Category Archives: Drunken antics

I carbed out… sowwwy!

If anyone was keeping track you might have guessed that my 30 day paleo challenge is over and I have been busy stuffing my face with all the carbs in sight, so I haven’t had time to blog plus my hands were dirty with donut jelly. Ain’t nobody got time to be havin’ sticky keys cause they dint wash they hands. Ya feels me!? 

So I was looking through some photos on my phone so that I could post pictures of my favorite paleo recipes, when I found this:

photo

That my friends is a selfie of me smelling flowers at a bar on a Saturday night. Flowers that weren’t even mine, mind you. Remember how pissed I was that Gigi got what I thought should have been my flowers? This is them, and now I understand why he gave them to her instead of me. This is the kind of thing you can look forward to now that I’m back on the booze train.

Anyway, here is one of my favorite recipes that I tried during the challenge.  This one I found on paleoplan.com

Garlic chicken, red pepper, and mushroom sauce on a bed of asparagus 

photo-1

Ingredients:

  • 1 lb boneless, skinless chicken breasts, diced
  • 2 Tbs olive oil, divided
  • 1/2 tsp sea salt (optional)
  • 1/4 tsp freshly ground black pepper
  • 1/2 tsp chili powder
  • 1 clove garlic, minced
  • 1 medium yellow onion, diced
  • 8-10 white button or cremini mushrooms, sliced
  • 2 red bell peppers, sliced
  • 1/3 cup coconut milk

Instructions:

  1. Marinate chicken in 1 Tbs olive oil, sea salt (optional), black pepper, chili powder and garlic. Refrigerate for 1 hour.
  2. Shortly before meal time, heat 2 medium skillets over medium-high heat.
  3. In one, saute marinated chicken until browned and almost fully cooked.
  4. Heat 1 Tbs olive (or coconut) oil in the other skillet. Add onion and saute for about 5 minutes, stirring occasionally. Add mushrooms and continue to cook until tender.
  5. Add red pepper, coconut milk and browned chicken and stir. Cook for an additional 5-10 minutes, or until the chicken is completely done.

I made mine into a smaller portion and loaded it on top of some boiled asparagus annnnd it was delicious! Now, please excuse me while I help myself to a package of E.L. Fudge cookies. NOM!

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The Rise and Fall of Crack Day

This past week I got to be the dumper instead of the dumpee.  No, I wasn’t lucky enough to dump an actual guy. I dumped Starbucks, and left it crying on the curb like a little baby.

You see, I haven’t always been a coffee advocate.  After hearing about the Pumpkin Spice Latte for literally the past decade, I decided to give it a try this year.  And then I became obsessed, and then it was all I talked about, and then I got my mom, my aunt, and my 9 year old sister obsessed too and we would have PSL parties on the weekend mornings and run around for the next 6 hours like crackheads in a crackhouse. And then when we came down from our high we would tell each other that we looked like crackwhores. Because we did. Sunken, tired eyes, aimlessly wandering around trying to remember what we needed to do before we drank the PSL. Yes I know, I am a horrible horrible person, I got a 9 year old addicted to espresso. But what the fuck ever, Italians let their kids drink espresso and they turn out all right.


jersey shore

Right?

Then I found this food challenge I wanted to try. It’s 30 days long and while you can have 1 cup of black coffee a day, we all know that the PSL is no where close to being black coffee. So I had to quit. Lucky suggested that I just straight up eat espresso beans like a fiend, but I think for the sake of everyone else I’ll just stop with the coffee all together. 

So that brings us to the breakup. You see, Fridays were my crack day. I would wake up with a shit eating grin on my face every Friday, first and foremost because it was Friday, but also because I got the crack on Fridays. My PSL and my cinnamon roll.

cinnamon heaven

(I’m convinced that in Heaven people swim in PSL and have cinnamon roll pillows.)

Each Friday I would get to work throw my shit down and skip off to Starbucks without a care in the world. After a few weeks my co-workers started to notice that after returning from my coffee run, I would ping from the walls for the next 4-6 hours and get absolutely no office related work done. I became a different person, I was a sociable spaz and told people (everyone, separately) in the office my opinions on things like cloth diapers and flavored beer. No one cared, but they loved it. After about a month of said behavior, when I would come to work on Fridays some would chant, “Crack day! Crack day! Crack day!” The pressure became too much, so when I decided to do the 30 day challenge I had to break it to everyone that the coming Friday would be my final crack day.  They cried, but they’ll get over it. Eventually.

