Archive for May, 2010

A Gentlelady’s Guide to Strawberry Hill

You won't actually see any of this

Strawberry Hill is this Saturday and white people from across the region flock to Colonial Downs to binge drink under the guise of a horse race.  It’s really great fun.  You will see all types of white people there from the bluest of the blue blood rich white person to the biggest East End Redneck drinking beer out of a hat with no shirt on white person.  You’ll even spot a fledging hipster or two, there solely for the irony of course.  As such, a gentlelady such as myself must be sufficiently prepared ahead of time to deal with the ridiculousness of this event.  For the fellas, I recommend checking out Jack’s advice here.  For those with a v instead of a p, behold my top five tips to make it through Strawberry Hill in one piece!

1-Dress to Impress!  It’s time to break out your spring fineries.  Don’t dress to the lame ass theme, because that’s retarded. Show off your assets. If you can’t hookup at Strawberry Hill, then you might as well give up on a life. It’s one giant orgy. Also, for the sake of everyone else’s sanity, wear comfortable, yet sassy shoes. Hard to pull off I know, but no one wants to hear you bitch and complain about how much your feet hurt all god damn day.

2-Wear sunscreen! There’s nary a shady area there and you’ll burn to a crisp by one in the afternoon if you don’t have the forethought to lather up properly before leaving your crib.  As sexy as raccoon eyes and skin cancer look on TV, put on some gd sunscreen. You’re white! Hello! 

3-Pace yourself! Unless you want to be carted off by EMTs at noon (seen this) or end up left behind because you wandered away from your group (also seen this) keep your SHOTS, SHOTS, SHOTS, SHOTS, SHOTS to a minimum.  Don’t drink too slowly, however, as you will become sleepy and lame. It’s important to find the right balance between slowing your roll and having another red bull and vodka.

4-Charge your Billy Mays!  Shenanigans and antics will occur as the afternoon progresses. People from your group will roam and wander away and you may find yourself halfway across the track and unable to remember your plot number (been there).  Communication via cell phone or carrier pigeon is a necessity lest you be left in New Kent and forced to catch a ride back to the city with a bunch of randoms in the back of their van (hi, I’m a pro. Of course I’ve seen this).

5-Put your “strolling” cocktails in a container with a lid. Think sippy cups for adults.  Do you want to spill a freshly made Bloody Marry down your sundress before you’ve even made it around the first turn? (again, I’ve been there)  Do you want to trip and fall and have your brewskie go flying all over the back of your bestie’s dress? (of course I’ve done this!) No, you don’t.

Remember you’re going to be hammertimed, so do your best to plan ahead of time to prevent rookie mistakes.  Follow my sage advice and you’ll be making out in front a group of strangers in no time. Money back, guaranteed!

Top 5 Ways to Endure Boring Meetings

1.  Sit next to your bestie/work BFF/mortal enemy.  When asked to share copies of the meeting agenda or presentation, pull your chair uncomfortably close to the other person.  Drape an arm around the back of the other person’s chair.  Your bestie will laugh, your work BFF will blush and your mortal enemy will disrupt the entire meeting by shoving you. 

2.  Ask intelligent questions.  Then write down whatever is in your head.  I like to jot down congratulatory notes to myself for holding in a fart for three hours.  You will appear to be engaged and organized.

3.  Keep tally of the number of times the visiting vendor hugs and kisses the cheek of a naive coworker. 

4.  If you’re fortunate enough to be in a meeting with TLW, keep tally of the number of times you see her dying to yell “That’s what she said!” whenever someone mentions further penetration.

5.  Invent acronyms and comment on them.  Try not to laugh as people nod in agreement that we need to get our ATN up to par with other books of business.  No one wants to be the first to admit to having no clue what is being discussed.  This is also a great way to confirm that no one pays any attention during boring meetings.  Feel free to carry on drawing amoebas and trying to list all the state Capitols.

Real Talk with TLW

You are missed!

