all over our hallway, and all of the doors to the bathrooms, and the mirrors, and the door to the stairs.

It was a nice sign. It didn’t ask anyone to donate their first born to some demonic cult or require anyone to spend any money on anything. It was just a nice little sign to remind people to have a good day and to provide a little pick-me-up. Sometimes people just need that. Classes are hard. It’s really hard to walk fifty feet to a building across a nice little field to go sing for a couple hours a day. And it gets cold in Michigan.  And sometimes blowing off class on a Friday to play Ultimate Frisbee in Adam’s Field is just really… hard. So we posted our sign to let people know we cared.

Our sign was not appreciated. When we woke up the next morning, every single sign had been torn down and thrown away.

The people on our floor were dicks. And they hated us.

Well, I can tell you that 23 doesn’t really feel any different than 22.

I can also tell you that last night, out on the town, celebrating my 23rd year on earth with some of my best gals, I had the best time. It was a top night.

Thankfully, none of us had the sense to bring a camera to document the shitshow that was my birthday celebration. I did manage to snap a couple pics on my crackberry, which I will of course share with you here.  I can’t post all of them because some are embarrassing, so those will just stay on my phone for my own viewing pleasure, for moments when I need a good laugh. Or to remind my old ass that I was once, indeed, young, pretty, and fun.

that measuring cup doubled as a shot glass

At dinner, I ordered a Shirley Temple. I turned 23, I’m at a nice dinner with my mother for my birthday and I ordered a Shirley fucking Temple. Who am I?! And while I was sipping my mocktail of sprite and grenadine, I had a thought: cherry vodka and sprite! So I went and got burnetts cherry vodka, like I’m in high school and will drink anything with alcohol in it ’cause you take what you can get when you’re underage. Except not me, when I was underage I almost exclusively drank Bacardi. But that is neither here nor there.

I sent the following text to my friend: “So, I bought cherry burnetts for tonight… I’m pretty much gonna die”

It was pretty much right on point.

the only appropriate photo of the entire evening

I had a birthday crown. It was made for a four year old, I’m sure, but I wore it all night long. The “jewel” on the top of the crown had a button on it that made it light up and blink different colors. I was very excited by this for the simple fact that I could use it as a beacon to locate my girls when we inevitably got separated. Needless to say, that idea didn’t really work out, but in theory it was genius.

The best part of last night was that we haven’t had a night like that with a bunch of us girls together in a while. And we also haven’t scattered like that in a hot minute. There were six of us and there was a time when none of us knew where any of the others were. It was awesome. I decided to wander away from the group (okay, so that’s pretty normal) and go somewhere else with someone else, and as I was leaving I ran into Meg and Kirsten. We went to another bar and didn’t have any idea where the other three went. We only found out later that Le and Mil went home, and Sen had left to go to another bar with other people.

I woke up this morning still drunk and thanked my lucky stars that I was alive! Then I ate a piece of birthday cake and found religion, it was that good.

It was a top night.

I hope 23 is a good year!

Remember last time I was here and gave you a half-assed blog post because I was hungover?

If you said yes, then you can suck it because despite being hungover, I shared a precious father/daughter moment with you. And you’re an ungrateful little shit.

Okay, let’s be friends again. I really wanna tell you a story.

It’s pretty clear by now that I was a hot damn mess last Saturday night. My antics are still being described to me by those who were present (or received drunk-texts… I was particularly pleased with the ones I sent to my boss. OOOOOPS!). There were some events that I had forgotten took place. That’s the best, by the way, when your friends let you know about all the dumb shit you did and said DAYS later. (Thanks, guys.)

The point is that because of what a shit-show I was on Saturday, I reached a new level of lazy on Sunday, which, after all, is the day of rest. So go ahead and hate that I did NOTHING but sleep and watch Dawson’s Creek all day long. Just know that Jesus says it’s okay.

I mentioned it on twitter but I totally got a new phone on Sunday. I got myself a Blackberry. WHICH, by the way, they call it a Crackberry for a reason. I’m obsessed. I’m in love. It’s glorious.

Dino is superior to the stupid LG Shine.

I had to get a new phone because my old one just like… stopped working. It kept turning itself off and then told me to insert my sim card and I didn’t get why because my sim card was totally already inserted. Like, all Saturday night while I was trying to drunk-text the shit out of my contacts list, it kept being like “Katie, you’re a drunk bitch and you don’t even deserve me.”  But, we made it through the night alive, so that’s all that matters. Sunday, though, apparently all bets were off because it just decided to really stick it to me and really stop working.

So, to the AT&T store I went, in all my hungover glory and told that little bitch of a phone, “fuck you, I’m getting a smartphone, you idiotpieceofshit.” Just like that.

Luckily for Jon, the poor soul who had to deal with me, I had just showered… kinda recently. And by that I mean an hour before I went. But I didn’t brush my hair or even put make up on (duh). I had gotten up from the couch long enough for me to shower, put some underwear on underneath my sweatpants and brush my teeth before I started another episode of Dawson’s Creek and my brother Skype’d me.

As I walked into the mall from the parking lot, a group of four or five attractive African American gentlemen were walking out right towards me. One of those guys decided to fuck with me. He looked me up and down and was like, “how you doin’, pretty girl?” and I actually laughed at him.  Irony. Bahaha I mean, I did nottttt look “pretty” so he was clearly just rubbing it in. Rude.

Anyway, I got into the AT&T store and decided I should probably remove my sunglasses. And OF COURSE the hottest guy working had to be the one to have to help me. Jeez, this hangover was just fucking me left and right.

