Tag Archives: drinking

Hello Sexy Pants

 

Thought I’d send you a little catch up email since I miss you terribly! Let’s see..my hair is getting long, awesome. I lost 12 pounds on this “Biggest Winner Ultimate Thinner” challenge the Club I work at put together, dad lost 30 POUNDS!!!! He looks tiny, so proud of him, and I am hung over, fucking typical. We have this staff party tonight at the Garage up on capitol hill and lord knows I’m about to get my drunk on. Can we talk about how we both have boyfriends?! What the hell, who knew, I thought we’d just grow old together chucking eggs at each other’s houses and drinking gin and tonics on our front porches swearing at kids. Well, we’re probably still going to be doing just that, but there might be men to hold us back when we threaten to beat little shits with our walkers.

Instead of catching up, I’d like to reminisce a bit, because let’s be honest, we have some amazing, pee your pants its so funny stories, that are probably only funny to us but who cares:

Remember when I came to visit you in Berkeley and the first night I dumped beer on your frumpy mop of hair after we won in beer pong? Or when you put a fat sombrero on my head and made me drink 151 and then I chucked my stupid ass phone at Jigga George the cat code name BO JANGLES! Or how about when I woke up and honestly believed there was a hunched backed Mexican with a pistol staring at me when it really was the fucking cat litter and that goddamn sombrero, and no…you didn’t tell me to turn on the light, you told me to turn on the Leg. Or when I slept in your roommates bed and I couldn’t find the door to get out for a mid sleep pee, so I hoisted the biggest mirror in the world off of the wall thinking there was some goddamn witch and the wardrobe curse on me and I knocked and knocked trying to wake your snoring ass up.

Lets take this back even further to when mom asked us to water the lawn so we made vodka lemonades and brought lawn chairs out to the front, turned on the sprinkler, and drank ourselves silly while watering the already dead grass. Or how about that same day when we couldn’t find you, only to see you googly eyed with vino in hand in the hot tub- BY YOURSELF!

Jumping forward to my 23rd birthday where we got our “chef” on, raiding the Island and City with our crazy duo. AGAIN, I cannot find you because alas you went off to probably suck on a bottle of red to your lonesome and when I asked you where you’d been you gave me the most honest answer anyone has ever given me, “Oh you know, here…there…here” I didn’t even question it. Oh and let’s not forget that I woke up half in the kitchen half in the living room and almost chest bumped Greg’s roommate at 6am.

Okay, moving backwards now…way backwards, remember when you went off roading on your Schwinn? And by offroading we mean you went up a hill and almost popped a wheely while we biked to our usual Tacobell/Coffee Bean/TCBY date, and lets not forget the jelly bean raid, buttered popcorn jelly beans for life. Or how about when I slapped you so hard with a DVD sign when we spotted Bobby Schubert, your gay Brooklyn lover in a Blockbuster, I wonder what that crazy kid is up to now.
And let’s just bring this elephant out of the closet, we made home videos for English class- me about camping, you about water polo. And I will never, ever forget your rendition to Joan Jett’s I Love Rock and Roll. I had to literally think about the title just now because I Love Water Polo was the only thing that came to me. And stupid Jenna, that perfectionist, with her little strut while we ran around throwing raw hotdogs at each other and eating oreos with an old camcorder. I guess while it’s all coming out, I should say I’m sorry for giving you a black eye, but hey for the record- I did strap you with pillows and a helmet before I chucked lacrosse balls at you, convincing you it was helping me become a better player. And who said there were rules in tomato wars?! Those dumb bitches were just too dumb and bitchy to think about stuffing their tomatoes with rocks like we did. Yes Mook- we were tomato terrorists. And when they ceased fire we just said fuck it and started throwing them at ourselves- classy broads we are. I guess since word vomit is the name of the game let’s also lay down the fact that we watched a Knights Tale and danced and danced and danced, and then watched Brittany Spears in Crosseroads at 3am. And I have to just say this, I did hear Charlie pissing in the house, I just couldn’t get enough of you thinking you were the only one listening to that flood gate of a pee while I fake snored on the couch. (I’m laughing so hard I’m crying right now…by myself, in my office, picturing your sleepy bug eyes yelling ‘JANE, CHARLIE IS PEEING IN THE HOUSE!’) Also the fact that you called that 6 foot ginger monster mormon Katherine a bitch was the best thing ever- I supported it 100%. And the fact that we will forever know that 4:45 means a steamroll is pure beauty- I think I’m going to get that tattooed, and you know I aint lying.

Oh the good old days, 8th grade…where SSR was really code for writing hilarious notes to each other and getting kicked out of class. And when throwing our food at each other was way better than eating it. And playing hand ball really meant, let’s watch Meghan fucking boot this ball over the 3 story gym wall and not even play because you fucking put our ball on the roof.

And Rich Corso would wrap your grilled cheese in tin foil and I would get a perfectly stapled brown bag lunch with flowers drawn all over it. I knew we’d be best friends when you pulled out your sister’s underwear from your coat pocket and waved it around like a flag (or maybe I was the one that did that) – better yet I knew we’d be old hags together when you pulled out a goddamn tv remote from your binder and then proceeded to laugh saying, I wonder if I’m fucking with my dad, while clicking all the buttons. But let’s be honest, when I saw you looking like a homeless woman with a broken backpack and a torn brown grocery bag full of your school supplies I knew we were a match made for absolute craziness and mayhem. And even though you fell on your ass post pasta war, you still defended me, and even though you let those boys put me in the trash can, with the lid on, I held my beer up proud and you helped me out of the cest pool. Lord baby jesus Love us.

 

Miss you Mook like you don’t even know. Stay Gold you crazy fuck.

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Early 20s Versus Late 20s?


A trek to Bellevue WA. this morning led me to eaves drop on an interesting conversation three men were having while waiting for the bus. They honestly sounded like your average trio of women, supporting each other with their theories on men. Thank god I had my notebook open to write down their take on us 20 something ladies. This is NOT a whose smarter than who, just an observation with some, ummm, opinions on both male and females. Also, these men were, uh, average.

Man 1: You know? I was like, you do what for a job?

Man 2: Yeah, they were pretty crazy

Man 1: I dunno man, women in their late 20s just don’t seem to cut it for me anymore (and they were before guy wearing brown flannel and a Steelers hat? C’mon)

Man 3 jumps in: It’s more like the early 20 girls that have it figured out! (Yes, perkier boobs and more fun, right?)

Man 1: Yeah! I met like three architects and a lawyer that night, all early 20s (You lucky bastard. Either you were at a convention or a way too pricey cocktail lounge for your your $7 dollar budlight)

Man 3: All the late 20 girls were acting more like frat boys, you know? Getting all drunk and shit (And that’s a problem for you?)

Man 2: We should definitely go for the younger girls next time (Join the rest of the clueless)

Conversation shifts

Man 1: What’s with this hippie movement going on right now?

Man 3 and 2 nod, Man 2: Yeah, everyone is like, all hippies now

I lost interest after this. Sorry, butt buddies who were walking aimlessly around Bellevue at 10am when, I am assuming you should be at work, rather than talking about frat boy girls and architect women. We, women, tend to do the same, so I can’t riff on them too hard. We assume that the older they are the more mature they are, secure, and have shaken out of their bro-esque habits. But as my friend Maria puts it, older men are no different than the younger men, they just have bed frames.

I mean, don’t kid yourself, we all like to put our party pants on. Some are just more professional about it.

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