When I went to Starbucks for my Final Crack Day, I broke the news to Jake the Barista (Baristo? What the hell do you call boy Baristas?) that he would not see me for at least the next month, possibly forever if I could withstand it, and that I really appreciated him always warming my cinnamon roll to the perfect temperature, hot enough to melt the frosting but not so hot that it burnt my mouth.  Jake was sad to see me go, he even drew little sad faces on my cup. But at last, we parted ways.

And that is how I dumped the PSL and cinnamon roll. The best relationship I’ve ever had.

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Songs I’m obsessed with right now.

1. White Walls by Macklemore & Ryan Lewis

2. Royals by Lorde

3. Dear Marie by John Mayer

4. Crooked Smile by J Cole featuring TLC

5. Give it 2 U by Robin Thicke with 2 Chainz

6. Body Party by Ciara

7. Love More by Chris Brown, featuring Nicki Minaj

8. Wait A Minute by Justin Bieber, featuring Tyga

9. Dark Horse by Katy Perry, featuring Juicy J

10. Bass Down Low by DEV, featuring The Cataracs

Those are my JAMS right now! What songs are you dancing to?

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Part three: The final straw.

You are all probably wondering why there is even a part three; believe me, I was very frustrated, scared, and upset at this point. But I didn’t want to give up.

Even my cynical heart had hope that things would turn around and we could go on like this didn’t happen. But in the weeks following the bar fight, we were very distant.

I built walls around me, just waiting for that third thing to happen when I would say, “That’s it! I’m out of here.”

It happened on a Wenesday night… or rather, a Thursday morning at 4 am. D was texting me, drunk. Actually, he was wasted—most of the texts were just random letters, like he was slamming his fingers down on his phone and sending them to me.

Some words I could read, like him telling me he was going to go back to “someone else.”

That was it. He was drunk again, and now telling me he was going to cheat. Two things I absolutely cannot and will not tolerate.

I replied and told him it was over.

He continued to text me passive aggressive bullshit, but I turned off my phone and tried to get some sleep.

The next morning, D sent me a message saying he couldn’t do this anymore. I took it as him trying to turn the tables and break up with me, but I told him it was already over. Later, he explained that he just meant the crazy drinking, but it doesn’t ultimately matter. It was over.

D is an alcoholic.

When I tell people that, most of them just say, “Well yeah he works in the service industry,” but it’s not that. Alcoholics aren’t just people who like to drink; they have a very serious problem.

It broke my heart to have to let D go… but I know I must make a better life for myself. I have no fucking clue how I keep finding myself in these situations—never ever ever in my darkest nightmares did I think I would be dating a guy like this.

The day after we broke up, I had my locks changed as D had a key to my place. I didn’t think he’d even try to come over, but I’m going out of town soon and didn’t want to take any chances.

That Saturday morning, I woke up at 5 am to pounding on my door. D was outside, drunk, with a styrofoam cup of Crown in his hand.

I am still so very heartbroken. As pathetic as it may sounds, I just want one of these relationships to work. I want to be loved.

I hope that D gets the professional help he needs before something else terrible happens. But I cannot rescue him, help him, or stand by and watch as things unfold anymore.

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Part two: the bar fight.

After getting the DWI, D was terrified he would lose his job. After all, he’d been drinking while on the job and he was driving home when he got pulled over for swerving all over the roads.

But when he got to work, they told him the entire thing was bullshit, and not to worry, because they would hire him the best DWI attorney in the state. When D told me this, I was extremely concerned. He was getting a free ride and wasn’t going to learn the lesson I’d hoped.

I told D I was really concerned and I didn’t know if I could handle our relationship if the drunken drama continued. I was worried for him and for us. He promised me he would cut back on drinking.

For about two weeks, he did.

One Sunday after work, D invited me to come over.

“Oh by the way, Hunter hit my truck,” he texted me before I arrived.

When I got to D’s house, Hunter (a waiter at the restaurant) was sitting on the patio, hammered. D was drinking Crown from a styrofoam cup.

“What’s going on?” I asked.

According to the guys, D had had two cocktails at work and was afraid to drive home, so he asked Hunter to follow him. Hunter, being too drunk to drive, swerved off the road, over-corrected, and hit D’s truck.

