oh, dear me...

I was shuffling through my iPod the other day when Brad Paisley's Letter to Me came on. I thought to myself, "Why the hell did I ever download this song?" and quickly pushed 'next', only for Baz Luhrman's Everybody's Free (to Wear Sunscreen) to blast into the air around me.

I glanced about, hoping that no one would overhear my awful picks. You see, I tend to listen to my music very loud, ergo anyone within a 30 foot radius can usually decipher the lyrics flowing through my earbuds. I judge people quite harshly by their musical choices, for instance, right now I'm sitting in a parking lot, penning this to the soulful rhythm of Purple Rain. Who in their right mind would diss Purple Rain? ... What, no love for Prince? Hark, what blasphemy! It's a fantastic song, and you know it... But I digress. The fact that I followed a so-so country jam with an even stranger non-song was unforgivable. What next, Nickelback? Hah, just kidding. I'd shoot myself. Seriously.

Anyways, for some reason I kept listening to the Sunscreen song. I've always liked the one line: "Don't worry about the future ... ... The real troubles in your life are apt to be the things that never crossed your worried mind, the kind that blindsides you at 4pm on some idle Tuesday." Kind of morbid, I'll admit, but I love the imagery. I can see myself sitting in my car on an idle Tuesday, the clock striking 4 as a semi careens my way... and suddenly I'm HIT!!#@*&$... with the realization that I should probably be at work, or something.

It didn't take but a moment to understand how serendipitous it was that these two songs played back-to-back. Obviously, Jesus (or Steve Jobs, whatevs) wanted me to blog a little old 'letter to me'.

I decided to write this letter to a 5 year old me, because not only was I a gifted reader with one hell of a vocabulary at that age, but also, I'm pretty sure age 5 is right when I started to fuck everything up. So here we go...


Dear Liz,

First of all, your name is Elizabeth. I know, it's long, and your hasty 8 year old self will want to shorten it to something that can be scribbled in an instant... but you will rue the day (rue, I tell you!) that you choose to go by 'Liz'. It's obnoxious, and too short and it's a bit onomatopoeia-ish. And to be honest, everyone's going to call you Booze, anyway. It's a long story. I'll explain later.

Speaking of days you will 'rue', one blissful 5th grade afternoon, you'll be accosted by a boy named Jevon. He'll be the one throwing water at you. You'll forgive him this, almost immediately- because you'll think him kind of cute. This is all an act- a trick of the light, I say! RUN. Run away from him, and never look back. If you don't cut him out of your life right then and there, he'll torture you for long as you both shall live...

Just to further illustrate how imperative it is to your sanity that you avoid and ignore him, let us take a stroll down memory lane... At age 16, after you see the Texas Chainsaw Massacre with all of your friends, you'll go home, so glad that you're not one of those silly girls who gets scared by silly movies. Cue Jevon, who will be waiting outside your bedroom window, revving a circular saw. He's also the one who dresses as a clown not once, but twice, all for your 'benefit'. You're afraid of clowns, but, by now, you already know this. His shenanigans will only cement your stance. Senior year he'll tell your government teacher that you have a knife in your backpack, which by then will be quite an offense... but you'll be granted clemency due to the fact that his only proof was an AIM account he purported as yours with the moniker 'knifeinmypack', and a hand-drawn picture of a cleaver that he stuffed in your bag. Once you've enrolled at WSU, he'll already have told all his friends (he has, surprisingly, many) that you're a heroin addict (you are not) who's had 9 abortions (of which you've had none)... And one time, he'll push you and you'll trip and go flying into a wall, bounce off a fire extinguisher and land on your ass. He'll laugh at this.

Speaking of which, you're unbalanced. Not in like, a schizo way, but more in the way that you fall down a lot. Realize this, and move on. Don't go rollerblading, snowboarding, skateboarding, or walking down B Street. This will save you a dislocated shoulder, bruised hip, bruised ego, the knees of two different pairs of jeans, a pair of aviator sunglasses, your left ankle and your sanity.

Regardless of your vigilance, you will never use the words 'supper' or 'soda' in normal conversation, and you aren't really ambidextrous. Why must you try to be so strange? The oboe? Really?! Get over yourself, kid. You're going to be weird enough without going out of your way to do so. Also, you pronounce 'crayon' wrong. Seriously. It's not 'cran'- it's 'cray-on'. People will make fun of you for this. And while I'm clearing up some egregious errors in your thought processes and pronunciations, I might as well mention these: islands are not floating pieces of land, hearts aren't shaped like hearts, and the lyrics are, "Don't go chasing waterfalls, please stick to the rivers and the lakes that you used to", not, "Don't go Jason waterfalls, blistex to the rivers and the lakes that you used to"...

