Today in a brainstorm, an account sup used these words to describe how she'd ideally like for us to meet the objective:
"We're going for LOL, not WTF."
And she was serious. NFW.
Monday, March 23, 2009
Thursday, March 19, 2009
the grand gesture
Not to sound like Carrie Bradshaw again, but I've been thinking a lot (meaning, I've been thinking for the last 10 minutes) about The Grand Gesture and its implications in relationships. Recently coming out of a long-term, quite serious, emotionally taxing and wholly chaotic relationship myself, I've been contemplating all of the things that one must go through to get over and move on afterward. But with that comes thoughts of "what if...?" The biggest "what if...?" as of this moment is "what if... he showed up with The Grand Gesture?"
The Grand Gesture, according to a focus group of me, is something that is done out of selflessness, regardless of potential impending personal humiliation, to show the vast dedication that one has to making the situation work. No matter how bad it could have been, no matter what you've gone through; this is the one last chance the person has of making things work.
In my dating history, which has been enormously flawed and ridiculously time-consuming (I haven't been this single in over a decade, which I discovered the other day with a calculator and some self-therapy), I've been privy to at least three of The Grand Gestures.
The Grand Gesture part 1: My high-school boyfriend and I broke up at the Dairy Queen (I wish I could make this up) after a tumultuous three-week argument with my parents, where they felt as though he was becoming too controlling in my life. In retrospect, they were right in feeling that way. Also in hindsight, I was mid-adolescent and looking for anything that would validate my existence outside of the family. In other words, both parties had good points. After the steak finger break-up (mmm... steak fingers and gravy...), my not-so-much-boyfriend decided to have a volatile and tearful discussion with my parents about exactly why we should remain together. I sat idly by and watched, thinking that whatever he was offering wasn't worth the drama that would ensue. We were finished.
The Grand Gesture part 2: My college boyfriend and had been having difficulties with our personal relationships and were in the process of breaking up. The sexual chemistry was incredible - I still credit him (silently) with teaching me everything I know about pleasing a penis - but we were from different worlds. His was a world inhabited by self-aggrandizing assholes; mine wasn't. But The Grand Gesture came when we went to a university baseball game and he had the entire stadium serenade me with "Happy Birthday, to the girl in Section 2, Row 3 in the pink shirt." I was happily embarrassed by the limelight, but sat idly by and watched while thinking that whatever he was offering wasn't worth the drama that would ensue. We were finished.
The Grand Gesture part 3: My later college boyfriend and I were separated by a summer of an internship (on my part) and summer school (on his part). He came home with me in July and met my family, and they deemed him "too quiet and intense." Personally, I preferred these characteristics, as "too quiet and intense" translated to me as "the guy who gave me seven orgasms in one day without taking a break to discuss our relationship status." To this day, my friends simply refer to him as "Seven". I eventually realized that my parents were smarter than I was, especially considering they didn't have The Orgasm Fog to cloud their judgement. We moved toward a break-up and he decided that the only way to salvage the relationship was to show up in my home town, search for my parents throughout an entire day at their infernal small-town hot-spots (home, place of business, workshops, what-have-you) so that he could read for them a few excerpts from The Song of Solomon to describe his true feelings for their daughter. When he called to tell me this tale, I told him to drive himself the 101 miles back to his house and get his ass home. When he tried to explain himself later, I sat idly by and listened while thinking that whatever he was offering wasn't worth the drama that would ensue. We were finished.
So now, as I sit and wonder why I didn't get The Grand Gesture, I'm confused. Why would I even want The Grand Gesture? It hasn't done well in the past. The last long-term boyfriend (three-and-a-half years of relationship turmoil) resulted in a mix CD tucked under my windshield wiper and a bouquet of flowers in my doorway. Neither worked. Why would I daydream about my most recent ex showing up at my doorstep with a pained look in his eyes, then us kissing and ripping off clothes without even saying a word? The Grand Gesture doesn't work. It never has. It's always been a last-ditch effort to salvage something that was sinking too quickly to save in the first place.