“What happened to not drinking and driving?” I asked.

“I had two drinks and, believe me, I was scared to,” D said.

I was pissed. Here we were, two weeks out from an arrest, and he was drinking and driving again. I left and went home.

The next day, a Monday, D was heading an hour away to a second restaurant location. He was joining a server, the other manager and the chef to see if this server (Bobby) wanted to come on as a manager. Bobby drove them, they ate a free meal, I’m assuming they had lots of drinks, and left.

Around 1:30 a.m., D calls me, excited to tell me that him and Bobby got in a fight and roughed up about 9 other guys.

According to D, him and Bobby left the restaurant and it was Bobby’s idea to step into a nearby bar where they saw an Arabic man sitting alone. Because Bobby and D both know Arabic (a fact I didn’t know), they decided to talk to him.

Again, according to D, they didn’t say anything offensive, and out of nowhere this guy pulls a knife out and holds it up to D’s neck. D then flipped him over the table, causing a group of other guys running to the scene and joining in.

D and Bobby were kicked out of the bar, and D was trying to tell me just how “cool” it was when he flipped this guy over the table.

I told him I didn’t think it was cool at all, that it was actually quite trashy, and he didn’t need to be out getting in fights. He is a dad and was just arrested two weeks before.

D was drunk, at a Waffle House, and couldn’t even tell me what city he was in. I told him we needed to have a serious talk later and hung up.

The next day, I told D that the only thing I could think to say or do was to give him an ultimatum. Any more drunken antics and I was out. He said he didn’t want to lose me and that was that.

That night, D got a call from the owner of his restaurant. The Arabic guy came into the restaurant and filed a complaint against D and Tommy. The shopping center threatened to close down the restaurant. D’s job was on the line…

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Part One: The DWI.

This is the same opening to a post as many that I’ve written before—I haven’t been completely honest with you all. And you know what I’ve realized? When you can’t be honest in your anonymous blog; something ain’t right.

And if you want the truth, it hasn’t been right for an entire month now. It started, sort of, with a DWI.

A week before my mom came to town, D had been working a lot. It was “busy season” at the restaurant and he was constantly stressed. He was also constantly drunk.

Every time he would come over to my house after work, or me go to his, he would be drunk, and I don’t mean tipsy. I mean hammered. He would pick fights with me, or make up things that I said, and I would often sit and cry while he just sat there and watched.

After one particularly brutal fight, I told him he should ease up on the booze and he agreed. Then my mom came to town and things were okay. A few days after she left, I got a call from D at 4 am.

D: Lucky?

ME: Hello? Yes.

D: Can you come pick me up?

NOTE: He sounded sober as hell, I thought he had car trouble.

ME: Of course baby where are you?

D: I’m at Troop A, do you know where that is?

ME: Yes. I’ll be there.

D: When?

ME: I’m going to get out of bed, put pants on, and leave, okay?

D: okay, hurry.

I had no idea what was going on, but I assumed it was something to do with his drinking. I put on the rest of my pajamas (a matching set of pink plaid button ups from Victoria Secret) and jumped in my car. He told me to call him when I got there.

I did and he told me the cop would come outside to get me. I waited, nearly shaking, as the cop came and escorted me into a room that looked like a classroom. He was sitting on a bench that had cuffs attached to it; he was wearing his suit from work.

“I just need to wrap up his paperwork and then you all can go home,” the cop said.

I sat on the bench with D, my boyfriend, who was obviously in some serious trouble. He talked to me like everything was normal. He was drunk.

When the cop finished his paperwork, he needed D’s signatures. I heard the charges: improper lane usage, a DWI (he blew a .217), and had expired plates (they were a year overdue).

The cop then told D that he had a drinking problem.

“I don’t know what is causing this problem, but you need to figure it out. This is your second DWI, if you get a third, you go straight to jail, no matter if you blow or not. Since you blew over a .20, I would advise you to bring your toothbrush when you go to court—you’ll probably spend 48 hours in jail. Drinking and driving does not mix. Do I need to show you pictures of accidents caused by drinking? Because it’s complete mayhem.”

“No sir,” D said.

“Okay, well I’m letting you go home tonight, but please do not consider this a free ride,” the cop said.