Enough with the overalls. After age two, they cease to be precious and turn into pathetic.

Sometime in early grade school (between 1st and 2nd grade, to be sort-of exact), a freckle will appear on your lip. It's not pen, regardless of how many misguided, nosy strangers (and Grandma!) try to tell you to wipe it off your face. Even after you assure them that it's not pen, that it's permanent, they'll still stare at you, an air of doubt in their gaze... Get used to this. It happens once a week.

Lots of girls are impetuous, unreasonable and a bit creepy- and you are one of them even though you consider yourself to be sooooo balanced and normal and cool. You're not. Sorry.

Try to write a book about vampires that's actually good before 2005- because after that they become sparkly, thus making the entire genre worthless. Also, invest in Apple or something. Oh, and Y2K? Total BS. I'll let you know about this 2012 nonsense... or maybe I won't :/

Really, little Elizabeth... how many Beanie Babies does one actually need?

There will be a time in your adolescence that you decide to throw a party at your parent's house. FYI, someone leaves a Smirnoff Ice in the microwave... Your friends are cool. And just so you know... your friend Nick's going to tell your cousin Chris about the party, who's going to tell your aunt Elinor who's going to tell your mom. You don't get into trouble though, so chill out. Have a drink, or eight... you were a real bitch that night.

On that same note... you keep thinking vodka is your friend. IT DOES NOT LIKE YOU.

Relax about the little things, because chances are, they don't really matter anyway. Pay attention in class, and quit scribbling all over your notebooks, you're wasting paper. Be nicer to people because as the years go by you'll feel bad that you weren't.

Unfortunate things will happen. People will disappoint you. And you're going to disappoint yourself, more times than I'd like to admit- but that's kind of what life's about. You try things out, you make mistakes, you (hopefully) learn from them, and you get up and do it all over again. Sooner or later you'll come to the realization that the past is the past, the future may or may not be completely fucked- but life goes on. Just live. Just breathe. Have fun and be sincere and most of all, be present. From what I can tell you'll have good days and bad, but they're two sides of the same coin, you can't have one without the other. And maybe the odds are stacked in your favor, because so far, life's been pretty damn good.

Just do your best, so you can look back with no regrets, proud of what you've accomplished and without all those obnoxious, nagging, "what if" scenarios.

You've got one shot at this.

Be good.

Sincerely,

Booze

deficient.

It seems that I, at least according to my blog entries, am either incompetent- or drunk, all of the time.

Sadly, this is another sparkling example that backs up that very assumption.

This afternoon, I got off work around 4, and, being the completely lovely person that I am, I offered to go to the store for my mother. She had five things on her list; coffee, milk, paper towels, and orange juice. Okay, four things.

She sent me with $50. I should mention that in my house, we generally purchase paper towels weaved with spun gold thread...

Anyway, almost two hours later, I returned, $90 poorer, yet enlightened.

I am not cut out of the housewife cloth. I will be a terrible wife. And mother. Just now I was trying to think of an area in which I excel, but, I can't even think of one.

Cooking? Pshaw. I can bake one kind of cookie, and I lifted the recipe straight off the back of the Reese's Peanut Butter chip bag. I fail miserably at almost everything else. Even my cereal is so-so at best.

General house cleanliness? Oh, God, the horror. I never put things back, or away in the first place. When I buy new things, I take what is needed immediately out of the bag, and then toss the rest on the ground. Months later, I'll stumble upon the sack, a pack of gum, a few point-of-sale DVD's and a wrinkled $5 bill sprinkled with change still inside.

The other day when I slipped and fell (I'm also not so good with balance), my crash landing was cushioned by various outfits that I'd tried on, decided not to wear, and subsequently left on the floor.

When I'm sick, I literally lie in bed until someone comes to save me. My mother, the only one who seems to care enough to search me out during my absence, then forces me to 'drink water' and 'take medicine', two medieval tricks that must have been passed down through the generations.

If it's cold in the house, I'll sit, freezing. Sometimes I'll get a blanket. When someone questions my choices, wondering why I didn't just 'turn up the thermostat', I stare at them blankely. Thermostat? That box-like contraption strapped to the wall? Witchcraft. I'll wait for the sun to warm me.

My plight is a combination of apathy, incompetence, and I think, most of all, laziness.

I'm in a pseudo-teenage purgatory, in which I look like an adult, and have shining moments of clarity and capability, but largely, I'm worthless.