So with that, I write this post. The Grand Gesture has been made in the past, and has been done so to show selflessness, regardless of potential impending personal humiliation. To show the vast dedication that one hast to making the situation work. But honestly, were any of them selfless? Were any of them done in abandon of personal and social implications? Is anything? And honestly, whatever he'd be offering wouldn't be worth the drama that would ensue.
We are finished.
The Grand Gesture, according to a focus group of me, is something that is done out of selflessness, regardless of potential impending personal humiliation, to show the vast dedication that one has to making the situation work. No matter how bad it could have been, no matter what you've gone through; this is the one last chance the person has of making things work.
In my dating history, which has been enormously flawed and ridiculously time-consuming (I haven't been this single in over a decade, which I discovered the other day with a calculator and some self-therapy), I've been privy to at least three of The Grand Gestures.
The Grand Gesture part 1: My high-school boyfriend and I broke up at the Dairy Queen (I wish I could make this up) after a tumultuous three-week argument with my parents, where they felt as though he was becoming too controlling in my life. In retrospect, they were right in feeling that way. Also in hindsight, I was mid-adolescent and looking for anything that would validate my existence outside of the family. In other words, both parties had good points. After the steak finger break-up (mmm... steak fingers and gravy...), my not-so-much-boyfriend decided to have a volatile and tearful discussion with my parents about exactly why we should remain together. I sat idly by and watched, thinking that whatever he was offering wasn't worth the drama that would ensue. We were finished.
The Grand Gesture part 2: My college boyfriend and had been having difficulties with our personal relationships and were in the process of breaking up. The sexual chemistry was incredible - I still credit him (silently) with teaching me everything I know about pleasing a penis - but we were from different worlds. His was a world inhabited by self-aggrandizing assholes; mine wasn't. But The Grand Gesture came when we went to a university baseball game and he had the entire stadium serenade me with "Happy Birthday, to the girl in Section 2, Row 3 in the pink shirt." I was happily embarrassed by the limelight, but sat idly by and watched while thinking that whatever he was offering wasn't worth the drama that would ensue. We were finished.
The Grand Gesture part 3: My later college boyfriend and I were separated by a summer of an internship (on my part) and summer school (on his part). He came home with me in July and met my family, and they deemed him "too quiet and intense." Personally, I preferred these characteristics, as "too quiet and intense" translated to me as "the guy who gave me seven orgasms in one day without taking a break to discuss our relationship status." To this day, my friends simply refer to him as "Seven". I eventually realized that my parents were smarter than I was, especially considering they didn't have The Orgasm Fog to cloud their judgement. We moved toward a break-up and he decided that the only way to salvage the relationship was to show up in my home town, search for my parents throughout an entire day at their infernal small-town hot-spots (home, place of business, workshops, what-have-you) so that he could read for them a few excerpts from The Song of Solomon to describe his true feelings for their daughter. When he called to tell me this tale, I told him to drive himself the 101 miles back to his house and get his ass home. When he tried to explain himself later, I sat idly by and listened while thinking that whatever he was offering wasn't worth the drama that would ensue. We were finished.
So now, as I sit and wonder why I didn't get The Grand Gesture, I'm confused. Why would I even want The Grand Gesture? It hasn't done well in the past. The last long-term boyfriend (three-and-a-half years of relationship turmoil) resulted in a mix CD tucked under my windshield wiper and a bouquet of flowers in my doorway. Neither worked. Why would I daydream about my most recent ex showing up at my doorstep with a pained look in his eyes, then us kissing and ripping off clothes without even saying a word? The Grand Gesture doesn't work. It never has. It's always been a last-ditch effort to salvage something that was sinking too quickly to save in the first place.
So with that, I write this post. The Grand Gesture has been made in the past, and has been done so to show selflessness, regardless of potential impending personal humiliation. To show the vast dedication that one hast to making the situation work. But honestly, were any of them selfless? Were any of them done in abandon of personal and social implications? Is anything? And honestly, whatever he'd be offering wouldn't be worth the drama that would ensue.
We are finished.