D promised that he knew it wasn’t a free ride, and we were free to leave. We got in my car and D, still drunk, started rambling on about, maybe he does have a problem, maybe he should try to get help, maybe he should just move to China, etc.

“If you were looking for a reason to get out, now would be the time to do it,” he said.

“I’m not getting out,” I said.

“Do you normally pick up your boyfriends from the police station?” he asked.

Truthfully, no. But, as I told D, everyone makes mistakes. The question is, are you going to learn from it?

We got to my apartment, D ate, and we went to bed a little after 5 am…

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Country Drama (Part 2)

The hours leading up to the trip were no easier than the few days before.  The MOH had asked that we bring a gift for the bride or party favor for the weekend.  I had known all along that I was going to get some lingerie and some edible whipped cream or something from Victoria’s Secret.  Before we left, Betty informed me that she wanted to stop at one of those disgusting adult stores you see on the side of the interstate on the way to get her gift.  No. No. NO. You’re already making us 5 hours later than everyone else, get something on your own time.  I told her it wasn’t happening and she needed to figure out something else because I just wanted to get there.  I honestly don’t even know if she ended up bringing anything, but I also don’t care.  We finally made it to the house, I was annoyed beyond belief and so happy to see other people.

We had to hustle to get ready and head out for dinner, which was amazing.  The plan was to eat at this restaurant and then go out to the bars in that neighborhood for a not so crazy night, and Saturday would be the big night with all the bachelorette games and goodies on the strip. Near the end of the dinner I kept feeling my phone go off, so I finally looked at it to see that it was Betty texting me from the other end of the table. Sigh. She was saying that she was exhausted and had no desire to go out.  Cool – you do that then.  I just looked at her and acknowledged the text but never replied.  

When we got to the first bar she came up and said she didn’t want to be there, didn’t want to drink, and was tired.  I wasn’t really sure what I was supposed to do with that, “Okay so are you going back then?” She said yeah she thought so, and asked if I would go to the ATM at the back of the bar with her to get cash.  So I went, then she asked if I would stand there and wait for a cab with her.  Fine, would you like me to hold your hand and brush your hair too? However, we weren’t in downtown Nashville and she needed to call one because they weren’t just driving around in this neighborhood, but I sure as hell wasn’t going to look up a number and do it for her. She is a grown ass woman.  So we literally stood on the side of the road for 5 minutes until I finally said, “So are you going to call a cab or what?” She was like yeah, I guess I’ll ask someone inside for a number to a cab place.  So we walked back inside and I said, “Okay I’m going back up on the stage with the girls, let me know when you’re ready and I’ll stand out there with you.” Instead of going to a bartender or bouncer to ask for a number to cab company she followed me back to the stage.  WTF! 

She told one of the other girls that she wanted to go back, but didn’t have a cab number.  So the girl looked one up for her on her phone, and is nicer than me and asked if she wanted her to go with her.  Betty said no, it was fine and told me she was ready to go call and wait for a cab, so I walked back outside with her.  Feeling guilty, I finally offered to go back with her, expecting her to give me the same response as the other girl.  But she didn’t, she said “Yeah I do want you to go back with me.  I know all these teachers that have been abducted when they get in cabs alone in random cities.”  UM WHAT THE FUCK EVER.  That is horseshit, but fine I will go back with you, since this weekend is about you.  So we went back and I got ready for bed.  Since we were the first ones back we were able to claim an actual bedroom and got a bed, no air mattress, after all that drama. I got into bed, and since it was 11 o’clock and I wasn’t tired at all, I laid there and stared at the ceiling.  After 30 minutes had gone by and Betty still hadn’t come in, I went out into the living room to see what she was doing.  Sitting on the couch drinking a vodka soda.  Are you fucking kidding me? She made me leave so that she could come home because she was SO tired, and now was sitting there, not sleeping, fucking drinking? I was P-I-S-S-E-D, so I just went to bed.  Fuck that shit. 

The next day we all got up and started getting ready, earlier that morning the MOH told me the plan was to go to breakfast, do a little shopping, go to the country music hall of fame, come back and get ready, then go out to the strip that night.  Sounded like fun! When I went into our room Betty asked me where we were going that day, so I relayed what the MOH had told me.  Her response was, “I’m not doing that shit. I want to day drink.” Here we go again.  So I finally looked at her and said, “Well that’s great, but YOU don’t get to choose what we do…”

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