Jenrez

Wedding Bells, Booze and 'Barrassment

I went to a wedding on Saturday with Tim.  Two of his friends were getting married, and most if not all of his friends were attending.  I had met several of them before, all of them very nice.  Maybe there were no real issues to speak of, but I'm one of those people that suffers from Complete and Utter Embarrassment After Drinking.  Issues are commonplace.

It was pouring when Tim picked me up, so my staightened hair formed into a helmet of sorts, a partially curled, partially straightened Do of Undecided Hairs.  But really, it all started when I got drunk the night before.  My hungover nausea crept up prior to and during the ceremony.  The nauseous car ride kept me silent with 4 others in the car.  A long-long drive. 

The Nausea, for some reason, did not affect my desire to drink more, and yet it did affect my desire to eat more... a dangerous combination. I was drunk again in minutes of arriving at the reception hall.  This became a problem for the following reasons + whatever I don’t remember.               

a) I received TONS and TONS of compliments on my dress, my shoes and my pendant necklace.  Because I am COMPLETELY UNABLE to take a compliment and because I am aware of this, sometimes I try to make up for it, but it’s a certainty that I fuck that up too.  One reaction in particular to a compliment on my necklace came out: “yeah… it’s great, isn’t it?” 

b) dancing.  Oh god, the dancing. 

c) I recall pestering Tim’s best friend to dance.  And while that might not sound that bad… and while I meant the pestering to be more of a joke than anything… I still continued to annoyingly tell him to go dance for like, a half-hour straight. After several bouts of me not shutting up, one of his friends said, “He’s not going to dance.  Let it go!”

Oh.

d) Then there’s the inappropriate comment.  I told one of his friends she was hot.  I didn’t realize exactly how that sounded until after it had slipped out already.  DON’T TELL A GIRL SHES HOT AFTER JUST HAVING MET HER… IT MAKES FOR A REALLY AWKWARD MOMENT.

e) Dropped a full glass of wine… it completely shattered on the bar floor.

f) Discussed something in depth with one of Tim’s friends. Serious discussion. Maybe some tears involved? Just can’t remember what it was about.

I really really hope I went to sleep directly after this because I can’t remember anything else.  Such a crucial time for sleep.  So very very crucial.  DAMMIT.

Who Needs a Barf Bucket?

Well, well, well.  It seems that Timmy beat me to the blogging.  And I’m the bored one that uselessly shops all day long as I’m bored at work on craigslist for homes, apartments, and let’s not forget the furniture for the homes and apartments [that I can't afford].  I suppose I’ll just use it as motivation.  I tend to get into writing funks despite my attempts at goals.

So, why not revamp the site with a nice tid bit about barfing?

I recently just got over The 48-hour Hangover, which left me with:

1) barf in my hair at 4am on Saturday night.

2) dry heaves the entire next day.

3) a headache for the entire SECOND DAY of recovery.

4) the realization that without the desire to drink for 2 days, I am one bored chica.

5) a learning experience: no matter how sick, fatigued or just plain lazy you feel while in this state, DO NOT, I repeat, DO NOT let your 17-year old brother within reach of a camera.

Insane in the Membrane

After my friends dwindled out of the bar last night, I was left (by choice) to finish my beer at one of the tables in the center of the pub.  Exposed.  I sat there, bored, wishing for some strength, twirling my phone around and around on the table, staring at it in a hypnotic trance when I was interrupted by a large man named Sean.  It was his birthday.  And apparently he wanted to share it with me. 

I’m a friendly person; but I could only give him a half smile due to my mood.  The birthday boy was not phased by this obvious standoffishness, though.  He was adamant that I partake in some birthday conversation.  So, I tried to appease him.  The conversation went something like this:

“So, my friend has this theory that everyone is insane.  Do you think we’re all insane?”

“What?”

“My friend, he thinks that all the 9-5ers are insane and the people that are jobless are insane, etc, etc.  So, like, everyone is just striving for sanity.”

“Um, so you’re saying unique preferences of lifestyle make you insane?”