Upon entering Yoke's Fresh Market, I was pleased, as I noticed the cart had cup holders, and I was currently utilizing only one arm because of my chai tea. I nestled the drink into the designated area, and begun my 90 minute shopping-trip-from-hell.

"We were doomed from the start, as starters are, why am I doing this?" Oh Brand New, you are so wise. Why had I agreed to go to the store? I always get lost in the stupid aisles, and I manage to consistently forget half the things on the list. I italicize list because if there is written record of the necessity of 'milk', then, you'd think I'd be able to read the damn thing and deduce that I do, in fact, need to purchase milk.

But alas, I always forget the milk. Milk has it out for me, this much I know.

I grabbed two bags of salad, and while you'll probably notice that 'salad' was not requested by my mother, it was something that I felt our house was lacking at the present juncture.

Making my way into the wine area, I was mesmerized for at least 25 minutes. I had decided that we were to have spaghetti and meatballs for dinner, so I figured a Malbec would go nicely. For those of you who don't know my drinking habits, I think Malbec goes nicely with everything. Spaghetti, pizza, chocolate, breathing... etc.

There were Cabernets and Merlots and way too many Syrahs, and right now, to be honest, I'm wondering if varietals are capitalized at all? For this, let's just say they are. So yeah, I found a few $40 Malbecs, one of which I very nearly purchased (it was the first one I ever tried, back when I started drinking wine legally, AKA, last year.), but decided against it, because, really? $40? This is Yoke's, not Chateau la Brignon (I'm pretty sure that I made that up).

After agonizing over my options, I walked away with two bottles, one of which, an 'old-vine' Malbec from Argentina. For those of you who don't get paid to pore over the origins of various wines, Argentinian Malbecs are insanely popular. FYI, the Malbec sucked. It smelled like alcohol, something that, ironically, isn't really a good thing in wine.

Happy with my long awaited decision, I toddled down the aisles, searching for the things my mother had requested.

As you may know, I am easily distracted, which is part of the reason why this should-have-been-a-jaunt to the store turned into an all out marathon.

Rounding around a freezer case, this caught my eye:



Mmm, mmm, mmm. Beef pasties and pork fritters. WTF? What, exactly, is a beef pasty? I'd Google, but I have to admit I'm rather afraid of what results I'd obtain. And a pork fritter? Is that anything like an apple fritter? I sincerely hope not.

Severely disturbed, I continued on to the milk, a safe white liquid that's squeezed from a cow. Ugh. As I was about to reach for the dairy case door, I balked.


If you can't make out the lettering, let me break it down for you. For only $3.99 a pound, you could go home with a whole rabbit.

"Mom, what's for dinner?"
"Rabbit stew, Jimmy."
"Rabbit stew? Again? It better be a WHOLE rabbit, none of that half-rabbit shit from last week. That was gross."

This is how I imagine a rabbit eating conversation. I also figure they'd have no front teeth, thick southern accents and missing adjectives and pronouns through out their dialogue, as I'd always assumed people in the Ozarks were the only ones who ate rabbits.

I hate rabbits. They're weird, and I'm just not sure why they're allowed. Easter is a terrible time for me. Big rabbits that lurk around, hiding brightly colored eggs? If they hid brightly colored wallets, with green money inside, I might be more copacetic to their existence. But they do not. Their eggs contain jellybeans, at best.

When I was about 7, my cousin lived in West Richland. Back then, there weren't too many houses in their area, and their development was brand new, situated amongst the sage brush.

He was 8, and quite the outdoorsman. I generally stayed inside, with his mom, and made crafts. Already, I was living a very thrilling life. I'd venture outside with Chris every once in a while, but he liked hiking and running and searching for things, whereas I'd rather play in the yard. Where there was less dirt and more grass. And it was also in close proximity to the house, where I'd rather be.

One day, my aunt came home to find Chris and his friend holed up in the garage.

"Mom, we're starting a business. You gotta see this," Chris said, ushering her into his workspace. I wasn't there, but knowing her, and knowing what she was about to see, I imagine she let out a blood curdling scream.

There, nailed up on a large piece of plywood, were two, rather poorly skinned, jack rabbits. Bits of fur and flesh clung to their carcasses, their chests protruding out in their final pose.

Not understanding her complete shock and terror, Chris tried his best to soothe her crumbling exterior. "Mom! You paid $12 for my rabbit pelt. Think of how many we can make! And rabbits feet? We'll just cut them right off!"

"My son's a serial killer!" She told my mom, probably having seen too many Jeffrey Dahmer documentaries. "This is how it starts!"

