Bad Dates

This post is inspired by Mommy Needs A Nap.

I was not a big date person, but I went on a few.  Bad dates seemed to abound in college.
In fact, I had a string of bad dates one year in college.  All of which were *set-up* dates for a sorority/fraternity event.

Date 1 ~
My sorority held an annual paint/water fight party.  If memory serves, the paint portion was food coloring and solely included to get the party idea past the alumni who were drunk enough to believe that we wanted to have a party to express our artistic sides, not that we were really looking to wear bikinis and wet t-shirts and get it sponsored by our annual dues.  We had water guns and college bodies.  Guys were lining up to attend this party, so when a friend told me her BF's roommate wanted to go, I said I would take him. 
Our friend invited me to her apartment for poker night so I could meet the guy before the event.  I was, as expected, a few drinks over the sober limit, and all I remembered was that he was about my height and skinny. 
Date night arrives and I showed up to his house.  A guy with spiky blonde hair and glasses answered the door.  I said, "Hi I am here to pick up *Eric*, is he around?"
Guy at door says, "Ya, I am Eric.  We met last night."
I say, "Oh, I am sorry, I was drunk.  I thought you were taller."  That was all that came to mind.  He didn't like me much after that.  I wonder why.

Date 2 ~
I was asked as a date to fraternity event.  By a friend.  I couldn't screw this up, right?  Well, I did.  It wasn't all my fault though.  I had a semi-crush on this friend and decided that maybe tonight was the night to make a move.  To gain enough courage, I drank a few beers on the bus on the way there.  (It was a party bus, I wasn't arriving via public transportation.)  I thought it would be best to make my move near the end of the night, so I didn't look desperate during the party.  I spent some time mingling with friends and hanging by the bar in an attempt to not be clingy.  It worked.  I failed to notice that my date was spending the party hanging around a cute brunette that lived 3 doors down my freshman year.  When it came time to head back, he asked if I wouldn't mind sitting with his friend on the bus.  I must have looked confused, so he whispered to me "I am hoping to hook up with *Kendra* tonight, and so I was planning on sitting with her.  I knew you would be ok with it.  Thanks for coming tonight!"  Whoops, didn't see that one coming.  At least I didn't try to make a move.

Date 3 ~ 
A few weeks later, we had another sorority party.  I needed a date.  Again.  So I asked my roommate if her new guy had any friends that might want to come along.  She asked, and came skipping into my room later that day and told me she had found me a date.  Steve. 
All week long, people would ask if I had a date yet, and who it was.   I always replied, "yes, I am taking Steve."  This was met by confused looks.  I then would always say "I don't know him either.  He is a random." 
We had a pre-party at my apartment.  My date and roomie's date were late to arrive.  By the time they got there, everyone was referring to him as "Random Steve."  To.his.face.  He was a little dense though and got over it fast.
At the party, he started to kind of get on my nerves, and he was definitely not someone I wanted to repeat date, but I was being nice.  He brought me a drink and put his hand on the small of my back.  I didn't think anything of it until he says "Are you wearing a girdle?" Whoops, I forgot I was wearing the generic version of Spanx Thongs with a waist band that came to my rib cage.  I probably turned beet red.
On the bus, (always a bus) on the way home, I was definitely not feeling it.  I was trying to be nice, but he was getting too close.  Luckily for me, my friend in the seat in front of us was having a hard night and was turned around talking to me in tears.  Her BF was arrested at the party for serving alcohol to minors (me and her, probably).  While I was consoling her, Steve leans in and says, "I really want to makeout with you right now, but I feel like it is bad timing.  What do you think about later?"  Ugh.  "Um, I don't think it is going to happen tonight buddy.  Sorry."

And those are my stories.  And having re-read them, I realize now, the bad part was mainly my fault and alcohol induced... I wonder why that never occurred to me before?

Why Texas Rocks

Sorry for the no-post Friday.  We couldn't be dragged away from the requisite beer drinking, fried food eating euphoria known as Fiesta. 
And...it was also my last day at my old job, so I spent the day celebrating with my two new besties, Marg and Rita.  We had some serious quality time.  It continued into the morning. 
Also, for the record, Marg & Rita have a serious out-of-no-where sucker punch that causes migraine like pain many hours later.  Don't say I didnt warn you.
Back to Fiesta.
Last week I worked the Armadilla Egg booth at NIOSA, pronounced {n-eye-o-sa}, if you say {knee-o-sa} we can no longer be friends.  NIOSA, to tourists and ticket holders is the crowd equivalent of hell, outpopulated only by the ticket booth at a Bieber concert pre-sale.  Don't believe me?

And this is only a small portion of the 4 square blocks of booths and madness.  Seriously, its a claustrophobic nightmare.  And the best thing ever. 

'Dilla Eggs come from the vag of armadillos.  See picture below:

If it is true that happy cows make good cheese, happy armadillos make some damn good eggs.  And what sombrero wearing 'dillo is anything but lovin life?

Just kidding about the eggs being pushed from the vagine of senior felicitades here.  'Dilla eggs are fried jalapeno poppers, and are quite possibly the lifeblood of most South Texans. 

 Note, it was really the Armadilla egg booth.  We Texans like to uncomplicate our words and spell phonetically.  Arm A Dill A. 