Thinking: I can’t believe I’m having this conversation.

“I don’t know, it’s my friend’s idea.”

Thinking: you’d be better off at least trying to come up with your own.

“Huh.” 

“So what do you do?”

Thinking: I avoid conversations like this. For a living.  I’ve reached sanity.

My Mother & Dr. Demento

We started the evening at a nice sushi restaurant and after a glass and a half of wine, my mother entered Tipsy Land where one’s VOICE DECIBELS ARE RAISED TO AN ANNOYING LEVEL.  Tim asked the waiter about the difference between two tuna pieces and the waiter began to describe them, one piece as being cut from the fatty belly of the tuna which gives it more flavor.  Immediately, my mother quiped, “WHY WOULD WE WANT IT TO BE FROM THE FATTY BELLY?!  WE DON’T WANT FAT BELLIES?!!” The waiter didn’t get it.  He didn’t know what to do.  I didn’t know what to do.  Tim certainly didn’t know what to do.  And instead of laughing/waving the awkward moment off, she began to talk about it more.  I believe she even grabbed her gut and spoke of Buddha.

Our last Maki roll of the evening had a bit of a fishy taste to it, most likely the seaweed.  Margaret’s face scrunched up as she was chewing and she turned bright red.  I was scared she was going to show us her food like she loves to do with mashed potatoes or even worse spit it out on the table. She managed to get the sushi down, but afterward she began to talk about how it tasted like rotting fish heads.  And because talking about it isn’t good enough for Margaret, she broke into song “Fish Heads, Fish Heads! Rolly, Polly Fish Heads!”  Again, the decibel level is priceless.

After sushi, we strolled over to another bar across the street.  It’s only around 9pm at this point, so the bar is fairly empty. We grabbed a seat in the back corner (Thanks, Tim!), but it didn’t help completely. We looked around to see if there was a waitress or if we should go up to the bar to get our drinks.  The bartender was clearing some tables and as my mother lit her cigarette with elbows atop spread knees, she shouted, “OH, SHE’LL COME OVER!” to which the bartender tersely replied from across the room, “I’m sorry, but I’m not waiting tables tonight.”  Unaffected, Margaret then strolled up to the bar to get some drinks.  She requested Bailey’s and coffee, but to no avail.  Instead she got WHISKEY because, you know, that makes sense.

For the next two hours, she talked and talked and talked.  She talked about camping, she talked about drugs, she talked about getting drunk, she talked about death and life and never throwing anything away, she talked about her new kitchen cabinets; she talked about giving herself plumbers crack while she tried to fix a pipe installing the new kitchen sink. 

Sadly, though, not once did the woman ask Tim anything about himself.  Not once did she include us in her conversation.  I love her like no other, but the only thing Tim could say about her was, “She really likes the spotlight, huh?”

A Whole New Way of Thinking About Bi-Polar Drinking

I had a run-in with puking over the weekend. I haven't gotten to that point in well over a year.  I even had a run-in with the next morning puke. YIKES.

The first sign that I should have gone home early and/or not taken those 5 shots of Jager, had those 2 bottles of sake, those 5 beers and those 3 vanilla vodka and cokes:

Apparently, I bumped into some girl and she made a comment to me so I turned around to face her and she was gorgeous so instead of scoffing at her I said, "Aw, look at you... you're so pretty." And then I gave her a hug and told her that I loved her.  Who said looks don't get you everywhere?  They are completely full of shit.

Second sign: at the following bar, I almost got into a fight with some girl for digging through all of our belongings to find her coat. My roommate said that I was ready to throw fists.  That would have been entertaining.  I have to wonder what it would be like to watch me get into a fight.  I guess it was close, but the girl yelled back at me, "WHAT AM I SUPPOSED TO DO, JUST LEAVE IT HERE?"  And of course, being the complete and utter PUSH OVER that I am, I conceded, "Oh my god, you're right.  It's like 30 below zero out there.  Let me help."

Hair! Hair!