Barista and I have a weekly ritual. It involves 2-3 bottles of wine, a bunch of cigs and sitting outside having real talk. Sometimes we talk about all of you, The Cooch, or unicorns but our favorite topic is us. Naturally.  So last night we’re two bottles deep and god knows how many curse words and bitch sessions in when I glance over at poor Billy Mays. For you no account fools that remember from yesterday, Billy has a sick. He leapt from my grasp during an all-day drinking session on Saturday and cracked his screen.  Side note: I can’t help but think of that god awful “memoir” A Million Little Pieces every time I look at him. I hated that fucking book. But I digress. Let’s get back to Billy. As I looked at him sitting there broken and disheveled on B’s patio table I exclaimed, “Oh my god, I am Billy Mays!” “Sham Wow?” she asked. “No! Slap Chop! Listen! I’m making a metaphor up in this bitch!” I then explained that, like my Beloved, I am also cracked and broken and now encased in a hard impenetrable shell.  “Get it?” I asked. B quickly countered that I’m actually more like this guy, to which I must admit, she makes a valid point.  Johnny 5 alive!  Jesus. No wonder I’m still single.  If I were a guy I wouldn’t date me if my life depended on it. Later bitches. I’ll be at da club being all emotionally unavailable and shit.

Worst Weekend Ever?

This is why I can't have nice things

I’ve had better weekends. The time I accidentally visited Guantanamo Bay and got water boarded for 48 hours straight comes to mind. That was slightly better. Check it:

1-Mercury is retrograde like whoa. For those of you who do not follow the ways of the Universe this means one thing and one thing only: shit’s fucked up.  Mercury acts the most bananas in the beginning and end and it happens to end tomorrow. (Thank you!) As such, that wacky planet wreaked havoc over my life last weekend.  GO DIRECT ALREADY! JESUS!

2-Broken Things. Over the course of two days the following things I love broke: the speakers to my iPod, Billy Mays and my coffee pot. All three things play an integral role in me not sticking my head in an oven and calling it a day, so yeah, I’m pretty pissed. 

3-Billy Mays’ cover smashing into a million little pieces is a big enough deal to get his own mention. Not long ago I was out and a guy commented that I was insane to not have a cover on Billy. He had dropped his Billy and cracked the screen like crazy.  I told him I was free ballin’ and don’t worry about what I’m doing, live your own life. Well as luck would have it on Saturday I find myself standing outside of 7-11 waiting for a friend when I inexplicably and suddenly lose the ability to hold on to Billy and he falls to the concrete, smashing himself. I can’t talk about it anymore right now.  Moving on.

4-Mother’s Day.  I don’t like most holidays. I particularly don’t care for holidays that I think are completely arbitrary and an excuse from Hallmark to drum up business such as Valentine’s Day, Christmas and Easter (ha!), Mother’s Day and Father’s Day.

5-Starting tomorrow I have meetings all day Tuesday and Wednesday. I have a visceral reaction to meetings, particularly meetings I couldn’t give a crap about. I predict that by 11:30 tomorrow morning I will have wild eyes and be on the brink of losing it completely. I EVEN HAVE TO EAT LUNCH WITH THEM.  Ah! Let me be! I hate having to spend time with people I can’t stand and making awkward chit-chat about the weather. Shoot me.

Time Out, Please?

Sssssh. Quiet now. TLW has a hangover.

Geez, guys. It’s been a minute. Sorry about that. I’ve been a bit busy this week staying up too late on school nights, taking a knee and celebrating Seis De Mayo like a true champion.  Anywhoos, today I want to talk about children. Specifically, I want to discuss the children who live in my apartment complex.  I’ll be the first to admit that I’m not the motherly kind. I don’t think babies are particularly cute and or fun to be around. The shrieking pierces my ears and makes me want to rip my uterus out.  However, I’ve actually grown much more tolerant toward their antics in my old age of 31 years young.  For example, I don’t immediately glare at their parents when they’re ruining my dinner at a restaurant. I can now wait for at least ten!  When the warm weather headed our way and a gaggle of youths played outside on a fine, spring day I even thought to myself, “Nice. Kids playing outside instead of becoming future contestants on The Biggest Loser.”  That lasted for the first day. Then they were out there the next day.  And the day after that. And then every god damn day that ended in “y”.  For hours.  Now before you get all Judge Judy on my ass, hold on a second. There aren’t that many children where I live. And that’s why I like it. I wouldn’t feel like I could bitch and complain about kids frolicking around if I lived in, let’s say, Twin Hickory or some other super gross place like that.  But I don’t. I live in the Museum District. Again, for a reason.  The children relegate their playtime to the patch of grass located directly behind my window which makes napping impossible (the yelling), relaxing improbable (my dogs barking when they yell) and all around quality of life negative awesome (the yelling and the barking and then more yelling).  I want to find their parents and ask them if they can please turn on the TV and rot their little brains right out of their angel heads, but that would just be mean. Instead I’m doing what I often do and that’s bitch about it here. If you need me, I won’t be at my crib until the first frost forces our most precious resource back inside where they belong. Cheers!