Long story short, turns out I was due for an upgrade so I had the best pricing available to me. And when I went to look at phones and figure out which phone I wanted, my hands were shaking so bad I finally told Jon I wasn’t actually a meth-addict or some other drug addicted degenerate despite the looks of me. I told him, “I’m sorry, I’m fine, I’m just really, really hungover.”

Right after that, our conversation flourished and I definitely felt a connection. We had similar attitudes towards drinking and terrorizing East Lansing. It was nice.  We also had a brief conversation about how I repel technology. It was nice as well.

Even during all of this embarrassment, I had resigned myself to the fact that this is just kinda how my life goes. And then I didn’t feel embarrassed. I stood at the counter, watching the Shake Weight commercial on the TV on the wall while he did all the crap he needed to do on the computer and transferring all my contacts and shiz to my new phone. We conversed about how awkward and hilarious that commercial is and I decided that my little hungover adventure into public looking like a huge mess was a success.

I feel pretty good about it.

So, I think I mentioned this before but my mom is building a house. Well, obviously she is not the one doing the hard labor and constructing a dwelling deemed livable. There’s just no way that could actually happen. But you know what I mean.

Because of this new house, my mom is basically a basketcase and walks around life like a ninny. (I really wanted to use that word!) She has been trying to get her house “ready to put on the market” which means making repairs and throwing all of our random shit away.

None of this would really be worthy of telling you about except it is now encroaching on my life. I have been told that I must pack up all of my childhood books and the rest of the crap in my bedroom that I haven’t taken with me anywhere. Okay, fine. I can do that. But the repairs?  At least give a girl some warning!

After a night out terrorizing East Lansing with a couple of my best gals, I awoke this morning at 6:50 am (ish) to hear my mother fluttering around the kitchen and down the hall as her heels clicked against the hardwood floor. I immediately rolled back over and continued right on sleeping. Much too early to be awake. THEN, a text woke me up (thanks a lot, Nikki- lol just kidding! love you!) around 9:30 am or something. I deemed this a suitable time to rise. So after texting back and forth a for a while, apologizing to a couple people I happened to inappropriately drunk-text, and deciding I needed to watch an episode of Dawson’s Creek, I heard someone walkin’ around downstairs. I assumed it was my mom. (I have this joke with her lately that she just never goes to work anymore- but it’s totally a joke. She does go to work. And she loves her job. FYI. hahaha)

So, because I assumed it was my mom, I got out of bed, opened my door and took a first few tentative steps out into the loft before saying something snarky to Tam (my mom) about how she’s a slacker and never goes to work.

Oh. It totally wasn’t my mom. Whoever it was totally heard me get up and was like, “HELLO!?!”

Uhm. That’s a man-voice. WTF?!

Uhm. Hello?

WHAT WOULD YOU HAVE SAID?! (Maybe I should have gone with something like “WHO DERE?!” bahahaha at least I crack myself up…)

“I’m John,” said the odd man in my home.

Suddenly, I was thankful I put pants on. I almost didn’t!

Uuuuuum, I’m Katie?

“I’m just putting up some drywall here for your mother?”

This is when I just retreated towards my room. I would hide until he was gone. My hair was huge and completely weird shaped. The X drawn on my hand in permanent marker from the bar last night was probably now transferred to my cheek. I didn’t need to know what this man looked like or what he was doing. Just. Go. Away. But he sounded busy, so I figured I’d wait it out.

Oh. Okay.

I hightailed it back to my room, closed the door, took my pants back off, and crawled back into bed. I texted my mom “it’s not awkward at all with this random man in my house or anything…” but she didn’t care enough about me to text me back.

It seemed like I was waiting forever. After an episode of Dawson’s Creek that I pretty much slept through, I decided I couldn’t live like a prisoner in my own home anymore. So I grabbed my clothes and tip-toed to the bathroom. After showering and getting dressed, I got the f outta there and ran my very-important errands. Yeah, right. I basically invented a reason to gtfo of my house for at least an hour.

HE WAS STILL THERE WHEN I GOT BACK. AND HE LOOKS LIKE SANTA CLAUS.

AND HE CONVERSED WITH ME AS IF OUR AWKWARD INTRODUCTION NEVER TOOK PLACE.

meredith grey knows what's up

So, I went right along with it. I pretended this morning never happened, just like the annoying thing that happened last night. And the awkward thing that happened yesterday after work.  If Santa can handle avoidance behavior, then I’m just gonna continue living my life “under a banner of avoidance.” Really, this just instills in me the idea that being “dark and twisty” and an avoider is okay. This all just really reinforces my belief that if I’m any one character from Grey’s Anatomy, it is indeed Meredith. And if you watch that show, she’s not exactly… stable. But whatever, she gets help and becomes bright and shiny. Maybe someday I’ll be bright and shiny Meredith too. Change does happen, you know. I used to be very Cristina, but as I just told you, I’m not so much anymore.

This got very off-topic. Where was I?

Oh yes. Santa. (Sidenote:  As I was writing Santa, I almost wrote Satan. Interesting.)

Santa Claus just continued on merrily, putting up drywall or something. And then he finally left, but not before asking me if it was okay to leave his ladder here since he would be returning at 9 am tomorrow morning.

I can’t wait. Maybe I’ll ask him for a pony tomorrow. Or maybe not since horses freak me out.

Oh, I know. I’ll ask him for a boyfriend an *NSYNC reunion tour! Ooh, or for Justin Timberlake and Britney Spears to bury the hatchet and get their love-fest back on. Or for Mel Gibson to not be so terrible and make him go away. (I could do this forever.)