Archive for the ‘Stella’ Category

The Consequences of Drinking

August 2, 2010

I’ve been able to legally consume vodka for over a decade. In that time, I’ve learned exactly how many drinks I can have before I want to share the glory of my bosoms with total strangers, and how many more it takes for the urge to be acted on. That particular lesson came one fabled law school night, when I decided to forget experience, ignore the bra-less warning signs and kept on drinking. I eventually reenacted the striptease from Gypsy (complete with boob shake and leg kicks) for an entire bar. Ten years of drinking experience has also taught me when to put the trash can next to the bed and that on very rare occasions, like the Gypsy Night, it is advisable to sleep on the bathroom floor. But between a Typical Weekend Night where I behave myself and hold my naked impulses in check, and the other extreme where Public Nudity Seemed Like A Good Idea At The Time, there’s an in-between phase. Its a place where I’m drunk enough to be stupid but not to the point my friends are taking me home, demanding I keep my clothes on at least during the cab ride. Its these in-between nights where Droids get broken (like Friday), shoes get lost (also on Friday) and nail polish disasters occur (clearly Friday was eventful).

I know exactly how the Droid thing happened. It was about 8 o’clock, several hours into a prolonged work happy hour but still early enough that all the details are clear. For some reason, I had my phone on the corner of the table and it fell from the extended-height tabletop to the concrete patio. My phones generally take a beating and in the three months I’d had it, the Droid was no different. It survived multiple falls, a kitchen sink immersion and 20 pounds of Bionic Kitty sitting on it at every opportunity. But apparently a five foot drop onto pressed concrete was too much. Initially I thought the phone was only cracked, but as the weekend progressed, the hairline screen fracture grew and turned into a flickering screen with limited touch capabilities. Essentially, it is a big brink in my purse that occasionally rings but I can’t answer. This morning, I coughed up $300 and am on the waiting list for an X.

I’m also pretty sure how the shoe casualty went down. On Saturday, when I was trying to establish my Consumption Timeline, I determined the loss was after I left happy hour (I opted to leave six hours after it began, and it was still going strong, by the way) and had met Stella for more drinking. There are parts that get a little fuzzy but I believe at some point, I demanded she put me in a cab. All I know for sure is that I suddenly started to experience the early-onset symptoms of a nudity urge, so logically, I took off my shoes and tried to put my feet out the window of a moving vehicle. Understandably, the cabbie was not happy about this and expressed his displeasure. I have vague recollections of phrases like “stupid white girls and their freaky behaviors” and “get your (deleted), (deleted) feet out of the (deleted) window or I’ll kick your scrawny, white (deleted).” He got me home safely and I tipped him well, in part for putting up with me but also for calling me “scrawny.” I took that as a complement. In addition to the extra cash, it seems the cab driver also acquired one of my shoes. I know I got into the cab with two but by the time I reached my apartment building door, there was only one. If it had gone out the window, I’m confident I would have remembered that; I suspect I just left it behind. Randomly around DC, I’ll come across a single dress shoe or flip-flop. Occasionally there’ll be a nearby sock as well. I’ve never understood where these things came from, but I’m beginning to suspect that I am not the only person with alcohol-induced nudity urges, and these lone shoes are the byproducts.

But I discovered  the biggest calamity of my Drink-A-Thon about 6:40 a.m. on Saturday, when I woke up craving water. After a night of quasi-debauchery, I always get up in the wee hours thanks to an overwhelming need to hydrate. I’ve learned to optimize this time, since it’s the witching hour between drunkenness and the onset of hangover. Usually, all I have to do it get water, take aspirin and choose trash can or toilet. But on Saturday morning, as I swung my feet over the side of the bed and stepped towards the kitchen for my date with the Brita, my foot landed directly in a puddle of something wet and tacky. My initial impulse was I had thrown up and missed the trash can, but when I looked down, I discovered a puddle of nail polish.

My forensic analysis of the scene suggests that at some point after I got home, I decided to be proactive and help mitigate my hangover by drinking a some water and eating. Scattered along the floor, on the side of my bed, was a bottle of water, assorted granola bars, a bag of shredded cheddar and nail polish. The order in which everything occurred is unclear, but the evidence suggests I ate half of at least three granola bars. The bag of cheese was open and strewn over the comforter; I’m not sure where that comes into play. The nail polish is also unexplainable since my mani and pedi were completely intact. But the bottle was clearly open and sitting on the edge of a puddle of OPI’s Atomic Orange. From the epicenter of the spill, which my foot landed directly in when I was getting out of bed, were paw prints radiating out in a systematic pattern, like a cat knowingly went through the polish and then walked until the wet gloss wore off. From the repeated one-way tracks, it looked like the cat did this over and over again, turning around and re-walking through the polish every time it began to dissipate.

Obviously the first thing I did after washing my foot and cleaning the majority of the polish spill was to investigate the cats. Number Two’s paws came up clean but, as expected, there were orange chunks matted in the base of Bionic Kitty’s leg fur. By that point, my hangover had kicked in and I knew I was about to be horizontal for the day. Scraping up the orange prints took almost five hours on Sunday and the entire time, I wished that Friday night had ended with public nudity instead.

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Emerging From The Ether

April 22, 2009

At the beginning of the month I left the Place of Lawyerly Things for a spiffy new job. I was lured to this Utopia Of The Legal World by an teensy weensy pay bump, an office with an actual window and the prospect of increased management experience. The trade off was relinquishing all vodka consumption personal time and returning to 70 hour work weeks where my only form of communication with the Outside World consists of handing cash to the Chinese delivery man and flirting with the police officer conducting a wellness check that my mother requested after I didn’t return her 23 “are you live?” voicemails. It’s been three weeks of nonstop work and I’d hoped to be semi-work settled by now. The reality is I’m nowhere near and my continuous neglect of the day-to-day aspects of life is catching up with me.