Fiesta in general has the world's best food, and NIOSA didn't disappoint.  Basically, anything you have ever wanted is battered, deep fried, and coated with powdered sugar. 

 

Or salsa

You gain like 5 pounds the moment you buy your ticket.  And you smell like beer for at least 3 days.  Like I said the.best.thing.EVER.

But, in case you are somehow not completely entranced in an alcohol induced coma, and you dare to think NIOSA is a poor man's version of Mardi Gras, you would be wrong.  Stupid wrong.   We got class, baby.  Like blinged-out class:

Cartier and Tiffany encrusted 80 pound trains and crowns and sparkly fabulousity. Beer smell included.

Seriously, if you haven't already booked your trip to Texas for the 4th week in April 2011, you are missing out. I will save you a sangria slushie... maybe.

Cholesterol laden hugs -
C

Pictures Are The Devil

So I had an entire post written for today about how I quit my job last week and how I keep promising people in current job that I will work as hard as I can for these last two weeks, when in reality I have no intention of doing any substantial work.  And how I fear this attitude will cause Karma to bitch slap me with adult acne followed by a plague of crickets and maybe I will even be struck by lightning.  But last night, who am I kidding, yesterday, during work while I was on facebook I had an ugly realization.  I am the human equivalent of this:

The view from straight ahead gives the illusion of width Kate Moss would envy.  The building, not me obviously, although my baby boobs blow hers out of the water any day.

Then you change the angle slightly and BAM:

The backside is like the Kim Kardashian of buildings.  You never see it coming, but you can't escape it walking away.

Exhibit A and B:

 

I am pleased with these two photos as A) my spray tan looks decent, B) I don't look as intoxicated as I really was and C) a world class Carnie Weight Guesser would probably put me at something near my actual weight.

Exhibit C:

WTF happened here? Let me point out a few *problem* areas I was completely unaware of:

1. Arm fat.  Seriously?

2. No, I am not pregnant.  I may eat like I am with child, but I am not.  The good news is, my friend R said he thought every single one of us were pregnant as we walked down the aisle in this dress.  I choose to blame the dress as well.

3. That?  Is my ass.  Just like the Flatiron, I have quite a lot hidden back there.  My ass applied for its own zip code this morning, although seeing as the IRS says they don't know me, I assume the city will deny my zip code application as well. 

So this is what I have learned. I am perfectly fine with my self in real life, but I think Kodak has it in for me.  It appears as though I need to take a class in the *diva stance* in order to maximize my assets and minimize my ass flaws. 

Somehow though, I just don't think it is realistic to stand like this in wedding photos:

Apparently my only *good* side is the front side.

Chunky hugs,
C

Wedding 1 : Me 0

Afternoon interwebs, hope you are all feeling better than I am right now.  I am curled up on the couch watching DVR-ed tv from last week trying desperately to type this post without having to sit up. 
Last night I was a bridesmaid in one of my oldest friend's wedding *event*, and it was a night I wish I remembered.  Well, actually, I do remember most of the night, what I don't remember is the moment the ghost of my drinking past showed up and inhabited my body for the remainder of the night.  Last night I thought I was 22 again, and drank like I had never even heard of such a thing as a hangover.  I tried, I really did, but I think it is time I officially bury 22 year old me, and fully embrace mostly boring and sober 29 year old me. Thoughts?
I showed up at the reception site yesterday, spray tanned to perfection and makeup-less in preparation for an entire afternoon of hair coiffing and eyeshadow applying entertainment.  I wish I could say the metallic taste of the 12 cans of hairspray I inhaled yesterday was no longer affecting my food choices 24 hours later, but it is. Also, I really wish I had asked what mascara they used, I cannot get this stuff off my eyes! After being fully transformed into one of 8 Stepford Bridesmaids, we headed to the church and performed our maidly duties of smiling with the occassional oohing and ahhing thrown in for good measure. 
Cocktail hour begins and this is the time I hear the 4 words that sealed my drinking destiny: Seated Dinner Drinking Game.  Never heard of it?  Neither had I.
Seated Dinner Drinking Game is all kinds of awesome.  The table number determines the drinking schedule.  Table 6 drinks at 8:06, 8:16, 8:26, etc.  Higher numbered tables are modified to use only the ones digit, so table 24 drinks at 8:04, 8:14, etc.  The slap in the face part of the game is when the clock strikes the actual table number, say 8:24 for table 24, you have to finish your drink.  Last night, it was virtually impossible to keep a half empty glass on the table.  I think the waiters were on to our game, or maybe just super awesome, and continually refilled my wine and my husband's drink.  So once an hour we were slamming a full drink and then every ten minutes after we were socially drinking.  About 2 hours into the dinner, I was cross-eyed.  About this time, I heard the band playing Don't Stop Believing, which I am pretty sure began the next 3 hours of socially unacceptable gyrating and persitent storming of the stage to display our (the entire wedding party's) singing abilities.  I am pretty sure there are about 200 black-tie clad socialites who may or may not have gone to church early this morning to pray for the sins of today's youth.  For that I am thankful.  Clearly, God intended for me to spend the morning in bed followed by a hangover induced food orgy of queso and Huevos Rancheros, conlcuding with another 2 hour nap.  I will take all the prayers I can get. And more sleep.
Hope the weekend was good to you all!
C