Mass. Man Pushes God Too Far

Get Yer Own

God, Almighty creator of the universe, worked in mysterious ways through 20 year-old Mass. woman Brittany Cantarella on May 4.   Cantarella had planned to yield to all pedestrians as she made her way to an appointment at a tanning salon in preparation for skin cancer.  As she approached a clearly marked cross walk she observed a man whom she says “totally had enough time to safely cross the street if he jogged at a good clip.”  Instead of slowing her vehicle to allow the man to get to the other side of the road, Cantarella maintained speed.  She struck the man with her 1999 Honda Civic, who was later identified as 50 year-old Lord Jesus Christ of Belchertown, MA.

“I guess you could say I did it on purpose.  I did not try to avoid hitting Lord Jesus.  I felt this amazing presence that urged me to just do it.  I knew Mr. Christ would not be seriously injured,” Cantarella told reporters after the accident.  “But I bet the son of a bitch never walks into traffic again,” she added.

God, speaking from Heaven today confirmed that he indeed was present in Cantarella’s vehicle and did suggest that she run over Lord Jesus Christ.    “Look, I have never struck anyone down in a furious vengeance for taking my name in vain.  I’ve pretty much given everyone a pass on that.  But to name yourself after my son?  That’s too much for me.  I mean, all of you know that I picked that name first for my son.  I picked it a couple of millenniums ago.  I am God, so yes, I do have the exclusive ownership of the name Lord Jesus Christ.”

God added, “And no, Kelly Horne of El Paso, Texas, this is not at all like the time you told Sarah Greene in second grade that you would name a daughter Courtney and now she has a daughter named Courtney.  Sarah did not remember that conversation from 1986 or you, until you sent her a Facebook friend request last week.” 

God plans to thank Cantarella for knocking some sense into Mr. Christ by downgrading her future skin cancer to a smattering of oddly placed moles.

Helpful Hints from the Desk of Barista

DO:  Cut the head’s off pictures of friends and paste them onto the bodies of centaurs

DO:  Respond to emails only with Glory be!  Examples – Can you send me a copy of that affidavit?  Glory be!   Hey, it’s 3:10.  You’re late for our meeting.  Glory be!  Here’s a PowerPoint I created for your review.  Glory be!  Wanna smoke?  Glory be!

DO:  Spend all day reading about Sandra Bullock’s baby.  When confronted about how much time you’ve spent on the internets, call your accuser an insensitive WASP.

DO:  Wear tube socks pulled all the way up with WNBA basketball shorts.  Sike!  Just laugh at the woman you see dressed that way.

DON’T:  Be productive.

Helpful Hints from the Desk of TLW

Why do I drink you when you make me feel so bad?!

Lessons I learned last night the hard way. Don’t let this happen to you.

Good idea: Wine.

Bad idea: Wine and PBR.

Good idea: Grabbing a few drinks on a school night.

Bad idea: Grabbing a few (more) drinks on a school night at 11:30.

Good idea: Taking a cab home.

Bad idea: Not noticing you are four blocks past your apartment until it’s too late.

Good idea: A little light making out in public.

Bad idea: Anything beyond second base.

The Impossible Dream

Me, at da club

And the world will be better for this
That one man, scorned and covered with scars
Still strove with his last ounce of courage
To reach the unreachable star

Wow, like TLW says, I’ve just got so much to tell y’all!  I’m going to get right to what’s most important:  I was kicked out of a bar.  I have always, always, always wanted to be able to say this.  And I don’t care what the Baltimore girls who were present for this experience say – it DOES count as being kicked out of a bar even if you never made it inside the bar.  It’s my story and I’m going to love it and pet it just the way I want.

So I’m up in Atlantic City minding my p’s and q’s during a quiet little bachelorette party.  All the ladies were class acts, enjoying cocktails and chugging champagne at 3 pm that afternoon, when we got a call that a dear friend with a large gambling problem was staying in the penthouse of a well-known casino.  The friend was kind enough to invite our group over and hook us up with passes to a true Jersey Shore club inside this casino.  We polished off a few more bottles of everything in sight and headed out.