Tuesday, March 3, 2009
lunchbox speaks out
My creative director affectionately refers to me as Lunchbox, given my affinity for terribly fattening food and the fact that I'm constantly proclaiming that "I'm starving. Let's eat something already." Today he sent me an email asking "What is Lunchbox's opinion of this list?" Here's the link:
http://manofest.com/index.php?option=com_myblog&show=THE-10-BEST-CHAIN-RESTAURANT-FOOD-ITEMS-OF-ALL-TIME.html&Itemid=1
And, since all of my clients are at an off-site for the next four days and I have found myself with all-too-uncommon spare time, here was my response:
"10 – Chili’s Big Mouth Bites: Completely. Over. Rated. They’re always cold when they come out, the onion strings get soggy before they hit your table, they never put enough bacon on them and you always get a judging look from your local JuCo student waitress when you have to ask for extra ranch.
Lunchbox suggestion: Skillet Queso, the classic version with the perfectly round bits of pre-formed meat swimming in chili-cheese gravy. It comes in a giant plastic bag before they heat it up in the skillet. If you must have the Big Mouth Bites, make it part of a Triple Play so you can at least enjoy some Chicken Crispers (the classic, tempura-fried ones; not the new-school chicken-fried nonsense) and Hot Wings along with the tiny burgers.
9 – Applebee’s Loaded Mashed Potatoes: Pretty solid.
Lunchbox suggestion: Fiesta Lime Chicken with fries instead of rice, side of ranch dressing. It used to be called the Tequila Lime Chicken but too many old bitties got their panties in a twist because they thought the sauce was going to turn them tipsy.
8- IHOP’s Crispy Banana Carmel Cheesecake: Sick out.
Lunchbox suggestion: Patty melt on white bread with no onions, hashbrowns instead of fries, side of ranch and a short-stack of pancakes. Let the butter melt on top of the stack while you eat your sandwich, then spread it over the pancakes. You’ll be left with a soggy butter spot on top of the pancakes. Eat this first, then use the hole as a syrup caddy.
7 – PF Chang’s Crab Wontons: Meh.
Lunchbox suggestion: Lettuce Wraps and Mongolian Beef. No ranch on this one.
6 – WH Chocolate Chip Waffles: No mention of the perfectly round hashbrowns?
Lunchbox suggestion: Perfectly round hashbrowns, side of bacon, side of ranch.
5 – Ruth’s Chris Filet: Never tried it.
4 – Cheesecake Factory’s Fried Mac ‘n Cheese Balls: High marks.
Lunchbox suggestion: Order the Fried Mac ‘n Cheese Balls alongside a Well-Mannered Dirty Martini, extra olives. They stuff the olives with blue cheese. It’s classy. Oh, and ranch.
3 – Denny’s Moons Over My Hammy: Ham? Sick. And they don’t even use bacon on the sandwich. Plus, my college boyfriend used to order this one all the time and his voice was really annoying when he said it. He’s fat and bald now, though. No hard feelings.
Lunchbox suggestion: Superbird, upgrade to the seasoned fries, with two sides of ranch (one for your ‘Bird, one for your fries).
2 – Red Lobster’s Cheddar Bay Biscuits: Amasing.
Lunchbox suggestion: Cheddar Bay Biscuits with a side of ranch.
1 – Outback Steakhouse’s Aussie Cheese Fries: Absolutely my favorite chain-restaurant appetizer of all time. When working at the Tyler Outback, I just called these guys “dinner”.
Lunchbox suggestion: Order them as “layered cheese fries.” This way, they put half of the fries down, then cover them with bacon and cheese, then add the rest of the fries, then top those with more bacon and cheese. Totally worth the extra $1.49. You’ll need extra ranch, though.
Yep, pretty busy today…"
Thoughts? Additions? Builds? Feel free to contribute. These discussions were God's sole intent when he created online communities.
http://manofest.com/index.php?option=com_myblog&show=THE-10-BEST-CHAIN-RESTAURANT-FOOD-ITEMS-OF-ALL-TIME.html&Itemid=1
And, since all of my clients are at an off-site for the next four days and I have found myself with all-too-uncommon spare time, here was my response:
"10 – Chili’s Big Mouth Bites: Completely. Over. Rated. They’re always cold when they come out, the onion strings get soggy before they hit your table, they never put enough bacon on them and you always get a judging look from your local JuCo student waitress when you have to ask for extra ranch.