The minutia of daily existence has fallen so far off my radar that this morning I realized I had no clean underwear. Except I still have the remnants of my college “I don’t like to do laundry” panty stash. In a pinch, I can go 37 days without having to wash knickers, and that’s not including the Sexy Occasion undies I hold in reserve. So today, Webbernets, I am wearing black lace butt floss with pink bows strategically placed in locations that aren’t very conducive to long bouts of sitting. If any of my employees suddenly want to reenact the Inappropriate Office Sex Scene from Disclosure, I’m ready. In the meantime, I’m learning how to subtly pick a wedgie.

The laundry isn’t the only thing that needs some attention. On my way to retrieve the first of my 12 daily, life-sustaining Diet Cokes, I walked by the litter box. At first, I thought Bionic Kitty had finally succeeded in her quest to make her poop a weapon of mass destruction. Then I realized it’s been an unacceptable amount of time since I’ve changed the litter. So long, in fact, that it might qualify as pet abuse. The Litter Situation explains Bionic Kitty’s recent bad behavior spree. Last night, she pushed my cell phone into the toilet; on Monday, I caught her nuzzling my prized Kate Spade clutch in a manner suggesting it was her next meal; and anytime I leave my laptop exposed on a table top, she begins to attack it with the fervor of Napoleon pulling out all the stops at Waterloo. Anyway, when I discovered my Cat Neglect, I immediately opened new Fresh Step and put out an entire bag of cat treats to assuage Bionic’s malice my guilt. Hopefully I’ve bought my possessions a Temporary Bionic Harassment reprieve.

But the worst thing I’ve neglected has been the blog. Because really, it’s cheaper than therapy. Plus, the number of emails and comments I’ve gotten, checking up on me, has been entirely unexpected. Apparently, my Seven Loyal Readers worry if I fall too far off the grid. At first I though it was cyber love. Then Stella told me it actually is because people like to laugh at me and that pretty much returned my ego to normal proportions. Regardless, I’ll do my best to keep the blog quasi-updated despite overwhelming amonts of Lawyerly Work. I vow to be better about work/life balance. And I’m actually going out this weekend. Really, I miss vodka.

A Lame Photographic Montage Of The Weekend

March 31, 2009

GETTING CULTURED ON FRIDAY NIGHT

Things I discovered:

  1. Sangria is not a popular gum flavor. Which might explain why it was on sale at Soviet Safeway.
  2. I hereby officially declare that I will put out for any date who takes me to Founding Fathers
  3. Modern dance is very, um… Well, let’s just say it’s not ballet.

 

Founding Fathers

Moi, Lulu and McFly smiling pretty at Founding Fathers.

Kennedy Center.

Go stand in the rain. I want a picture. You'll thank me when we're 80 and can remember this moment.

 A SATURDAY NIGHT VISIT TO WONDERLAND, CELEBRATING THE ANNIVERSARY OF McFLY’S BIRTH

Things I discovered:

  1. Contrary to previous speculation, I am not the worst dancer in the Metro Area. It’s actually Brian.
  2. Cab Number One: 22 minutes spent listening to the dispatcher’s detailed explanation of why Cab 84 is “a retard.” As evidence, he cited 84’s inability to locate building entrances, lack of proper radio responses and apparent preference for Pakistani country music. 
  3. Cab Number Two: My second strangest cabbie experience. Ever. Included a drunk driver snacking on ho hos while making a three point turn into oncoming traffic. 
  4. Cab Number Three: If somebody with a nose bleed asks to share a cab to NoVA, don’t do it. Trust me. It won’t end well.
  5. I have developed a vodka immunity.
  6. Delirium fixes that problem.

 

Yes, I got her the card crown. And I am overly proud of myself.

Yes, I got McFly the card crown. And I am overly proud of myself.

I've succumbed. Footless tights are my new pants.

I've succumbed. Footless tights are my new pants.

The Great 2009 Grind Off.

The Great 2009 Grind Off. I lost.

Entertaining the Bathroom Line.

Entertaining the Bathroom Line.

I even have culinary disasters in restaurants.

I even have culinary disasters in restaurants.

 MONDAY’S KICK BOOTY ROAD TRIP TO REHOBOTH

Things I discovered:

  1. It’s not pronounced “Ray-booth.” 
  2. A text recap… Me to Stella: It has come out in our road trip conversation that McFly sees me as an old lady with a collection of lawn ornaments. I am sort of insulted. Stella’s reply to Me: Hahahahahhahhaha. I TOTALLY see it. Me back to Stella: Fuck you. But McFly says holler. 
  3. Rehobothers liberally interpret “ocean front views.” 
  4. Waves are aggressive. 
  5. McFly does not appreciate the genius of Bob Evans. My new goal in life is to rectify this.

 

Unintentional Detour Number One: the Pentagon. And seeing as we're still in NoVA, this does not bode well for the trip.

Unintentional Detour Number One: the Pentagon. And seeing as we're still in NoVA, this does not bode well for the trip.

Guess I'm screwed.

I'm screwed.

McFly: Which way do we go on US-9? Me: It doesn't say. McFly: Ummm. Right? Me: Commence Unintentional Detour Number Three.

McFly: Which way do we go on US-9? Me: It doesn't say. McFly: Ummm. How about right? Me: Commence Unintentional Detour Number Jillion.

Race?

Race?

X-rated sandcastles.

X-rated sandcastles.

Holler!

Holler!

Grrr! Arrrrgh!

Grrr! Arrrrgh!