Hours later, we stroll up to the most enormous line ever for said club.  We wait.  And wait.  I’m feeling more than a bit self-conscious, because I can’t see a single thong or nipple ring on display in our entire group and these accessories appear to be requirements of the dress code at this watering hole.  Eventually our party makes it to the front of the line.  Everyone else in the group produces appropriate ID and VIP passes and is ushered in to da club.  Except me.  I hand over my license to a burly bouncer who immediately yells that I’m not going anywhere.  He gets on a headset and screams to all the other meatheads bouncers there’s a situation at the main entrance.  I think he also alerted NSA and the FBI he may need backup.  Code orange at the main entrance! 

I ask is there a problem?  Hell yes there’s a problem.  He’s been watching me bob and weave all over the line and there’s no way that I can come in to his bar already intoxicated, not on his watch.  Not on his watch.    Yes, I had been drinking all day but I was certainly not bobbing and weaving.  That’s what losers do.  So I explain that I was just doing like Soulja Boy says and letting peeps watch me crank dat, watch me roll.  He tells me to get out.  But I’m not in?  Ma’am, go to the back of the line again and if you can sober up I may let you in.  Um, what?  That sounds like a terrible plan. I can wait in line for 15 more minutes and come inside?  How about you just let me in and I’ll take a knee for 15 minutes.  Go to the back of the line now, he says. 

Those who know me know I don’t take kindly to being bossed around – that’s my job, not yours.  Those who know me also know that I can sometimes function as a great representative for myself.  So I put Barista on the back burner and bring out my inner Stein Mart HR lady.   Sir?  I understand your obligations here and I respect your committment to safety, but this is the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard—and suddenly, I’m being carted to the back of the line.  Where I wait, again.  This go round I pass the time working on my poker face and posture.  I soon return to the front of the line where I again pull out my ID and refuse to make eye contact with the same bouncer.

Don’t I know you?  Didn’t I just ask you to leave?  I shake my head no and continue staring at the floor.  I reach my hand out for my ID and take it back.  I slide past him, keeping my head down, and then run like hell inside to find my girls.  I expect wild applause for my deer-in-headlights entrance, which I have not had to use in years.  But no one is impressed by my quick thinking.  They’re all insisting that it’s not the same as being removed from the inside of the bar and would you look at that oh my God people in Jersey really DO beat the beat, holy shit.   It’s like watching baby unicorns.  You can’t look away. 

It counts.

We are turning one!

Happy birthday to us!

UPDATED AT 2:34 PM EST! 

Hi, guys. Guess what?  Our little baby blog is turning one on Friday. Can you believe it?  I would like to take a trip down memory lane if you don’t mind and revisit some of my favorite posts from the past year.  

I tickled myself pink when I created my own bar guide.  A year later it is still shockingly accurate. Kudos to me!  

We took it really hard when Terrell Brown left NBC 12 last summer. Barista and I still wax poetic about infamous time our main man did a snow angel on the side of Midlothian Turnpike in two inches of snow with his microphone still on. God damn, that was great.  

We are good at generalizations and stereotypes (they save time). Nowhere is this more evident than our Virginia College Retrospective series. Barista’s tribute to Randolph Macon and my ditty about JMU are my favs.  Please note, these posts still receive comments which cause me to LOL/ROTFL/LMBO forever.  

Remember when I got Billy Mays? I do, too. Longest relationship I’ve had since my big D.  

Then we went on vacation!  

One of my favorite Top Fives!  

Remember when RVA was obsessed with naming our new baseball team? I still wish the Richmond Hambones won, but whatever. Screw it.  

Cat Scratch Fever took over my life in November. Barista had to get all intervention up on my ass with the help of a few of our friends. R.I.P Little Jerry Seinfeld!    

Stop bitching about the heat. Remember all of this bullshit?  

Bob McDonnell and The Cooch really step up the crazy, making my job a hell of a lot easier. Thanks, guys!  

I tried to leave UMOT out of it, but was quickly scolded on my decision.  The thought of getting called bitter one more time made my skin crawl.  But hey, it’s a great post. Plus also, two different people are now committed into buying me all the tacos I can eat if I get called something I deem nasty. Cheers!   

Here’s to another year of snarky badassery. See y’all at the club.

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