Lunchbox suggestion: Skillet Queso, the classic version with the perfectly round bits of pre-formed meat swimming in chili-cheese gravy. It comes in a giant plastic bag before they heat it up in the skillet. If you must have the Big Mouth Bites, make it part of a Triple Play so you can at least enjoy some Chicken Crispers (the classic, tempura-fried ones; not the new-school chicken-fried nonsense) and Hot Wings along with the tiny burgers.
9 – Applebee’s Loaded Mashed Potatoes: Pretty solid.
Lunchbox suggestion: Fiesta Lime Chicken with fries instead of rice, side of ranch dressing. It used to be called the Tequila Lime Chicken but too many old bitties got their panties in a twist because they thought the sauce was going to turn them tipsy.
8- IHOP’s Crispy Banana Carmel Cheesecake: Sick out.
Lunchbox suggestion: Patty melt on white bread with no onions, hashbrowns instead of fries, side of ranch and a short-stack of pancakes. Let the butter melt on top of the stack while you eat your sandwich, then spread it over the pancakes. You’ll be left with a soggy butter spot on top of the pancakes. Eat this first, then use the hole as a syrup caddy.
7 – PF Chang’s Crab Wontons: Meh.
Lunchbox suggestion: Lettuce Wraps and Mongolian Beef. No ranch on this one.
6 – WH Chocolate Chip Waffles: No mention of the perfectly round hashbrowns?
Lunchbox suggestion: Perfectly round hashbrowns, side of bacon, side of ranch.
5 – Ruth’s Chris Filet: Never tried it.
4 – Cheesecake Factory’s Fried Mac ‘n Cheese Balls: High marks.
Lunchbox suggestion: Order the Fried Mac ‘n Cheese Balls alongside a Well-Mannered Dirty Martini, extra olives. They stuff the olives with blue cheese. It’s classy. Oh, and ranch.
3 – Denny’s Moons Over My Hammy: Ham? Sick. And they don’t even use bacon on the sandwich. Plus, my college boyfriend used to order this one all the time and his voice was really annoying when he said it. He’s fat and bald now, though. No hard feelings.
Lunchbox suggestion: Superbird, upgrade to the seasoned fries, with two sides of ranch (one for your ‘Bird, one for your fries).
2 – Red Lobster’s Cheddar Bay Biscuits: Amasing.
Lunchbox suggestion: Cheddar Bay Biscuits with a side of ranch.
1 – Outback Steakhouse’s Aussie Cheese Fries: Absolutely my favorite chain-restaurant appetizer of all time. When working at the Tyler Outback, I just called these guys “dinner”.
Lunchbox suggestion: Order them as “layered cheese fries.” This way, they put half of the fries down, then cover them with bacon and cheese, then add the rest of the fries, then top those with more bacon and cheese. Totally worth the extra $1.49. You’ll need extra ranch, though.
Yep, pretty busy today…"
Thoughts? Additions? Builds? Feel free to contribute. These discussions were God's sole intent when he created online communities.
Tuesday, February 3, 2009
these kids these days...
My account coordinator is a peacock. "Peacock" is the term my friends and I have given to any big-haired, heavily make-up'd Dallas girl tripping about at any given moment with a vodka cocktail and a purse the size of my car hanging from the crook of her arm. They always smell of Red Bull. It's an affectionate term when I use it on my AC, but generally speaking these girls are obnoxious. Their own particular bird call is "LET'S CROSS THE STREET HERE... BITCHES!!" And then they stumble out in front of my car in Uptown, causing traffic to back up while they totter slowly in heels, talking about that cute boy that just bought them a Jaeger Bomb.
Anyhoodle, my AC had quite the peacock-y moment this morning. When asked where the supplies for our 1:00 meeting were she replied, "Oh, they're in my roommate's car. My car is still in valet."
I laughed quite a bit and asked how she was feeling this post-Manic Monday morning. She eyed me quizzically and said, "I'm fine, why?" I said, "Well, usually when I accidentally leave my car in valet the night before I have a doozy of a headache the next morning."
She laughed and said, "No, bitch! It's been there since Saturday!! Whoopsie!"