Stupid wave.

Stupid wave.

I wanted to bury her. This is what compromise looks like.

I wanted to bury her. This is what compromise looks like.

My Thinking Face.

My Thinking Face.

I wanted to be the man, but I couldn't get his face to open. Thus, I express my feelings accordingly.

I wanted to be the man, but I couldn't get his face to open. Thus, I express my feelings accordingly.

I feel like I'm in an episode of Gilmore Girls.

I feel like I'm in an episode of Gilmore Girls.

Bestiality.

Bestiality.

I sometimes do strange things.

I sometimes do strange things.

McFly and Me.

McFly and Me.

Tips And Advice For Stella, As She Leaves For Iceland

March 23, 2009

To: stella@cartoonbirdsbraidmyhaireachmorning.com

From: me@ourlitigatorsarebetterthanyourlitigators.com

Re: Iceland: A Traveler’s Guide By Me

My Dearest Stella:

As your Beloved Friend and General Voice Of Reason, I thought it necessary to share some helpful suggestions before your impending trip to Nordica:

  • Do not walk/fall/trip/otherwise go off the edge of a glacier. It won’t end well.
  • I am under the impression that there are a lot of nude/topless hot springs in Iceland. While you know my policy about States Of Public Undress (i.e. DON’T DO IT), in the context of Naked Old People, I especially advocate avoidance. Nobody needs to see that. Plus, it’s a given that saggy boobs are in our future. Do you really want a preview?
  • You are going to a place that still doesn’t utilize last names. Should you and Mr. Oates have a falling out mid-trip and you decide to enact Relationship Insurance Policy Provision 26, Subsection B (you know, the one that allows you to have a spur-of-the-moment revenge date), please be wary of guys named Sven Son Of Sven (aka Sven Svenson). Especially if you meet two of them within a five mile radius. It could be a Junior/Senior situation and macking on a father-son-combo is just gross, even in a foreign country.
  • Is this the first time you’ll be in close enough quarters that you’ll be forced to shit/fart around Mr. Oates? If so, I recommend constipation. It’s a universal fact that smelly poop is a romance killer.
  • Iceland has no standing army, navy, etc. This bodes well should you or your traveling companion decide to stage an impromptu coup. All you’ll need are sporks and willpower.
  • As much as Mr. Oates is gonna to harass you about it, avoid eating the National Delicacy. Rotted shark meet has gotta be Iceland’s version of Montezuma’s Revenge.
  • Mr. Oates strikes me as the type who’d advocate naming his child after the place of conception. Little Reykjavík will totally get his butt kicked on the playground. To wit, use protection.
  • Speaking of sex, the Mile High Club is overrated. And possibly felonious now that you can’t congregate around airplane bathroom doors. Please note: I am too broke to bail you out at this time. Nor am I familiar with the intricacies of international money wire transfer things. You land in a Nordic Jail, you’re staying.
  • Iceland apparently has twice as many sheep as people. Learn the local word for “bestiality” and if anybody says it around you, run.
  • You’re traveling to a place that is so eco-friendly it probably doesn’t have TP but instead makes do with steam bedays and fresh snow. Plan accordingly.
  • Should you find yourself in an awkward situation with any locals and need a joke to ease the tension, I’ve got one… “What do Icelanders eat for breakfast?” (wait for it… wait for it… WAIT FOR IT!!) “Ice Krispies!” *Rim shot followed by a well-deserved groan*
  • Icelanders consume more Coke per capita than any other nation. Not really a helpful suggestion, but a nifty fact none the less.

Yours In Hair Braiding And Other Assorted Girlyness,

Me

PS – I expect a souvenir. Nordic Vodka?

A Blog Roast, Or Happy 500th Post!

February 25, 2009

The email that went out…

Dear Seven Loyal Readers:

I just realized that my little piece of the Interwebs has reached 500 blog posts. I’ve been racking my brain, trying to come up with something different to do for the obligatory commemorative entry. Finally, I figured why not some sort of Blog Roast? It seems appropriate. So, here’s my proposal:

If you have time and the inclination, would you please email me something to post? Something along the lines of a humiliating story/a sordid memory/whatever, as long as it pertains to the blog or me or vodka. Or, if you are more of an artsy person, you could send an incriminating photo or doodle. Or if you’re analytical, then may I suggest an estimate of what I’ve spent on shoes since you’ve known me. Really, anything. Anyway, I will then gather everything together, make it somewhat orderly and post the lot.

Thanks for helping me celebrate 500…
Katherine

The result…

Pithy Comments and Flipilicious are relatively new additions to my Sphere of Love. But we’ve bonded over a shared appreciation of Kristen Bell, CW television shows, and our own boobs. Plus, we’ve all successfully repressed our Crazy Cat Woman tendencies. This was their masterful joint contribution, complete with the links of their choice.

Hey there, K-bell,

Do you mind if I call you that? I mean, I usually refer to you as Kristen “Almost Making Me a Lesbian” Bell, so if you want, I can continue doing so, but I understand how awkward that will be when it changes to Kristen “Made Me a Lesbian” Bell.

Anyway, enough about how hot you are (seriously, are you even human?). My cat convinced me (by covering every square inch of my apartment with vomit after eating my Veronica Mars blow-up doll) that I should stop talking about how much I idolize you and just write you a letter, proposing we meet up sometime. (Side note: That Fuckity Ass Bitchoid also convinced me to return her to the Pet Rescue – I still have my receipt!)