FYI, Chris isn't a serial killer, but rather an upstanding citizen and sailor in the Navy. He has yet to kill anyone or anything, other than those rabbits. And, his business ventures since have been way less hare-brained. HA, I love a good pun.

Anyway, these were the thoughts bouncing around my head as I saw the rabbit sign. Easter, serial killers, jellybeans... all terrible things. I hopped (ugh) on the back of the cart and rolled on, into the salad dressing aisle.

I've never done too well with a lot of choices. I don't really belong in a democratic society. After only seconds perusing the Italians, Zesty Italians, Roasted Red Pepper Italians, and Creamy Italians, I was ready for a white russian.

Knocking one into my cart, I pressed on, until I saw this:


Baconnaise, the ultimate bacon flavored spread. I think it sounds quite disgusting, but when I got home, Chris was here. I mentioned the bacon infused atrocity, and he smiled, saying, "I don't know, it sounds kind of good."

He might be a serial killer yet.

I traipsed through the noodle aisle, wondering if thin spaghetti was the same as angel hair, and
what the difference between vermicelli and capellini was. Not having the interest or patience to do an all out investigation, I grabbed the angel hair and a jar of sauce on my way to bigger and better things.

I chuckled at the discounted Tiger Gatorade, gliding to a stop somewhere near the juice fridge. Orange juice, my mom wrote. Not calcium enriched, not pulp free, not extra pulp. She didn't clarify the brand, or if she wanted it in concentrated form. Knowing her daughter, and the road that lay ahead, she shouldn't have been so vague. I only use orange juice for two things, mimosas and screwdrivers, so I'm rather inept when it comes to choosing someones healthy breakfast beverage.

It was practically cruel to leave out such crucial clues, I thought.

I settled on the original variety of Simply Orange because I like their Simply Apple juice, and I feel that everyone should like what I like. She ended up mixing it with her vodka once I got home. What can I say. Apples and trees, my friends, apples and trees...

I nearly ran into the same 3 people on 7 separate occasions, which made me think that I wasn't the only hopeless one, wandering around the store looking for milk.

MILK! Damn it. I'd forgotten it in the rabbit-melee.

I spent the rest of my trip bumbling from corner to corner of Yokes, searching high and low for things like bread, and meatballs, the latter nestled next to the whole rabbits, wouldn't you know.

Naturally, I succumbed to a few impulse buys, like red x-factor Gatorade and vanilla pudding. I don't really know how the total crept up as far as it did, but, what can you do.

As I stood in the check-out lane I looked around at all the other people, perfectly capable, responsible adults, all of whom came to the store, and left, most likely without incidence.

It'd taken me an hour and a half, but they didn't know that. To them, I perhaps looked like an actual adult, myself. This pleased me, and I did not flinch when the cashier asked me for $90. I wheeled my newly obtained possessions to my car, briefly worried by the woman behind me who was wailing in a high pitched manner.

I turned to look at her, and she stopped. I'd also come across a 60 year old man with mullet and shirt that read, "PARTY OVER HERE". Grocery shopping was a weird, weird occasion.

Digging for my keys, I felt satisfied with my effort. Maybe I wasn't completely 'able', but I was well on my way. I jiggled my purse around, sure that I heard my keys bumping around the bottom. I thought, maybe, with a little practice, I'd become a pro at shopping. Maybe I'd even learn to keep up with my laundry, and vacuum properly. And cooking a meal? I'd figure that out in no time.

Searching my pockets for the second time, I peered through my passenger side window. Where the hell were my keys? I shook my purse again, the panic setting in.

Keys, purses, wallets, phones, shoes, earrings... anything you can imagine, I've probably lost. And I lose them frequently. Once a day. You'd think that I would rectify this, by, I don't know, paying better attention to where I leave things? But nope. I don't. I'm that stupid.

I dialed my mom, still fumbling through my bag. I pushed aside paycheck stubs, and pens, and a McDonalds toy. Lip glosses and quarters littered the bottom, and I couldn't for the life of me figure out where else the keys would be? Shaking the bag frantically, I heard the tell tale sound of hope. Hidden in the lining where I keep my pints (not...), were my keys.

My mom answered, to which I said, "Nope, just kidding!"

"Where are you?" She asked.
"The store."
"Still?"
"Yeah, yeah. I'll see you in a second," I said, finally gaining entry into my automobile.

So yeah, I was feeling that this adult-responsibility thing wasn't far off, and then......

Oh who am I kidding. The day when I go to the store and don't gravitate towards the Trix and Reese's Puffs is the day that I finally can say, "Yes, I am an adult."