Ah, youth. I shouldn't be too quick to judge, though. My debit card has been at the same bar for over a month now. Whoopsie!
Anyhoodle, my AC had quite the peacock-y moment this morning. When asked where the supplies for our 1:00 meeting were she replied, "Oh, they're in my roommate's car. My car is still in valet."
I laughed quite a bit and asked how she was feeling this post-Manic Monday morning. She eyed me quizzically and said, "I'm fine, why?" I said, "Well, usually when I accidentally leave my car in valet the night before I have a doozy of a headache the next morning."
She laughed and said, "No, bitch! It's been there since Saturday!! Whoopsie!"
Ah, youth. I shouldn't be too quick to judge, though. My debit card has been at the same bar for over a month now. Whoopsie!
Tuesday, January 27, 2009
a very carrie post
Apologies are in order, first and foremost. First of all, to the two of you out there who actually check in on this blog: I'm sorry. Things have been crazy. Work has been crazy, family has been insane and even more lunatic, the personal life has risen to Sylvia Plath levels. For the lack of posting, I'm sorry.
Secondly, I apologize for the Carrie Bradshaw-esque tone of the impending post. It's going to happen, so just please bear with me.
I was just taking my dog outside in an ice storm and it hit me: the idea of stability. Stability in work, in relationships, in the day-to-day that makes us who we are. We grow accustomed to counting on those who count on us, sure - but how much of that should we really count on?
As I walked through the courtyard of my all-too-familiar apartment complex that I've grown accustomed to walking through over the past six years, I couldn't help but take baby-step after baby-step, measuring my footprints carefully to be sure I didn't slip in the ice. I was freezing my ass off, even while wearing two layers of tube socks - one layer of which extended all the way to my knees. All the while my dog, who is can apparently teach me more about life than I ever initially thought, forged her way through to pee. All she knew was the goal that lie ahead - peeing, no matter the cost. She didn't care that she hadn't seen frozen conditions like this in years, she didn't care that her tiny paws were completely frigid - she knew what needed to be done, our purpose for being outside, and she made it happen. All the while, I huddled with a glass of wine and cigarette in hand behind any structure that shielded be from the wind. All in all, I was impressed. Amused, nonetheless, but impressed.
All of this to say, I've been in an extremely cautious and dependent relationship for the past two years. He's depended on me for happiness, I've depended on him for fulfillment; the need to know that I myself was needed. As this relationship draws to a close and I wonder how to cautiously approach the conversation, all I can do is draw knowledge from a tiny dog. Don't shield yourself from the wind, clutching onto your cigarette and glass of wine, hiding from the situation. Do what needs to be done. In other words, piss or get off the pot.
And with that, I apologize once again for the Carrie Bradshaw-ness of this post and promise much more entertaining material in the near future. Namely, how I came to have an autistic boyfriend, how my friend and I fell in love with four magicians, and the ridiculousness that's encompassed the past two months.
Toodle-loo.
Secondly, I apologize for the Carrie Bradshaw-esque tone of the impending post. It's going to happen, so just please bear with me.
I was just taking my dog outside in an ice storm and it hit me: the idea of stability. Stability in work, in relationships, in the day-to-day that makes us who we are. We grow accustomed to counting on those who count on us, sure - but how much of that should we really count on?
As I walked through the courtyard of my all-too-familiar apartment complex that I've grown accustomed to walking through over the past six years, I couldn't help but take baby-step after baby-step, measuring my footprints carefully to be sure I didn't slip in the ice. I was freezing my ass off, even while wearing two layers of tube socks - one layer of which extended all the way to my knees. All the while my dog, who is can apparently teach me more about life than I ever initially thought, forged her way through to pee. All she knew was the goal that lie ahead - peeing, no matter the cost. She didn't care that she hadn't seen frozen conditions like this in years, she didn't care that her tiny paws were completely frigid - she knew what needed to be done, our purpose for being outside, and she made it happen. All the while, I huddled with a glass of wine and cigarette in hand behind any structure that shielded be from the wind. All in all, I was impressed. Amused, nonetheless, but impressed.