Since I know you’re busy promoting Fanboys, I’ve taken the liberty of giving multiple options for our date sex romp platonic meet-up:

  • Shopping while wearing Crocs,
  • Watching Battlestar Galactica (if you’re friends w/ Katee Sackoff, I’m open to a ménage a trios),
  • Getting you liquored up so I can make my move Drinking copious amounts of Diet Coke
  • Renting a zip car and running over a gay french bulldog Getting an intimate look at DC’s culture while mocking tourists
  • Snuggie Pub Crawl

No matter what activity you choose, it will be time well spent. I was not recently nominated as the expert on personal waxing, hangovers and sex within my friends’ group for naught. I also have a Very Sexy Boob Mole, if you’re into that kind of stuff. I realize you don’t know a whole lot about me, but I assure you, our time together will be blogged/tweeted/facebooked about for years held in the strictest confidence.

Honestly, I’m open to anything – except sushi.

*******************

And because the most entertaining minds are always in tandem, Maxie submitted this photographic gem of me and La Bell. Little does she know I intend to make it into a life size cutout.

The only picture taken of Katherine where you can't say she's wearing crocs with her dress. (by Maxie)

The only picture taken of Katherine where you can't say she's wearing crocs with her dress.

*******************

My college roomie is the keeper of my deepest, darkest secrets. She’s lucky she only revealed innocuous tidbits in her Roast contribution: my occasional straight-from-the-tub consumption of icing, which is arguably the genesis of my phenomenally-sized ass, and my secret adoration of Lifetime. Apparently, the following words are to be sung to the tune of “Memory.” Yep, from the musical Cats.

Katherine,
Never called her that name yet,
Sounds so grown-up and formal,
“Kate” forever to me.
I remember, unending tubs of chocolate icing,
Cakeless icing, purity.

Movies,
Lifetime movies all Sunday,
It was pure girly heaven
Got up only to pee.
Countless hours, her with vodka, Captain for me,
College apartment, so shady.

*******************

When I tell people I have internet friends, they usually look at me funny. But after they meet LiLu, they totally get it.

Within moments of meeting Katherine, I immediately knew we would be friends. This was not ONLY because within about 5 minutes, I was basically sitting on her lap at a crowded table of bloggers while we gossiped about things of a sordid nature. I also liked her shoes.

I keed, I keed. But I was also right. Over the past months, Katertot and I have been through a lot together. Mostly highs, some definite lows, but we’ve successfully drunk our way through it all. Wait, I mean, held each other. Yeah, that’s it.

Because she makes me laugh, every day, on and off her blog. Because she is trouble with a capital T (and my middle name is Danger). Because she is the kind of person I know I can (read: have) call at 2 a.m., crying, and she’ll not only answer but actually make me feel better. Because when we’re together, it looks like this:

The Dynamic Duo. And the Sexy Boob Mole.

The Dynamic Duo. And the Sexy Boob Mole.

I heart you, Katertot. Congrats on 500. But mostly, congrats on being my friend. Wait, that came out wrong. What I meant to say was LOVE YOU, hooker!

*******************

Back in my Ohio Days, there was a six month period where I was unable to drive. No, Interwebs, I did not get a DUI. At least that would have been a story. I’ve always secretly wanted to get booked… The car-ban was health related. Anyhoodles, about three months into my home boundedness, I bribed a Lawyerly Place Partner In Crime to drive me to work every morning. It was self-preservation; if I listened to any more of my father’s books on tape, there was going to be an Incident. Susan and I were friends, but our shared rides took it to an entirely new level. Especially when we realized we both obsess over Lindsey Buckingham in questionable and slightly stalkerish ways. This gem is titled, “Are you there God? It’s me, Suz.”

Ever since Katherine left my passenger seat, I have to live with this empty feeling in my car. Sure, I can fart freely (and trust me, I do) and get an extra 15 minutes of sleep, but it’s just not the same as having KJ’s wit and wisdom at my disposal. My chauffeuring abilities are probably, like, total crap now too.

God, every day I have to live with the idea that now there is no one to dress up like a burrito with on Halloween for a free meal, no one to make a Bob Evans‘ run for, and no one to invite me to inappropriate parties at their apartment. It just isn’t fair, God! KJ always had the best spreads.

I’ve tried to make friends with the other girls here, but they just don’t get it. Sometimes I think they will be like KJ because they like Star Trek and online dating, but then they just end up being total LOSERS, God. I know that I shouldn’t judge, but these people…they have the ability to drink, but they choose not to engage. They just don’t! Can you believe it?! They can forget being invited to my post-giving-birth happy hour, that’s for sure!

My grandpapa taught me that there is always a silver lining…and I suppose in some ways there are. If KJ hadn’t dumped Ohio, she probably wouldn’t be writing in her blog as much or as hilariously. She would probably still be walking to the Winking Lizard every day to feel cool, risking life and limb by making a mad dash across Bethel Road only to be mutilated into a big pile of goop by a Tim Hortons‘ truck…but I digress, God.

In my heart, I know that moving to D.C. and leaving me here alone at The First Place of Lawyerly Things was what’s best for KJ…but I can’t help but think what about me? I hope you can forgive me for being so selfish, God, but just look at how happy we were together…we even wore the same clothes! Sigh.

Twinsies!

Twinsies!

Until next time,

Suz

*******************

Stella…What can I say about Stella? She pimps my blog, provides me with vodka on an as-needed basis, and threatens my exes with sorta scary forms of retribution. She’s like Carrie, Charlotte, Samantha and Miranda united into one wondrous being. Stells, someecard says it best.