Until then, I'll be getting the Happy Meal, and most likely, looking for my phone for the 8th time that day.

stupid is as stupid does.

Well, I officially hate my life. I've been hemming and hawing over it for a while, mulling around the notion that my existence isn't quite up to par... but now, I'm certain.

I've just spent the last 20 minutes, cleaning my bed. Sheets? Soaked. Pillows? Sopping. Mattress?... fuck, don't even get me started.

You're probably wondering if I wet the bed? I wish. I wish an inconsistent bladder was the worst of my issues.

No, I did not wet the bed. I haven't done that in at least two years. I, being the RIDICULOUSLY intelligent person that I am, spilled chocolate milk in my bed.

Yep. I set a glass down, on the mattress, and for some reason, it tipped over (shocking, right?). I could kick myself for not investing in one of those Tempur-Pedic numbers, you know, the ones where the girl is jumping up and down, and her glass of merlot doesn't-even-move!! ? Yeah, well, my 'merlot' moved all right. Moved all out of the cup. Moved all through my sheets. Moved, probably, I'm just guessing here..., all the way to the fucking box-spring.

If I could go back in time, I'd make sure to invest in a Tempur-Pedic. Oh, hell, if I went back in time, I wouldn't set down the fucking cup of chocolate milk on anything other than a sturdy, non-porous surface.

Well, actually, if I were to go back in time, I'd travel to my infancy, and somehow convince my parents to invest in several companies, like Starbucks, and Apple. Then, at least, I'd be a rich idiot- which is the best kind...

But, alas, I cannot go back in time. I'm stuck. I'm stuck as a completely worthless, milk-spilling asshole. Ughhhhhhh.

Before you go and think that I'm being too doom and gloom about my lackluster life, realize this:

This is not the first unfortunately stupid mistake I've made in the past month, let alone my entire awkward existence. To be honest, it's not even my first mishap with milk, or beds.

Last year, while standing in the kitchen, I glanced at my wrist to see what time it was. Looking back, I can count two problems with this: one, I had a mug of milk in my hand, and twisting to see the time caused me to dump the contents down my front. Two, I haven't worn a Goddamn watch since year 2000, ergo it was moot.

Last month, I had a bad dream and sprained my wrist whilst (or after?) falling out of my bed. Who does that? I told people I slipped on the ice. I did not. I, like 4 year olds all across the nation, rolled out of my bed, injuring myself in the process. Thank God it wasn't a bunk bed.

I'm just, unfortunate. That's the only word that fully encompasses my inadequacies and faults, all the while seeming a bit endearing (or pitiable, whatever).

There are innumerable occasions in which I was that girl. You know. That one, the weird one. The one you laugh at, because, if you cried for her, she'd probably feel a whole hell of a lot worse.

In the 6th grade, I was walking home with my friend J. I tripped, (probably over nothing) and then sat on the ground crying and carrying on like a crazy person for probably at least 8 minutes. Granted, I was like, 11, or something... but screaming out, "I HATE THESE SHOES!" (Doc Marten sandals, if you must know) repeatedly isn't justifiable.

It was also in 6th grade when I was walking into the DHMS girl's locker room, followed by a boy. "Boys aren't allowed in here," I said. She was not amused, to say the least.

In eighth grade, I was dragged to a Mormon mutual (probably by A Big Ash)... a Wednesday night gathering in which we probably made cookies or something down at the LDS chapel. We listened quietly as a boy recited a lovely poem, which he himself penned. I was very impressed by him, as I didn't have the guts to stand in front of hundreds and do anything, let alone speak. As he finished, I clapped. I think I may have even stood.

Mormons, evidently, do not clap for poems. They just stare blankly, like they did at me, until I sat my non-denominational ass back down. Silence. A Big Ash's family still tells the story.

In kindergarten, I was climbing in one of those spider web dome things, you know what I'm talking about? Anyway, I was hanging from the top, when I guess I figured, "What the hell!?", and let go. It did not feel good.

The second grade brought on greater responsibilities, and what I can only deduce as increased stupidity. As I recall, on this particular occasion, I was writing a report on the octopus. Being the savvy seven-year-old that I was, I was less than stellar at distinguishing similar words when accosted by them all at once... ie: when using a spell check.

So when I spell-checked my document, instead of sifting through the 8 very-similar examples, I just hit, 'Correct', over and over again.

Cut to my teacher, pulling me aside. Her name was Mrs. Oberding. Mrs. Oberding said to me, "Elizabeth, I think you made a mistake. You see, here, you put that an octopus has eight testicles."