All of this to say, I've been in an extremely cautious and dependent relationship for the past two years. He's depended on me for happiness, I've depended on him for fulfillment; the need to know that I myself was needed. As this relationship draws to a close and I wonder how to cautiously approach the conversation, all I can do is draw knowledge from a tiny dog. Don't shield yourself from the wind, clutching onto your cigarette and glass of wine, hiding from the situation. Do what needs to be done. In other words, piss or get off the pot.
And with that, I apologize once again for the Carrie Bradshaw-ness of this post and promise much more entertaining material in the near future. Namely, how I came to have an autistic boyfriend, how my friend and I fell in love with four magicians, and the ridiculousness that's encompassed the past two months.
Toodle-loo.
Wednesday, November 26, 2008
whoops in translation
I'm not sure if you've seen this yet, but if not, enjoy: http://web.mac.com/olibeale/Iloveyoubut/home.html
And if you have, please enjoy again. No, really - I insist. Just swim around in them for a bit and find comfort in the fact that you are not the only annoyed one out there.
I think you might see where this is going. But first, let me frame up the story to best maximize your enjoyment.
My co-workers and I were discussing this site yesterday, sharing our favorites as well as possible "I love you, but" quotes that we should send in. We're agency girls, we've been around, we have spite to share. You know how we do.
I had sent the link earlier to an idle Boyfriend on IM, with the comment "I love this site so much I want to squeeze its many faces off." After our girly "I love you, but" bitch session, I turned around to find this comment blinking at me from my computer screen:
"Are you trying to tell me something with these?"
Dear sweet initial-capped Baby Jesus. Always with the drama, always with the veiled paranoia, always with the anxiety, always. My response:
"Um... 'I love you, but... you read way too much into things I send you on a whim from the innerwebs.'"
I probably should have included an emoticon of some sort to lighten the mood, but I consider those to be a last resort only to be used sparingly. You know, if you've just IM'd someone with "I just killed your cat. :)". The smiley is totally warranted. However, his rebuttal included no emoticon, either:
"'I love you, but some people think you are passive aggressive.'"
Considering I've been frustrated with him for the past two weeks and still have yet to grow a pair, stop beating around the bush and completely confront him, I'll go ahead and end this post with one word:
Touche.
And if you have, please enjoy again. No, really - I insist. Just swim around in them for a bit and find comfort in the fact that you are not the only annoyed one out there.
I think you might see where this is going. But first, let me frame up the story to best maximize your enjoyment.
My co-workers and I were discussing this site yesterday, sharing our favorites as well as possible "I love you, but" quotes that we should send in. We're agency girls, we've been around, we have spite to share. You know how we do.
I had sent the link earlier to an idle Boyfriend on IM, with the comment "I love this site so much I want to squeeze its many faces off." After our girly "I love you, but" bitch session, I turned around to find this comment blinking at me from my computer screen:
"Are you trying to tell me something with these?"
Dear sweet initial-capped Baby Jesus. Always with the drama, always with the veiled paranoia, always with the anxiety, always. My response:
"Um... 'I love you, but... you read way too much into things I send you on a whim from the innerwebs.'"
I probably should have included an emoticon of some sort to lighten the mood, but I consider those to be a last resort only to be used sparingly. You know, if you've just IM'd someone with "I just killed your cat. :)". The smiley is totally warranted. However, his rebuttal included no emoticon, either:
"'I love you, but some people think you are passive aggressive.'"
Considering I've been frustrated with him for the past two weeks and still have yet to grow a pair, stop beating around the bush and completely confront him, I'll go ahead and end this post with one word:
Touche.
Tuesday, October 14, 2008
SPORTS!!
This past weekend was the annual Red River Round-Up. Actually, in my heart of hearts, it is still known as the Red River Shoot-Out - even though a certain telecom company (hint: starts with an A and ends with a T&T) changed the name when "shoot-out" was deemed far too violent.
Anyhoodle.
The Red River Round-Up, Texas/OU weekend, Red River Shoot-Out, whatever you want to call it - so long as you don't call it OU/Texas - was this past weekend. Just like every year, this weekend completely kicked my ass.