A haiku

Vodka and boobies
Bridget Jones, eat your heart out
With a twist of geek

*******************

Laina and Jill were 2/5ths of the reason I managed to stay sane during law school, especially when they talked about the Rule Against Perpetuities. (The other 3/5ths were Anona, Kelly, and vodka.) The Terrible Two are the kind of friends I can talk to every day or not for six months, but it doesn’t matter. Either one would happily give me a kidney (God knows I’m going to need it), a come-to-Jesus, or the bra off her boobs. And I’d do the same for them. They’re calling this one, “Laina’s 23rd Birthday, Or The Time We Managed To Get Katherine To Leave The Outer belt, Or Katherine Pets A Baby Chicken.” I think the ridiculously long title is a quiet jab at some of my stunners…

As you all may very well know, Katherine used to live in Columbus, O-H-I-O. And that wonderful city is encircled by an outer belt, known as I-270. During her tenure in C-bus, one of the quirkiest things we noticed about Katherine was she had little problem going outside the confines of I-270. After her post complaining about living outside the NoVA divide, it was clear to us that DC has not yet broken her geographic-phobia. But we digress…

How The Trip Done Got Planned, by Jill

In 2004, Katherine was suffering through her third year of law school, along with Laina. I had graduated a year earlier and had moved to Jackson, Ohio. At the time of our story, Laina was way pregnant and about to celebrate the big 2-3. I thought we should do something special before Laina got sucked into the Baby Abyss but she was being all responsible about things like fetal alcohol syndrome, so drinking was out.With margaritas and alcoholic debauchery were off the table, I figured we should eat. Laina had a thing for this little Mexican restaurant in Jackson and I figured that was a place we could afford to feed her preggo appetites. Initially, Katherine refused to go, citing I-270 restrictions. But then I mentioned the place had fried ice cream and she became putty.

We conspired to bring Laina to Jackson, have dinner at the Mexican place, and then hang out. By way of information, Jackson is only 77.1 miles, or 1 hour 34 minutes, from Columbus. It’s pretty easy to get to. But I know Katherine and how she gets lost. Plus, Katherine could count her excursions outside the outer belt on one hand. So, in preparation for the big adventure, I customized her directions complete with arrows, several maps, and pictures of relevant signage. I hoped it was enough for Katherine to get Laina to Jackson without a four hour tour of Southeast Ohio.

The Trip Itself, by Laina

So, Katherine comes to get me for an “outing.” I think we’re going to the mall but as we walked to her car, she tells me that I’m actually being kidnapped for a Day of Adventure. Since that was before you heard about all those crazy women cutting babies out of pregnant women, I figured I was good. So we set out. Mind you, she’d already left her geographic comfort zone to pick me up in New Albany (for you non-Ohioans, that’s about 15 minutes from downtown Columbus, but still outside that magical I-270 beltway). She hit the highway, pulled out a ten page sheet of directions and then started heading south. Knowing Katherine always, always, always gets lost, I figured I might want to navigate, and began asking questions. (Note by Katherine: A. Freaking. Lot. Of. Questions. She was unrelenting and wasn’t happy with, “For the love of Baby Jesus, SHUT UP! It’s a surprise.”) Finally she fessed up that we were going to Jackson, meeting Jill, and eating. See, good friends know that a pregnant lady’s world revolves around food.

After repeated “OMFG this is a long way away”s and “Jesus, are we there yet”s and “This is why I never leave the outer belt”s from Katherine, several direction fiascoes that resulted in me franticly calling to Jill so she could demand I navigate, and three pee stops (and I was eight months pregnant!) we finally arrived at Toro Loco. I then proceeded to eat so much Mexican I thought I would explode. Or possibly brain damage my child with my distended stomach.

(Note by Katherine: Oh no you don’t, Laina. We are not glossing over the feat that was your caloric intake. Interwebs, listen to this: Laina ate an appetizer, more chips and salsa than the Tostitos factory produces each Monday, a big glob of cheese in a tortilla with an extra side of rice, fried ice cream, and my fajitas leftovers. On the way home, the Human Black Hole demanded we stop TWICE for more food. This sounds impressive until you’ve seen Preggers Laina eat a Cinnabun. Also, I would like to mention that Laina was forced to wear a sombrero while the waitress sang “Happy Birthday” in a Spanglish. I have pictures, which I am willing to sell. Plus, Laina got mad at me for commenting on the restaurant’s disproportionately high people-to-mullet-ratio.)

And back to Jill

So after Toro Loco, things got a little, um, loco. You see Jackson is kind of a small town. While it is the biggest city (Note by Katherine: she uses that term way too loosely) in Jackson County, Ohio, it’s really dinky compared to the meganess of Columbus. Basically the joke is when someone asks what you’re doing on Saturday night, the automatic answer is going to “the Wal-mart.” The Wal-mart is the center of all things cultural in Jackson. It’s also the primary shopping option. (Note by Katherine: aside from Tractor Supply.) (Note from Jill: We’re getting to that). (Note from Katherine: They sell clothes. I’m just saying.) I’m still unsure why local custom dictates we put “the” before “Wal-mart,” but when in Rome… Anywho, in order to entertain the pregNATE lady and do a little after lunch walk stretchy-stretch, Laina and I decided to show Katherine the sights. (Note by Katherine: Again, that’s a loose use. If I recall correctly, Jackson has like two traffic lights and a hill.)

Laina explains about Tractor Supply Company

First of all, I want to note I love you, Jill, but I have been trying for four years to teach you that it’s pregNANT.

So, back to our story. Katherine looks out the window of Toro Loco, glances across the street and says all innocently, “What’s Tractor Supply Company? Do they sell tractor parts?” Jill and I laugh (Note by Katherine: totally at my expense; and yes they do sell tractor parts, so it’s not a stupid question, thank you very much, bitches.) and tell her that it’s a farm supply store, which actually used to be called “Farm and Fleet.” Katherine mumbled something about “being open to cultures and mullets.” But I know she was actually hiding her elation. Today, Katherine will do crazy stuff so she can write about it on her blog. But that’s just an excuse. Really, she just likes anything novel, potentially humiliating, or with free liquor. TSC met the novel requirement, if at a low level… So, it didn’t take a lot of arm twisting before we set off across the street to TSC.