She waited for my 'Oh, shit, my bad,' response... which never came. Not knowing what the hell she was talking about, I probably just blinked. She looked at me, probably with hidden amusement, and continued.

"Do you know what testicles are?" She asked.
"No," I said, having no reason to know such a thing, as I did not have testicles of my own...
"They're little boys' balls!" She said. I remember her laughing, and so I laughed too. Why would an octopus have balls?! They didn't play sports!! How silly.

She saw my mom a few years ago, more than a decade after the incident. Upon recognizing each other, Mrs. Oberding, laughing again, said, "Octopus balls!!" My legend, it seems, will never fade.

Ughhhh. While I've come to terms with most of my painfully awkward tendencies, this milk thing really pisses me off. Why? Why did I set it on my bed? Why did I even have a glass of chocolate milk? What am I, 8?

And, how does one go about cleaning that properly?

It's times like these in which I am immensely grateful that I have no children, or dependents, or... fish. Or anything that I could accidentally kill by being my careless, impaired-to-the-point-of-practical-retardation, self.

I trip, I fall, I say the wrong things. I slip in the doorway to Mike's, pop the lenses out of my aviators during my escape, and then wear the frames as I run home down B-street.

I'm that girl who gets dragged to the bar in SLIPPERS, because her friends are evil and told her that they were perfectly content with watching a movie that night, thereby tricking her into attendance.

I'm the girl, who with her brand new purse and wallet, and camera and iPhone and various other accouterments, buys a double vodka and soda. And when someone asks to see my new wallet, I'm not the type of girl to set her drink down, oh no. I'm the type of girl who bites the side of the cup, holding it with her clenched jaw, to better dig through her purse. And when they ask me where I got my wallet, I answer them. And drop the fucking drink INTO my purse, camera, phone, accouterments and all...

I'm that one who asks you how your grandma is, only to find out she died three weeks ago.

Oooooo, I hate myself.

No wonder I drink so much.

the 'bitch' is back.

A few weeks ago I wrote an entire post lamenting about my lack of coolness. You know, my inability to party like the college student I used to be...

Hahaha, hahaha. Guess who's back?

I'm here to tell you that Saturday night, two days ago, during an impromptu visit to Pullman... bitch could hang. As a matter of fact, bitch hung out all night, drinking and laughing and dancing with the best of them (and by the best of them I mean the people who never forgot how to hang, aka my friends).

And since Saturday night brought me back to my roots, Sunday, naturally, was quite possibly one of the worst days of my life. Evidently I can drain bottles like it's nobody's business, but eventually reality sets in, my BAC drops, and I spend the rest of the day vomiting, sneering, crying, shuddering and cursing the day I met alcohol and subsequently fell in love.

It all started with a call from my dear friend, we'll refer to her as 'Maci'... as in we all refer to her as 'Maci'. Some people assume it's her real name. It's not.

Anyway, this 'Maci' calls me, and asks if I'd like to go to Pullman with her for the night. I thought, why the hell not? She said 'fall things' were on the agenda, so being the naive, lame person that I've grown to be, I figured we would go to dinner, carve some pumpkins, and maybe, if we were feeling really adventurous, we'd go to a haunted house. I should mention that I don't like haunted houses, I don't enjoy things grabbing at me or screaming at me or jumping out at me... spurts of terror-induced adrenaline coursing through my veins is for some reason unbeknownst to me, not my idea of a good time... so going to a haunted house was quite a stretch.

It seems that I needn't have worried. The words 'haunted house' were never uttered, though, the words 'round of tequila shots', were. Twice. And we all know that's just as frightening.

The night began with a walk up to Dupus Boomer's, WSU's only full bar that's legitimately on campus. I should have known that the minute we decided to forgo vehicular transportation, that we were in for a long night. Evidently we all had the foresight to know that no one would be in shape to get behind a wheel... though I probably could have been issued a citation for man-handling my wheel-y suitcase up B-street later that night... but that's neither here nor there.

At Dupus, we by-passed the 20 person line and walked straight into the bar, sitting down for mugs of hefeweizen and Blue Moon, ridiculously large margaritas, and what almost looked like double-shots of Jose, (they ran out of Pancho, so we had to make do...). Someone even ordered gator bites... and while they didn't taste like chicken, I'm not so sure they tasted like swamp, either.

After dinner and drinks, we meandered out of the CUB, singing the chorus of 'Who Let the Dogs Out', jumping on statues and, for some reason, quoting the Green Street Hooligans, mostly by yelling "FUCKING WANKER" in a British accent to anyone who'd listen... Our (or I should say the boys, as I generally decline to yell 'wanker' in anyones direction... I'm pretty sure) revelry was especially disconcerting to two boys of the brethren wearing their letters across the street, and the night almost became a little more interesting... but they were scared of our (again, not me, I just like the camaraderie I feel when I use pronouns) cool accents, obviously, so they backed off.