Before I go into the weekend details, there's something you should know about me: I'm not a sports fan. I don't enjoy football, I don't enjoy basketball, I definitely don't enjoy baseball, or really any other organized sport. When I was involved in athletics when I was younger, it was always of the non-team variety. Danny Zuko and I had a lot in common. I enjoyed water skiing, snow skiing, running, biking - basically anything that didn't involve a large group of people depending on my coordination or athleticism to win the game. Because, guess what? It wouldn't.
However, as much as I have never enjoyed team sports and the watching thereof, there is one thing I have always enjoyed: day drinking.
I'm not sure exactly why, but day drinking has always been one of my favorite activities. I think that it stems from that feeling of rebellion that courses through your liver when you're drinking vodka before the clock strikes noon. I know it's silly, but my conservative background still provides my psyche with a cheap thrill at being naughty and drinking so early in the morning. There are only a few times a year that this behavior is acceptable, nay expected, and they are:
- river trips
- lake house trips
- Pride Parades
- Sunday Funday
- Mexican vacations
- St. Patrick's Day
- Texas/OU Weekend
I like to think I take advantage of each and every one of them. Which means, because the day revolves around day drinking, I have to become a sports fan for 1/365th of the year and root for the Horns to kick some Sooner ass. Although, you should know this mostly involves me occasionally yelling "SPORTS!!" at the television set and asking my friends (who actually are true Texas fans) annoying questions such as "So who's winning the match?" and "Wait. I always forget... are we for the orange ones or the red ones?" They love me, they really do.
So this past weekend was no different. We arrived at the Designated Watching Location bright and early at 10 a.m. Well, my friends did. I, predictably, was 30 minutes late. I had two screwdrivers before the 11:00 kick-off and was feeling good about my understanding of the odds, the spread, the offense, the defense, and all the other sporty terms that people throw around prior to kick-off.
Around 11:45 a.m., my interest in the sports was waning and therefore decided that the only cure was more vodka. I completely gave up on orange juice as I believed it was holding me back and moved on to my go-to beverage of Ketel and water with a lemon.
At 12:00 p.m., genius struck. I decided that it was very, very important that we have some sort of half-time activity of our own. After perusing the Specialty Drinks menu (every bartender's worst nightmare), I discovered that they were able to prepare what they called a "Category 5!! This 44 oz. monster is the hurricane for 2 or more people!" I made this announcement loudly to my friends and declared that the half-time show would involve a Category 5 drinking contest and that everyone should go ahead and find a buddy.
At half-time, four pitchers of red nightmares were placed on our table, each with 2 straws sticking out.
My friend Lynn and I did not win. We were barely even contenders. However, we did finish the pitcher all by ourselves, just like big girls, with everyone in the small bar cheering all of us on.
And that's when the wheels came off.
The rest of the afternoon is a bit of a blur. There was macaroni and cheese eaten, fried green tomatoes passed around, shrimp cocktails ordered and - least of all to my interest - sports matches watched. My friend Lynn thought another Category 5 was the best of ideas, but I thought it was the worst of ideas. I compromised with her by ordering us two Ketel and waters and two Royal Fucks (our signature shot).
A compromise, that is not.
I've heard that Texas won the game.
Post-sports, it was time to stumble next door for celebratory Mexican martinis. I vaguely remember eating three chips dipped in salsa, diligently drinking my Mextini, having a few political discussions, then announcing that it was time for my annual nap.
Three more chips, one drunken attempt at seduction, one glass of water and one fight picked with my boyfriend later (exact words from me: "Why do we always have to talk about our FEELINGS?!"), I got that nap. It lasted 5 hours.
A smart person would have woken up, eaten a Quarter-Pounder-with-no-onions and gone back to bed.
Guess who has two thumbs, bad judgment and ended up standing in line at some random club in hopes of hearing an underground performance of ?uestlove, then giving up and drinking at her local neighborhood bar until close, listening to her friend shout "WON'T YOU TAKE ME TO!!" to the bartender, then hearing him follow up five minutes later with "FUNKY TOWN!!!!"?
This girl.
Anyhoodle.
The Red River Round-Up, Texas/OU weekend, Red River Shoot-Out, whatever you want to call it - so long as you don't call it OU/Texas - was this past weekend. Just like every year, this weekend completely kicked my ass.