BABY CHICKENS!!!!!!! by Jill

We actually drove across the street to TSC, it would be a dangerous walk, especially with a waddling preggo. (By the way Laina, you can get one of those “slow moving” triangle signs at TSC). Anyhoodles, we walk into TSC and Katherine’s senses were overwhelmed with the non-city smells. Katherine described it as “Manurery” and “Slightly too natural.” Oh, the sweet smell of feed and chain saw oil…We start walking around the store and pursuing the isles. At this time in her life, one of Katherine’s various money making ventures was the sale of sex toys in the home party setting. Kinda like Pampered Chef or Mary Kay for the Va-Jay-Jay. So her great knowledge of vibrating products led to many interesting questions regarding the various implements in the TSC. (Note by Katherine: Jill contributed. I am not the only one who thought the E-Z Nurse Screw Cap Nipple resembled a 14th Century butt plug.)

Damn. I’ve got to stop with the tangents… So along with seeing the implements and smelling the smells, Katherine also noticed new-to-her sound. She turns to me and whispers, “Are those the baby chickens?” There was awe. There was excitement. There was disbelief. Looking at her face, you’d have thought she just witnessed the birth of Christ. So I explain to her yes, those are baby chickens. They are actually called “chicks.” That yes, you can buy chickens because, yes, they are in fact for sale, and yes, they are “actual farm grade poultry,” and yes, they will eventually lay eggs because all eggs do not actually come from Trader Joe’s, and yes, these eggs would qualify as organic. After the 50 questions, Katherine decides she must see the chicks NOW. She sprints towards the sound, which is coming from a big water container and peered in. Little, fuzzy, yellow chicks. It was her personal Christmas.

For ten minutes, I watched as Katherine was absurdely amused by a bunch of chicks in a big water tub. Eventually, she demanded to touch them. By this time, was Preggo gettingbored with us and the chicks. When you leave the outer belt, this stuff is slightly less novel, so she wondered off. I stayed with Katherine; mainly to laugh when she got pecked and when the chick she was holding dived down her shirt. But main reason in staying was to explain the downfalls of Pet Chick Ownership to Katherine. She was determined to leave TSC with at least one of those chicks, but she’d have preferred several. If I recall, her master plan was to dye them pastel colors and give them away as Easter gifts. Anyway, while I was busily reminding Katherine that Columbus was not zoned for livestock, we heard this odd pregnate huffing and puffing, moaning and groaning, and then our names being called in despiration.

Back to Laina, the Baby Chick Killer

Yes, I have seen chicks before. In fact, I had a traumatic experience regarding an accidental chick homicide of one when I was a small child. So, I was not interested in a possible repeat of The Baby Chick Killing. With nothing better to do, I wandered off… Then, from nowhere, I found that among its many other wonders, TSC sells rail buggies!!!!!! (Interwebs, this is AWESOME! Who could be anything but excited about a rail buggy???)

A rail buggy in its natural habitat

A rail buggy in its natural habitat

I’ve always wanted to ride in one and sitting in one, getting a feel for it, was about as close as I was going to get until I paid off my student loans. So, forgetting that I was 60 lbs heavier than usual (all of you just shut up, you’ll be pregnant one day and unable to resist the lure of Taco Bell or Ben and Jerry’s), I lowered myself into the rail buggy. It was super cool for about 30 seconds, until my short attention span kicked in, and I tried to get out. Which brings us to Jill’s point of view…I was NOT huffing and puffing, more yelling for help.

Katherine had to cut her baby chick adventure short so they could rescue my fat ass from the rail buggy. (Note by Katherine: It took both of us to pull her out. Seriously. It was like The Three Stooges, but with women.) On the way home, Katherine asked me about three times why we wouldn’t let her buy a baby chicks and when they weren’t cute anymore, why she couldn’t give it to me to live out on my “farm” (to be clear, I lived in a house with a normal yard, like anybody else; but anything outside I-270 is soybeans in the eyes of K.). And that, Interwebs, is the one and only time Katherine left I-270 until 2006.

And what was the point of all this, besides sharing the IMPORTANT INFORMATION that Katherine USED TO SELL SEX TOYS? Well, to demonstrate how easily she can be bribed with things that are sugar-filled or fuzzy (knowledge that often comes in handy, Interwebs). And also, this was the only story she’d let us tell. She vetoed all the ones from law school, citing “ethical considerations.”

The end.

P.S. Katherine did make a second trip to Jackson in ’06. She was overwhelmed by the number of silk-screened shirts in the local sports bar. (Note by Katherine: And also in ’06, I visited Laina in even-more-small-town Ohio. The directions included “turn right at the big tree” and “follow the dirt road past the people who don’t have electricity.” I vowed never to go back again.)

Inauguration Pictorial: I Still Haven’t Bought A Hat

January 21, 2009
Waking up this early sucks. But it's better when Stella makes breakfast.

6:00. Waking up this early sucks. But it's better when Stella makes breakfast.

Farragut West

Farragut West at 7:45 a.m. Matchy match tourists abound.

Walking down Conn Ave

Walking down Conn Ave. I'm waiting for a Transformer to pop out and stomp on us or otherwise cause havoc.

Metro buses blocking off the streets

Metro buses blocking off the streets. Because apparently, WMATA doesn't need 'em to shuttle people around.

00 a.m.

The trash can...at 8:00 a.m.