We shuffled into the Coug, put some Johnny Cash, Bob Marley and Nirvana (quite a threesome, I know) on the juke box, and immediately tucked into three Boone's passes and five pitchers of Pullman water (Busch Light...). I should also mention there were six of us... aka, we did work.

It was when we cheered (loudly) for ASU's last touchdown that we seemed to have alerted the staff to our presence, and one of the bartenders decided to come over for a chat. She draped herself over one of my friends, who we will refer to as 'My Man', and looked up at the screen, asking what happened. Now, a lot of people know and love 'My Man', so I thought nothing of this sign of affection, though in my wildest dreams I never expected the next turn of events... As I was about to explain, someone in our party, we'll call him 'Kriegs' stood, and yelled in her face, "NACHO BITCH!"

My tongue nearly fell out of my mouth.

As some of you may, or may not know, 'Nacho Bitch' is practically famous amongst my group of friends. Legend has it that 'My Man' was once eating, you guessed it, nachos at one of the local watering holes, when he happened to procure some cheesy residue upon his face. The girl he was probably trying to wheel at the moment alerted him to this fact, and, rather than hand him a napkin... licked it off of his cheek. At least, that's what I heard through the grapevine, aka my drunk friends who played witness to the incident. She was then dubbed 'Nacho Bitch', and has since lived on in what I assumed was, practically fictionalized, over-exaggerated infamy.

But lo-and-behold, 'Nacho Bitch' was alive and not so well, as she seemed a little perturbed to finally realize her nickname. She assured us that she had a real name, and to that I thought, no shit, we didn't think your parents named you after an encounter with a spicy Mexican appetizer. But I kept my mouth shut as she also informed us that she could, and I quote, "cut you off and kick you out if you piss me off." At least she lived up to part of her nickname...

After the 'Nacho Bitch' left us to our own devices, the Coug began to fill with its usual crowd of ne'er-do-well fun-havers, and though we love the place, we decided to skip along to the Club, known as Mike's, to cap off the night. Some people call it Stubblefields, but that's only if they're lame (and I was not, for one night only, so I obviously had to refer to it as Mike's).

As soon as we walked into 'the Club', I knew something was amiss. I could see the floor. I could obtain space at the bar, and if I wanted to, a table near it as well. The bartender could hear my normal-decibeled (I know it's not a word) plea for a vodka soda with extra limes... which begged the question: Where are all the loud, obnoxious drunks? Were we the only ones?

We bought our drinks, deciding to tempt fate by making a purchase off the specials board- a double Captain and Sprite that they advertised as tasting 'like a cream soda!!' With fear and trepidation, we took a sip, and to our great surprise, it did! Of course, I was two margaritas, one tequila shot, three boones passes and countless cups of Busch Light deep at that point, so my judgement may have been ever-so-slightly impaired.

We sauntered down to the lower level, where I once again, stood in shock and awe, and had to ask, "Where are all the drunks?"

There was only one grossly overly PDA-ing couple in sight, the poles and boxes were devoid of inebriated girls, and there was room to move. We could have square-danced, if the idea happened upon us. Thank God it didn't, because I'm sure not one of us would have thought it to be anything less than a superb suggestion.

After another round of double Captain and Sprites, tequila shots, and one 151-infused 'surprise' concoction, courtesy of my favorite Mike's bartender- the place started to fill up. Unfortunately, DJ Goldfinger wasn't spinning, so there were no random "BITCH!" chants through-out any of the songs, but all in all it was a great night. I don't actually remember the rest of it, but I'm pretty sure it was fun.

I think we walked home, though I'm unsure of the route, or who 'we' entails. I had a suitcase, I think, and I struggled in wheeling it back to Providence Court, though it would seem I eventually got there.

Waking up the next morning around 10, I spent a few hours on the bathroom floor, you know, just hanging out. My friends asked if I was dead, to which I replied, with conviction, "Yes."

As I had to work later that night, (fuck my life, right?), we had to head home immediately, even though I was in no shape to drive, ride, or live. But 'Maci' only had to pull over twice, and I only felt like death during 98% of the trip... Sure, I swore off drinking in my nauseated, head-aching state, and yeah, I briefly fantasized about throwing myself out of the car... but greatness comes at a price, you know?

I guess what I'm trying to say is, killer hangover and shoddy recollection of the previous nights' events be damned... being a true 'Coug', and by that I mean drunk, is always worth it.