Before I go into the weekend details, there's something you should know about me: I'm not a sports fan. I don't enjoy football, I don't enjoy basketball, I definitely don't enjoy baseball, or really any other organized sport. When I was involved in athletics when I was younger, it was always of the non-team variety. Danny Zuko and I had a lot in common. I enjoyed water skiing, snow skiing, running, biking - basically anything that didn't involve a large group of people depending on my coordination or athleticism to win the game. Because, guess what? It wouldn't.
However, as much as I have never enjoyed team sports and the watching thereof, there is one thing I have always enjoyed: day drinking.
I'm not sure exactly why, but day drinking has always been one of my favorite activities. I think that it stems from that feeling of rebellion that courses through your liver when you're drinking vodka before the clock strikes noon. I know it's silly, but my conservative background still provides my psyche with a cheap thrill at being naughty and drinking so early in the morning. There are only a few times a year that this behavior is acceptable, nay expected, and they are:
- river trips
- lake house trips
- Pride Parades
- Sunday Funday
- Mexican vacations
- St. Patrick's Day
- Texas/OU Weekend
I like to think I take advantage of each and every one of them. Which means, because the day revolves around day drinking, I have to become a sports fan for 1/365th of the year and root for the Horns to kick some Sooner ass. Although, you should know this mostly involves me occasionally yelling "SPORTS!!" at the television set and asking my friends (who actually are true Texas fans) annoying questions such as "So who's winning the match?" and "Wait. I always forget... are we for the orange ones or the red ones?" They love me, they really do.
So this past weekend was no different. We arrived at the Designated Watching Location bright and early at 10 a.m. Well, my friends did. I, predictably, was 30 minutes late. I had two screwdrivers before the 11:00 kick-off and was feeling good about my understanding of the odds, the spread, the offense, the defense, and all the other sporty terms that people throw around prior to kick-off.
Around 11:45 a.m., my interest in the sports was waning and therefore decided that the only cure was more vodka. I completely gave up on orange juice as I believed it was holding me back and moved on to my go-to beverage of Ketel and water with a lemon.
At 12:00 p.m., genius struck. I decided that it was very, very important that we have some sort of half-time activity of our own. After perusing the Specialty Drinks menu (every bartender's worst nightmare), I discovered that they were able to prepare what they called a "Category 5!! This 44 oz. monster is the hurricane for 2 or more people!" I made this announcement loudly to my friends and declared that the half-time show would involve a Category 5 drinking contest and that everyone should go ahead and find a buddy.
At half-time, four pitchers of red nightmares were placed on our table, each with 2 straws sticking out.
My friend Lynn and I did not win. We were barely even contenders. However, we did finish the pitcher all by ourselves, just like big girls, with everyone in the small bar cheering all of us on.
And that's when the wheels came off.
The rest of the afternoon is a bit of a blur. There was macaroni and cheese eaten, fried green tomatoes passed around, shrimp cocktails ordered and - least of all to my interest - sports matches watched. My friend Lynn thought another Category 5 was the best of ideas, but I thought it was the worst of ideas. I compromised with her by ordering us two Ketel and waters and two Royal Fucks (our signature shot).
A compromise, that is not.
I've heard that Texas won the game.
Post-sports, it was time to stumble next door for celebratory Mexican martinis. I vaguely remember eating three chips dipped in salsa, diligently drinking my Mextini, having a few political discussions, then announcing that it was time for my annual nap.
Three more chips, one drunken attempt at seduction, one glass of water and one fight picked with my boyfriend later (exact words from me: "Why do we always have to talk about our FEELINGS?!"), I got that nap. It lasted 5 hours.
A smart person would have woken up, eaten a Quarter-Pounder-with-no-onions and gone back to bed.
Guess who has two thumbs, bad judgment and ended up standing in line at some random club in hopes of hearing an underground performance of ?uestlove, then giving up and drinking at her local neighborhood bar until close, listening to her friend shout "WON'T YOU TAKE ME TO!!" to the bartender, then hearing him follow up five minutes later with "FUNKY TOWN!!!!"?
This girl.
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