Sunrise

Darn it's early.

The Washington Monument

Really, really, really early.

aim for the Hirshhorn

Jumbotron Map: aim for the Hirshhorn, settle for a view of anything.

The crowds settle in for a long wait

Get comfy. Three and a half hours to go.

Determining a meetup with other friends is an impossibility

Determining a meetup with other friends is an impossibility.

Obligatory touristy photo

Obligatory touristy photo.

The view from mid-Mall

The view from mid-Mall.

Calisthenics. Necessary for warmth.

Calisthenics. Necessary for warmth.

Jumping Jacks and a Wiggles impression.

Jumping Jacks and a Wiggles impression.

This lasted for about 30 seconds.

This lasted for about 30 seconds.

Wonks will not be denied their news.

Wonks will not be denied their news.

She has better documentary toys than I do. Jealous.

She has better documentary toys than I do. Jealous.

We didn't get the "bring a flag" memo.

We didn't get the "bring a flag" memo.

We've got a blanket, but Stella is still eyeing the kid with a sleeping bag.

We've got a blanket, but Stella is still eyeing the kid with a sleeping bag.

Just missing the igloo.

Just missing the igloo.

Hot water with a token stir of coca. Orgasm in a cup.

Hot water with a token stir of coca. Orgasm in a cup.

Every Porta-Jon in a 100 mile radius.

Every Porta-Jon in a 100 mile radius.

Even the kid got the Flag Memo. Gah!

Even the kid got the Flag Memo. Gah!

44 talks it up.

44 talks it up.

Five people, six layers each, and still a whole lotta Cold.

Five people, six layers each, and still a whole lotta Cold. But worth it.

Security.

The eagle eyes of security.

Standing on the Porta-Jon for a better view. My inner germophobe is hysterical.

Standing on the Porta-Jon for a better view. My inner germophobe is hysterical.

TOURIST!

TOURIST!

Buh Bye Bush.

Buh Bye Bush.

The grass on The Mall is officially dead.

The grass on The Mall is officially dead.

Masses inch up 18th Street. Every two feet, I hear, "Where's the nearest Metro?" Sigh.

Masses inch up 18th Street. Every two feet, I hear, "Where's the nearest Metro?" Sigh.

Shoving through shrubbery.

Shoving through shrubbery.

This Metro Bus is not in service. But it's got a spiffy sign!

This Metro Bus is not in service. But it's got a spiffy sign!

Everybody's a critic...

Everybody's a critic...

The HOV lane for locals.

The HOV lane for locals.

The gChat Diaries, Vol. 3

January 9, 2009

Me: One Halloween, when I was about 12, I went as Bacchus. My mother was not happy. It was a sign, really.


Laina: I’ve come to the conclusion that I might be an asshole.


Me: You know when you get too many tickets and the judge makes you go back to traffic school? Well, I’m doing the same thing for you but with 9th Grade Health Class and condom usage.

Anonymous Friend: Damn abstinence-only education. Fails every time.


Stella: This is the best movie ever.

Me: It’s on HBO?

Stella: Even better…Lifetime!

Me: OMG. Change the channel. Please!

Stella: Whatevs! Sandra Oh and Elliot from Scrubs are in it! Keeps getting better!!

(Later)

Stella: Taye Diggs!!!! This is an all star cast!!!

Me: OMG TIVO THAT BITCH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!


Me: I don’t understand. How are you in different places in life?

Second Anonymous Friend: DIFFERENT LIKE HE STILL SLEEPS IN A TWIN BED.

Me: Oh. I see.


Me: FYI, vacuuming a down comforter is not easy.

Stella: You are ridiculous.

Me: I can’t help it if the Damn Dog rolled on it while the duvet was off and COVERED it in icky puppy hair and now I can’t get the hair OFF.

Stella: Sick sick SICK.

Me: I want to KILL that dog. I go and vacuum for a few minutes, get irritated and must stop.

Stella: Perhaps the dog was sent from God to serve as the proverbial straw?

Me: Becoming more likely. Every time I go into the bedroom and fire up the vacuum, eCrush is all, “They have programs for people like you.” And I mumble something about humane ways to put down dogs. And boyfriends.


Jill: What the fuck were you thinking?

Me: That’s the question of my life.

The Drunkie Photo Montage

January 2, 2009

I would like to dedicate this to Herb. Because he wanted the pictures posted badly enough to leave TWO comments. And also to vodka. If it weren’t for you, my life would be a whole lot less embarrassing entertaining eventful.

I am nothing but class.

I am nothing but class.

Potential disaster or previously undiscovered talent? Only time will tell.

Potential disaster or previously undiscovered talent? Only time will tell.

Knee Pad Girl. Photographic evidence of her existence.

Knee Pad Girl. Photographic evidence of her existence.

Putting our hopes for the New Year into the Universe.

Putting our hopes for the New Year into the Universe.

Wonder what the shelf life is on the cheese packet?

What's the shelf life is on those cheese packets?

the Triumvirate of Awesome.

Stella, me and McFly: the Triumvirate of Awesome.

consumption of grease and carbs.

The first step in hangover prevention: consumption of grease and carbs.

The first of 76 self-portraits we took in a five minute span. Also, the only one in focus.

The first of 76 self-portraits we took in a five minute span. Also, the only one in focus.

And there's a random conversation going on behind me.

And there's a random conversation going on behind me.

I have no explanation.

I have no explanation.

Wedgie. Must be corrected.

Wedgie. Must be corrected.

Contraband and take-backs.

Contraband and take-backs.

Raise your hand if you are intoxicated.

Raise your hand if you are eating ice cream.

This is my drunk face.

This is my drunk face.