Oh, the hangover this morning! Woke up at 5:00am on the couch with every light on in the house and the TV going… it was pouring when I left the bar, so my newly cut hair was soaked and ended up drying, as I lay on the couch, into some sort of morphed Mohawk of bad, bad curls. And the mascara! EGAD.

On my way to work, I turned out of the alley on my bike and noticed this old woman, hunched over, scarf over her head, long face, long nose, long fingers... reminded me of the witch in Snow White... and as I approached her it was as if she knew I was coming, me personally... she turned to look at me with intent and did the sign of the cross and turned away again.

Maybe I should have combed the Mohawk out.

la pasión de mis amigos mejicanos

Saturday night I went out with an old friend of mine and a couple of his friends to see a Cuban band. How is it that 7 hours can pass as though it were only 15 minutes? Well, I'll tell you. For those 7 hours I was the center of attention, fought over by two friends. It was dramatic. It was intense. And it was EXTREMELY entertaining.

One of the friends, let me clarify... a very poetic, meltingly verbose friend took it upon himself to whisper sweet nothings in my ear. Dammit if I've never had sweet nothings whispered in my ear by a meltingly verbose man WITH AN ACCENT.

Could thees be love? maybi. could thees be frendshep? maybi. But, maybi it ees jest thees moment.... Thee way your head ees lying on my shoulare.

HAHAHAHAHAHA. ha.

Then in a jealous rage, my old friend declared his crush on me and explained that he has always felt this way. Oh the dramatics!

The night ended when the sun came up and all three of us in the car. When my friend dropped Verboseness off at home, he slammed the door and yelled, "How am I supposed to sleep tonight?!"

Meanwhile... I'm in the passenger seat trying with all my might not to laugh my ass off. I don't know that I've ever been involved in such dramatic events with people I barely know (my old friend and I have known each other a long time, but have never been that close). And me?! If you are reading this and do not know me... let me just say that graceful and passionately fought over by two friends are two ways in which you would NOT describe me. But oh what fun! :)

Good Times

I was cleaning out my sent mail today and I found this email I wrote at work the day after the christmas party at house of blues this year. I don't think there's a purer form of being hung over.

2 hours of sleep Smoked 2 packs of cigarettes last night (or at least it feels like it) No shower No brushing of the hair NOR use of a hair tie Same clothes that I wore yesterday Said clothes covered in fuzzies from bed Smell of alcohol and smoke and non-showering Puffy all over Lips cracked Can't speak coherently Wearing sunglasses in the office... STILL

Ain't Nuttin But a G-Thang, Baby

Last night I went out to a karaoke bar and spotted this really cute guy. Really cute guy may not be really cute to many people, but I have unique taste in men: I love them British. As I'm making googly eyes at him all night I'm also fantasizing about his british accent and his fabulous taste in music. Who wouldn't? So, I'm deep into conversation with my roommate, lord knows what we were talking about after 2 and a half ENORMOUS pitchers, and I hear:

One two three and to the four
snoop doggy dogg and Dr.Dre is at the door

I turn my head around to see who's singing Snoop, because hey, they were actually pretty good. Low and Behold, my brit boy is standing on stage and in Snoop's very own pair of shoes. He's handling the microphone like a professional G-Thang and my roommate and I can't stop laughing. I'm still trying to pick my jaw up off of the floor. I was SO SURE he was the british man of my dreams. WHATEVER, GOD.

Roosters can play guitar

First official drunken night while moved into the city... this time.

You know you’re drunk when:

You start to reminisce about Robin Hood the Disney cartoon because you are at a bar called Friar Tuck.
You become a back up dancer for all the karaoke singers.
You buy $6 cigarettes out of the vending machine with no hesitation whatsoever even though you quit 3 months ago.
You pop it. Then, you start recruiting others to pop it. Soon the entire bar is poppin it.
Your friend starts dancing, falls into the cigarette machine, a large bump forms on the back of her head, she says “ouch” and continues dancing.
You come home from the bar, can’t remember how you got there and proceed to make cheese quesadillas with kraft singles and a microwave.