GO COUGS!




Check back in next week, because I'll probably have tons of fun sober stories. Not possible, you say? Oxy-moron?

Yeah. You're probably right.

excuses make you lose your power...**

Excuses, excuses, excuses... we all use them. They’re convenient, sometimes easy to come up with, and make everyone feel better about the situation at hand. But when do excuses cross the line?

The other day while driving home from work, I was pulled over by the Pasco police. Why, you ask? Oh, well, it was because I didn't have my lights on, and it was roughly 10:30 PM. I've been driving for nearly six years, ergo I should know when it's appropriate to use my headlights.

When asked about my egregious error in vehicle maneuvering, I came up with this gem of a reason... “I just wasn’t thinking.”

Yeah bitch, I guess.

We, as in humans/Americans/people in general, seem to use the, "I just wasn't thinking", excuse a lot. Why is this? We all know it's total bullshit. Umm, yeah right, I wasn’t thinking... I'm pretty sure it's physiologically impossible to 'not think'. Sometimes I’m just a dumbass, plain and simple.

Overuse of this ‘not thinking’ line could mean one of two things. Either society’s intelligence is nearing reality show star level (several points above a vegetative state, for those of you who are unfamiliar with The Hills), or... we just like to make shit up to cover our own asses.

Could stupidity and the ability to ‘not think’ really be a pandemic of H1N1 proportions? I certainly hope not, but we all had to know that the end of human intelligence was near when a show like, "I Didn't Know I Was Pregnant", had enough material to air more than one episode. Really? You didn't know you were with child? For the love of all that is holy, keep it to yourself, and hope that your kid doesn't someday stumble across the DVD record of you telling the nation the story of its birth, which happened to be in a toilet, while you were halfway through your shift at Wendy's. The poor kid is going to have a hard enough life with you as a parent.

As hopeless as I feel after watching a marathon of idiotic pregnant women confessing their parking lot birth stories (more so because I wasted time watching, rather than caring that it actually happened), I don’t think stupidity is the real issue. I know, I'm as shocked as you are.

I think, what people actually mean when they say, "I just wasn't thinking!" is, "That was so fucking stupid, I can't believe I did that, I’m sooo embarrassed." Blaming your less-than-brilliant idea (or lack thereof) on misfiring synapses in your prefrontal cortex just sounds better than admitting your own defeat.

"I just wasn't thinking!" isn't the only ‘cop-out’ phrase we frequent... Who hasn't used the little ditty known as, "No offense-", as a pre or post statement warning? By informing our conversational target that we mean no ill-will, it's almost as if we're allowed to say anything without fear of repercussions.

It’s quite literally an excuse to be a jerk, because, you’re forcing the person beforehand to take no offense. Like telling someone you’re going to pinch them, and then following through- they can’t get mad, can they? You warned them!

But, like all good excuses, ‘no offense’ can only go so far in protecting you. It’s like verbal birth control, it’ll most likely keep a child at bay (take note, ‘I Didn’t Know I Was Pregnant’-ers!), but it won’t save you from herpes... shudder.

"No offense, but that was the most idiotic thing I've ever heard," seems allowable in conversations amongst friends, but I would never utter, "No offense, but your baby is ugly as fuck,"... even if the child in question was exceedingly unattractive. It just seems rude, and it’s one of those things you can’t come back from (like herpes...). It’s highly unlikely that the mother of Godzilla’s mini-me will let you continue in your attempts to assure her that your statement was really a complement, that ‘ugly as fuck’ means ‘pretty as an angel’ in your vocabulary. You’d be better off feigning a strange bout of Tourette’s.

To me, saying 'no offense' is technically just saying, "I'm an ass, and I realize that this is a rude thing to say, but I'm going to go ahead with it anyway because, well, I already told you I'm an ass... What more do you want from me?!?"

When it comes down to it, we're all guilty of using convenient phrases to skirt around common decencies like accountability, assumed aptitude and decorum... it’s part of our charm. And while excuses seem reasonable at certain points in our daily lives, we all need to realize that they are always going to be just that... excuses. They may give us a chance to bide some time and make up for our bad behavior, but they’ll soon become as tired as Tom Cruise... and no one will want to hear, or see them, anymore.

But have no fear! Thankfully, college has shown me that there is one excuse that nullifies nearly anything you could ever say or do (sans bodily harm or injury, those trump all)... Yep, you guessed it.

Drunkenness. No explanation needed. You’re welcome.

PREACH.




**And I'll buy a beer, or juice, for the first person to name the man responsible for the title of this entry.