Stella will be reheating that chocolate fondue and making us eat it until 2010.

Stella will be reheating that chocolate fondue and making us eat it until 2010.

And going out on a high note... a close up of the seersucker/knee pad leg warmer situation.

And going out on a high note... a close up of the seersucker/knee pad leg warmer situation.

PS — Stella and McFly, please note the judicious self-restraint I’ve employed in selecting the photos below. I tried to limit double chins, squinty eyes and other assorted picture disasters to myself.

When All Else Fails, Take The Booze AND RUN! Or, Ready For Semi-Drunk Blogging? Yeah? Yeah!

January 1, 2009

This is Katherine and Stella signing in for a New Years Eve recap, while still semi-intoxicated and mysteriously awake. Stella would like to point out she was almost stabbed in puruit of fondue ingredients and that she is fabulous. Also, she wants the world to know that in a three hour span, sort of like Giligan’s Tour, we attended two parties, got pizza and I farted extensively. Conequently, her sheets no longer smell like her boyfriend, Mr. Oates, but like my smelly ass farts.

The night  was reallyjust one big old fahion faux paus. But not us. We looked hot, including McFly. BUT the first party we attended included a woman wearing knee pads. This is why community organizers should have wardrobe consultants. Otherwise they pair seersucker with kneepads. Pictures to follow. Also, they have ferns as big as Afghanistan that also is decored for the holiday occasion. SEERSUCKER! With KNEE PADS! That was the sign to go. So, that’s when I got nomimated totake back our booze contribution. It was Kettle One. You don’t leave perfectly good vodka at a party where there were pigs and a blanket and KNEE PADS. They don’t mix.

Stella points out I also grabbed a two liter of diet Sprite. And apparently it’s one thing to Indian give your top shelf alcohol, but it’s poor taste to reclaim your mixer. I say whatever. Drinking vodka straight in a taxi is tacky.

We went to Party Two, where I think we were at for a sum total of four minutes. Maybe because the median age was 16 and a half. That’s the point where I saw the whiskey. It was shiny and a MOTHER FING HUGE BOTTLE OF MAKER’S MARK. Stella thinks it was a two liter. She wants to know if handles come in multiples. It really was like a magnum of Maker’s Mark. I turned to Stella, who was serving as my partner in crime because District McFly was busy flilrting with a young version of Donny Trump.

Me: I want that whiskey.

Stella: (I think she said something, but I don’t recall what)

Me: I am taking that whisk

After Stella got done laughing at me for putting a double magnum in my Whole Foods bag (yeah, we roll with class), we ran out into the Land of Scary Bad Things (aka East of 12th Street, where no self=respecting gentrifier dares to go). We were wearing heels and designer clothes and carrying Kate Spade cluthcs and a Whole Foods bag full of party contraband. By a miracle of God we got a taxi. Stella might have thrown herslef into traffice to get it. I got booze, she acquired a get away car.

Next stop, Stella’s. That’s when we called every Chinese delivery place in a five mile radius only to find the Chinese take New Year seriously. Nobody was open at 11:26. So we walked next door for PIZZA! Lucky for us, Stella lives in the middle of all things Amazing and so we were saved. Also, we took a photo montage while we were waiting for the nice pizza man to cook our stuff. Will post later.

Then,ut Stella would like to discuss the photo shoot in more detail. There may have been 20 minutes where she and I engaged in drunk white girl gratiitous shelf portraits. She might have deep throated the giant jar of crushed red pepper flakes. But her eye makeup photographed well. Also, I think she put her leg up on the counter. And the pizza guy just watched the drunk madnees. I wanted my stolen whiskey.

The night ended with Carson, Ben and Jerry’s and pizza in bed. We are magnificent and loaded on stolen booze. Happy New Year!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

A Textadextrous Relationship

December 19, 2008

A friend has been engaged in one of those relationships that defies the bounds of common sense and emotional well-being. You know, the kind that’s so epically heart-wrenching it makes Romeo and Juliet look like amateurs. But, being of Generation Crackberry, she’s conducting her version mainly via text message. To wit:

To: me@ourlitigatorsarebetterthanyourlitigators.com

From: stella@cartoonbirdsbraidmyhaireachmorning.com

Re: So much for a communication moratorium with Mr. Oates

Holy shit. My cell phone bill shows 1397 text messages last month!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

To: stella@cartoonbirdsbraidmyhaireachmorning.com

From: me@ourlitigatorsarebetterthanyourlitigators.com

Re: Verizon hates you!

I’ve sat here for at least four minutes trying to find words. There are none.

Wait, I take that back. I am articulate again.

First, must we revisit the concept of communication moratorium?

Second, how about we translate that number into man hours? Let’s say 1,000 of those texts were to Mr. Oates. And erring on the side of ultra, ultra, ultra conservatism, let’s assume each text took one minute to compose. But who are we kidding? That sort of verbal parlay, the utter masterpiece that was each text response, can’t be accomplished in a mere 60 seconds. We’ll give each one 90.

Now you gotta double everything because you were actually responding to incoming texts as well.

And from that number, add a third of the total time to account for the recent introduction of gChatting into your relationship.

Plus, maybe throw in an additional fourth for various other forms of communication like the miscellaneous email and sporadic lunch dates and goggle-eye-making.

So now, I want you to take that whopping big number and square it. That will account for hours outlaid in general emotional anguish, cry time, and the over analysis of all aspects of the relationship.

I don’t do math. That’s why I’m Lawyerly. But even my number challenged mind knows it all adds up to A HELL OF A FREAKING LOT of time spent on cyber communication. In the future, please honor Alexander Graham Bell and pick up the phone. It takes less time and spares you from early onset carpal tunnel.